This is my alt-rock NA serialised story — the book my younger self needed, written by my older self who finally knows what to do with all the bruises.
New here? Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Or go to the chapter index
Dev
I walked back into the hotel like a dog dragged in from the street, the lobby was a livewire.
Owen was pacing by the lifts, phone glued to his ear. Mateo had both hands jammed into his hair, muttering in Spanish. Simon tried for a joke when he saw me, but it died before it left his throat.
And then Tom, our manager.
Bald head catching the light, arms folded, jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack. He didn’t even wait for me to speak.
“You know what you’ve just done?” His voice could’ve cut glass. “Frontman of a band about to play bloody Spark Arena goes missing, fans screaming outside, label breathing down my neck – and you’re off – what? Playing Bear Grylls in the bush?”
I leaned against the reception desk, tried for casual. “Took a walk, bruv.”
“Don’t piss about with me, Dev,” he snapped, stepping in close. The East End rolled thick off his tongue. “You vanish before a sold-out show, you don’t answer your phone, and you stroll back in like nothing’s happened? D’you know how quick this whole thing can go under if you keep pulling stunts like this?”
My shoulders itched for a fight, but before I could mouth off, Connor slid between us. Calm as ever, but his eyes were sharp.
“Alright, Tom. He’s here now. We’ll sort it.”
Tom gave me one last look – pure Phil Mitchell ready to lamp me – then stalked off toward the lifts, muttering about damage control.
Connor turned back, arms folded, expression unreadable. For a second I thought he was going to lay into me too. Instead, he jerked his head toward the balcony.
“Come on.”
The air outside was sharp, the city buzzing under us. He handed me a bottle, clinked his against it, and we drank in silence for a bit.
Then he shot me that look – the one that meant he was about to poke.
“So,” he said, lips quirking, “what’s this I hear from Lina about a girl in the bush?”
“Fuck off.”
His grin widened, slow and knowing. “I heard she said the same thing to you.” He tilted his head. “You wanna tell me what happened?”
I stared out over the city, beer sweating in my hand, throat tight. For a second, all I saw was Sadie’s face – storm-bright, furious, unforgettable.
Connor tilted his bottle toward me. “So. Girl in the bush?”
I barked a laugh, shook my head. “Mate, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
“Try me.”
So I spun it out, half-taking the piss out of myself. “I hike into the bush – big man, frontman, thinking I’ll get away from it all. Clear my head, y’know? Storm breaks, I fall arse-first into a creek, nearly drown myself like a proper wanker.”
Connor smirked into his beer. “Real survivalist, you.”
“Exactly. Then this bird shows up – long, black hair, green eyes, looks like some kind of forest witch, like she was carved out of the trees by the storm.”
That got two raised eyebrows. “Hmm, poetic.”
I chuckled. “But get this yeah: she clearly hasn’t got a clue who I am. Drags me to this hut, patches me up, and then proceeds to roast me about… everything. My guitar, my whisky, my snack choices.” I paused, grinning. “Also informed me the birds I fuck aren’t very bright.”
Connor nearly spat his beer. “Please tell me you didn’t try it on.”
I grinned, shaking my head. “Didn’t have to. She was annoyed as hell but… mate, I could tell. The way she clocked that tattoo on my belly like it was a bloody runway? Atmosphere in that hut was thick enough to cut with a knife.”
He gave me that raised-eyebrow look, the one that said bollocks.
“Swear down,” I said, laughing. “She told me straight up I wasn’t getting any ‘experiences’ in there. Zero action. But the charge – ” I shook my head, dragging on the beer. “It was… something else.”
I stuffed a hand in my jacket pocket, hunting out my smokes. Connor leaned back against the railing, lips quirking like he was about to make another crack, when something slipped from my pocket and fluttered to the floor.
He bent, picked it up.
The sketch.
Me, in black ink and storm-shadow lines, her signature scrawled in the corner like she hadn’t meant to leave it but did anyway.
Connor didn’t say a word. Just held it, looked at the paper, then at me.
And in his face – total comprehension.
“Give it here,” I muttered, snatching it back, stuffing it deep again. My ears were burning and I hated that he could see it.
“It’s nothing.”
Connor hummed, slow, knowing. Took another pull from his beer. ‘You alright, though?’ he asked, quiet enough it nearly got lost under the city noise.
I flicked ash over the railing, forcing a smirk. “Golden.” I said, but it felt like gravel.
We finished the beers in silence. City noise carried up from the street – car horns, laughter, the occasional siren – but all I could hear was the echo of her voice, the way it filled that hut, the way it hasn’t left my head since.
I told Connor it was nothing.
Told myself the same.
But when I finally crashed back in my room, the sketch burning a hole in my bag, I knew I was lying.
Storm brewing in my chest, and I couldn’t name it.