Chapter 80 Part 80

Chapter 80 Part 80
Axl

Two years later

He closed the flap of the piano slowly, his fingers lingering against the polished wood for just a second longer than necessary before he finally pushed himself to his feet. The roar of the crowd crashed over him in waves. It wasn’t just noise—it was vibration, pressure, something alive. It pulsed in his chest like a second heartbeat, like oxygen flooding his lungs. The stage lights still flashed in blinding bursts of white and gold as they made their way offstage, the heat from them clinging to his skin.
Sweat trickled down his spine beneath his shirt. His muscles felt heavy, loose from exertion, the adrenaline still humming in his veins even though the final chord had already faded. He was exhausted—bone-deep exhausted. Europe had been madness. City after city. Flights, buses, interviews, rehearsals. The schedule had been relentless, unforgiving. But when the crowd screamed like that, when thousands of voices sang their lyrics back to him, it made the fatigue almost worth it. Almost.
They’d produced three albums in that time and completed five tours. Five. The number still felt unreal. They had forfeited their eight weeks of leave the previous year without even arguing about it. It had been unanimous. Push harder. Go further. Don’t lose momentum.
Now they were finally taking four months off to recuperate. Four months that felt long overdue. Their contract was coming to an end, and Axl had already met with several producers and agents who were eager—almost desperate—to sign them. The offers were ridiculous. Numbers that once would’ve made him dizzy now only made him cautious. Calum was still in the mix, steady and strategic, reminding them that loyalty counted for something.
Their songs were topping charts across continents. Horizon’s Edge had been nominated for a Grammy—and won. Even now, the word still didn’t fully settle in his mind. Grammy winner. It felt like it belonged to someone else.
Axl had more money than he’d ever imagined possible. More money than he could realistically spend in ten lifetimes. But he hadn’t touched much of it. Not really. The only significant account he monitored regularly was the trust he’d set up for Peyton. He transferred into it every quarter without fail. He never wanted her to experience fear the way he had. Never wanted her to feel unstable, unwanted, uncertain.
She was almost three now. Happy. Beautiful. Mark and Lucy sent him photos—her missing front tooth grin, messy pigtails, paint on her cheeks. Once a week, without fail, he video-called her. Her tiny voice saying, “Hi, Axy,” did something strange to his chest every single time.
He hadn’t seen her again in person. His schedule made it impossible. And if paparazzi ever found out about Peyton, her life would never be quiet again. So he stayed away physically. Protected her from a distance.
North still showed up at concerts when he could. Sometimes at random cities. They’d sit in hotel rooms late into the night, talking like nothing had changed. Laughing. Sometimes not laughing at all. Some silences were heavier than others.
He still missed Aspen. The ache hadn’t dulled the way he thought it would. It had simply become part of him. A constant, quiet hum beneath everything else. He didn’t know how to forget her. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. The women who approached him now were polished, strategic. They saw the headlines before they saw him. Nobody felt real.
Occasionally, Merit drifted into his thoughts. He hoped she was somewhere safe. Somewhere far away. Living quietly with her baby. He hadn’t reached out. Weston had been handled. She was free. And the fact that she never appeared again, never tried to contact him, told him she had chosen distance too.
“Where are you going, Axl? Are you going to hide out for four months before we decide what to do next?” Jack asked, tossing himself into a chair in the backstage room.
The room still buzzed faintly with leftover energy. Groupies had filtered out minutes ago. The sudden quiet almost rang in his ears.
“I’m heading down to Los Angeles for a bit. I’ve got some family events to attend. After that, I might just go to some remote island and sleep on the beach,” he said, shrugging into his leather jacket.
“That sounds like a plan. We’ll join you,” Rihon muttered, lighting a cigarette near the cracked window.
“That would defeat the point of being alone,” Axl replied dryly.
Leon stretched out on the couch. “And when you return to the land of the living, you’ll have a whole new album of songs you wrote.”
“I write best when I’m alone.” It wasn’t entirely true. He wrote best when he was bleeding. But alone was close enough.
“You should get yourself a girl,” Rihon added. “Any girl. Take your mind off things.”
“How many baby mamas do you have running around now, Ri?” Leon and Jack burst out laughing as Rihon narrowed his eyes.
“It was a false positive,” Rihon muttered. “And I learned my lesson.”
“Sure you did.” They laughed, the sound easy and familiar. Two years together had carved something permanent between them. They weren’t just bandmates. They were family.
“No arrests. No scandals. Don’t get anyone pregnant,” Axl added as he snapped his guitar case shut.
“Yeah, Rihon,” Jack chimed in. “No late-night club humping.”
Axl barked out a laugh, the sound genuine. It felt good to laugh without force. They hugged—quick, tight embraces—slapping backs like brothers before parting ways. With one last lift of his hand, Axl walked out, the hallway suddenly too quiet after the noise of the stage.
Two days later, he sat in the back of a large SUV in Los Angeles, the tinted windows shielding him from the outside world. Calvin and CJ—his two-man security team—sat up front, silent and alert. Lindy had arranged everything perfectly. Online, it still looked like the band was finishing out Europe. The hotel hadn’t officially checked them out. He slipped through the cracks.
The receptionist’s eyes widened when he slid his ID and credit card across the counter. He kept his cap low. Calvin and CJ positioned themselves behind him, blocking sightlines instinctively. He booked the largest suite for himself and the adjacent one for security. He liked space. Quiet. Distance.
He wasn’t a difficult client. He didn’t do drugs. He rarely drank. No nightclub disasters. No public meltdowns. After that knife incident—the fan vaulting the barricade—the label had insisted on security. He’d reacted on instinct, fist connecting before he even thought about it. The clip had gone viral within minutes. Now he moved differently. Carefully.
They stepped into the elevator. CJ pressed the button for the top floor. The lobby buzzed faintly with movement—businessmen, tourists, quiet conversations. The elevator doors began to slide closed.
“Axl?”
His head snapped up just as the doors sealed shut, and his breath caught in his throat.