The Riot

Chapter 12. Trying To Keep You Whole

The Washington night was a thick, humid press of silence against the Iron Vanguard bus. Outside, the crickets in the gorge were a rhythmic vibration, but inside, the air was heavy with the smell of stale coffee and the cooling scent of a stage-worn Gibson. The bus hummed- a low, mechanical thrum that usually acted as a lullaby for Rayna, but tonight, it felt like a countdown.

​Rayna sat at the small laminate table in the kitchenette, her purple hair matted at the nape of her neck from sweat and dried hairspray. She was still wearing her black lace bodysuit, though she’d thrown a threadbare flannel of Jax’s over it to ward off the chill of the air conditioning. In her hand, she turned the silver raven plectrum over and over, the metal cold against her thickened callouses.

​She didn't hear him come out of the bunk area. Jax moved with the quiet grace of a man who had spent half his life trying not to wake up bandmates in cramped spaces. He didn't turn on the overhead lights; he just let the dim, amber glow of the microwave clock and the floor-runners guide him.

​He reached into the fridge, pulled out two bottles of water, and set one in front of her. He didn't sit immediately. He leaned against the counter, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow over the table.

​"You're going to wear a hole in that pick if you keep flipping it," Jax said softly.

​Rayna flinched slightly, then slumped. "I can't get the sound out of my head, Jax. Not the music. The crowd. It sounded like... like a landslide. I’ve never heard anything like it."

​Jax finally slid into the booth across from her. He looked tired, the lines around his eyes etched deep by the flickering stage lights of a dozen different cities. But he wasn't angry. The tension that had snapped between them backstage earlier had dissipated, replaced by a weary, grounding warmth.

​"It’s a drug," Jax said, his voice a low rumble. "That sound. It tells you that you’re immortal. It tells you that every hungry night and every Greyhound layover was worth it because sixty thousand people just validated your existence."

​"Is that a bad thing?" Rayna asked, looking up. Her blue eyes were wide, rimmed with the remnants of dark glitter. "To finally feel like I’m not just a person in the subway? To know I can pay for a hotel room tomorrow if I wanted to? To know I’m... safe?"

​Jax reached out, his hand hovering over the table as if he wanted to cover hers, before he pulled back just an inch. "Safe is a tricky word in this business, Rayna. You think a bank account makes you safe. And for your stomach, it does. But the Industry? It doesn't want your songs. It wants your skin. It wants to own the way you breathe so it can sell it back to people as a lifestyle."

​"Caspian says-"

​"Caspian is a survivor," Jax interrupted, but his tone wasn't sharp. It was almost pitying. "He’s survived by becoming exactly what they wanted him to be. He’s the King because he let them build the throne out of his own ribs. He sees you, and he sees a chance to feel real again. But Rayna... you aren't his reset button. You’re a human being."

​Rayna looked down at the flannel sleeve she was wearing. It smelled like Jax- sawdust, old guitar strings, and a faint hint of peppermint. It was the most honest thing he owned.

​"Why do you care so much?" she whispered. "I’m just an opening act you found. You’ve seen a hundred girls like me come and go. Why are you fighting him for me?"

​Jax was silent for a long time. The bus hit a slight bump, and the cabinets rattled. He looked out the darkened window at the blurred Washington pines, then back at her. The look in his eyes wasn't that of a mentor or a tour manager. It was something much more terrifying for Rayna to witness.

​"Because in these last two months, I’ve had to watch you," Jax said, his voice dropping to a frequency that made her chest ache. "I started out listening to the loop. I liked the sound. I thought, 'Kid’s got grit.' But then I started seeing you. Not the Purple Queen. Not the girl who roars. I saw the girl who still checks her pockets for her bus pass even when she’s on a private coach. I saw the girl who writes lyrics on napkins because she’s afraid she’ll forget how the hunger felt."

​He leaned forward, his face inches from hers in the amber gloom.

​"I don't want you to be a brand, Rayna. I don't want to see your face on a perfume bottle in two years while your music gets buried under a hundred layers of pop-production. I want you to be able to wake up when you’re thirty and still recognize the person in the mirror. I like... I like that person."

​Rayna felt a lump form in her throat. She had spent her life being a "runaway," which meant she was an expert at sensing when people wanted something from her. Managers wanted her signature. Fans wanted her soul. Caspian seemed to want her light. But Jax? Jax just seemed to want her to be.

​"I'm scared, Jax," she admitted, her voice cracking. "I'm scared that if I don't take the hand he’s offering, the world will forget I was ever here. I'm nineteen. I've got ten dollars in my bank account and a guitar I’m still paying off. He’s offering me a life where I never have to be a 'runaway' again."

​"You’ll always be a runaway, Rayna," Jax said gently. "Even in a mansion. You’ll just be running from the person you used to be. If you go with him, if you sign that deal he’s whispering about, you’ll be 'stable.' But you’ll be quieted. They’ll polish those scratches off your guitar. They’ll tell you to stop using the loop because it’s 'too indie' for the radio. They’ll turn your riot into a parade."

​He reached out then, and this time he didn't pull back. His large, calloused hand covered hers, stilling the nervous flipping of the silver pick. His skin was warm, a solid anchor in the middle of the storm that had become her life.

​"I’m not trying to keep you small," Jax whispered. "I’m trying to keep you whole. There’s a difference."

​Rayna looked at their joined hands. The contrast was stark- his hand, scarred and steady; hers, stained with ink and glitter, trembling just slightly.

​"You really think I can do it on my own?" she asked. "Without the King?"

​"I think you’re already doing it," Jax said. "Tonight, during the encore... you didn't look like his guest. You looked like his nightmare. You took his stadium and you made it a subway station for five minutes. That’s your power, Rayna. Don't trade it for a silver platter."

​Rayna leaned her head forward, resting it against their joined hands. The weight of the fame, the pressure of the labels, and the magnetic pull of Caspian Void seemed to fade, leaving only the sound of the bus and the man sitting across from her.

​"Stay with me," she whispered into the darkness. "Don't let me get lost in the fog in Vancouver."

​Jax squeezed her hand, a firm, silent promise. "I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got the board. I’ve got the levels. And I’ve got you."

​For the first time in weeks, the "witching hour" on the bus didn't feel like a countdown. It felt like a sanctuary. Rayna closed her eyes, letting the hum of the road and the warmth of Jax’s hand pull her into a sleep that was finally, mercifully, free of the roar of the crowd.