Still Beating (Lost Boys Book 2.5), page 1
Wicked Pretty Thing
Copyright © 2023 by Jessie Walker
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Editing/Proofreading: Heather Caryn
Cover Design/Formatting: Jessie Walker
For those who wanted more.
This wouldn't exist if it weren't for you.
wail forever <3
“Los Angeles" - Midnight
“Believe In Dreams” - Flyleaf
“Lost” - Dermot Kennedy
“Under the Bridge” - Red Hot Chili Peppers
“Sunsetz” - Cigarettes After Sex
“Simple Man” - Lynyrd Skynyrd
“Daylight” - Shinedown
“Are You Lonesome Tonight?” - Elvis Presley
“Dirt” - Alice In Chains
And more…
Check out the playlist on Spotify.
Please note that this is not a standalone. This novella picks up almost immediately where the Epilogue in If There's A Way left off, with the Lost Boys out in Los Angeles, recording their first album. If you've yet to read the duet, it's highly, highly recommended you stop here.
This isn't an extended epilogue. Not everything will be wrapped up nicely. This is part of a true series that is heavily character-driven and takes place in "real-time."
Will and Way might be more solid than ever, as individuals and as a couple, but they're still growing. They're still healing.
Their lives have really only just begun.
Triggers for this novella can be found at the back of his book, following the Acknowledgments, or on the author’s website.
www.authorjessiewalker.com
Lost Boys Series
Recommended Reading Order:
Where There's A Will
If There's A Way
Still Beating
Every Breath After — Coming 2023!
"Rhythm is sound in motion. It is related to the pulse, the heartbeat, the way we breathe. It rises and falls. It takes us into ourselves; it takes us out of ourselves."
—Edward Hirsch
It’s three a.m. when I get the call.
I wish I could say it woke me from a dead sleep, but I’m lucky if I get more than a couple hours of undisturbed shut-eye these days.
“Sorry to wake you,” the familiar voice says down the line, his tone hushed and unsure.
I rub an eye, pushing up on my arm as I strain to hear him. Wherever they are, it’s loud. It’s not helping that he seems to be whispering.
“S’fine. What’s wrong? Is he okay?” My voice cracks, and I wish I could say it’s from sleep.
Mason blows out a breath. “Yeah, he’s… he’s fine. He just—”
“Then what?” I cut in roughly, sitting up straighter, fully awake now. “What happened?”
On a good day, I need at least two cups of coffee before my patience kicks in.
On a bad day…
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to rein in my frustration.
But can’t he just fucking spit it out already?
As soon as I saw the name flashing across my screen, I knew something happened. Mason doesn’t just call me to chat about nothing, especially knowing how late it is for me here.
He doesn’t say anything right away, and I’m just about to really lose my cool on him when he finally blurts, “He’s having a panic attack.” A beat passes. “I think.”
Everything in me grinds to a halt. “Where is he?”
“Right here. Next to me. We’re at a diner. Everything was going okay, and then someone dropped a frying pan, I think, in the kitchen.” He huffs, and it’s only now I can make out the frustration in his voice. “It was loud and sudden and—”
“Like a gunshot,” I finish softly as images rush to the forefront of my mind. Memories I’d do anything to purge the fuck out from both our heads, Waylon’s and mine.
“Yeah.”
Loud sudden noises don’t always get to him, but when they do…
I don’t even realize I’m jumping out of bed, flipping on the lights, and rushing over to my dresser.
Our dresser.
I’ve been living in the apartment above O’Leary’s for several weeks now. Just under a month. But it’s only been ten days since I’ve had the place all to myself.
I fucking hate it.
The silence…
It’s deafening.
Terrifying.
The electric bill is going to be sky-high after this month, what with me leaving the television and random lights on at all hours of the day. Just to give me some sense of comfort.
My hands are grabbing things without me even really registering what they are. I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder as I tug on a pair of black sweats, not even checking to see if they’re mine, let alone right side on. “Put him on.”
“He’s not—”
“Just hold it up to his ear.”
A beat passes, then I hear a shuffle through the phone. I run my hand through my hair, blinking rapidly against my own rising panic as I wait.
And wait some more.
I hear muffled voices. Mason’s. Shawn’s.
But not Waylon’s.
Fuck.
I’ve never been so acutely aware of just how fucking far away from me he is until this moment, and time is moving at a fucking snail’s pace. Slowing down with each dragging second I don’t have him in my arms. Every beat of my heart that I don’t hear his voice, see his dimples, feel his warm body against mine.
Sure, I’ve missed him like crazy in the last week and a half he’s been in LA. Counting down the days until I could see him again.
Just nine more days.
Just six more days.
And now…
Three more fucking days.
But this is different. This is every fear and worry I’ve had since I dropped him off at the gate, sling-shotting to the front of my brain. Blotting out any rational thought.
How will I ever make it to Saturday after this?
Sure, we knew this could happen. Hell, it wasn’t so much an if, but a when. One we planned for as best we could.
And now it’s time to put our plans to the test.
A noise reaches my ears, like a frustrated growl, or groan, coming deep from within his chest, repressed like his lips are sealed tight.
“Hey, baby,” I breathe.
His breath hitches, and despite everything, my lips rise. Lashes drop. Peace washes through me, as slow and steady as a summer breeze.
But it’s not lasting.
“Will.”
Fuck.
His voice doesn’t just crack, it breaks. Shatters into gasps. Like he’s been holding his breath this whole time, and now that he finally released it, he can’t keep up. He can’t catch it.
“Easy,” I say, instilling a calmness in my voice I’m 100 percent faking. “You’re okay. You’re here, I’m here. The guys are with you. We’re all good.”
“You’re not here,” he says forcefully. I can practically feel the pressure of his teeth clenching through the words. “You’re not fucking here.”
Shit.
I sink back down on the bed. Elbows on my knees, I rub my jaw with the hand not holding the phone.
“No,” I say tightly. My chest is on fucking fire. “I’m not there. But I’m here. Right here. Hear my voice?”
I picture him nodding jerkily as he croaks, “Not enough.”
My knuckles rub against my sternum, trying to ease some of the building pressure. “No, but it’s all we have right now.”
He sucks in a choked breath.
I quickly change the subject, shifting it away from what we can’t control, to what we can. Or rather, what he can. “Mason said you’re at a diner.”
“Yeah, finished up late.”
When Waylon and I talked last night, they were just finishing up dinner and heading back to the studio to get a little more work in on their album. That was about four hours ago, give or take. I had just gotten upstairs after locking the bar up early for the night. Wednesdays are always pretty dead.
“What’re you eating?” I ask, doing the math in my head. If it’s a little after three a.m. here, it’s only a little after midnight in LA.
“Waffles.” He says it so grumpily, I have to stifle a laugh with my fist.
“Why do you sound pissed? Are they not good?” I ask, still smiling like an idiot. I’m sure if he was in the right state of mind he’d call me out for it.
“They were…”
I give a quick shake of my head, despite knowing he can’t see it. “Nope. Forget about that. Did you drown them in syrup?”
“Obviously.” He makes a sound of disgust. His voice is much steadier now as he says, “I think it’s in my hair. I may’ve dove for cover face-first into the plate.”
I roll my lips together. It shouldn’t be funny, but it is.
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
Grinning
“This is so fucking embarrassing,” he grumbles, blowing out a breath, and I hear a shuffle. I picture him rubbing at his face, his eyes, like he usually does when coming out of a daze.
“Nah,” I say easily. “I’m sure I would’ve done something even more embarrassing had I been there, like shove you under a table or something. Maybe threw the syrup bottle at Butter Finger’s head.”
He doesn’t say anything to that. A heavy moment passes.
“Or maybe I would’ve shoved you,” he finally says.
“Maybe.” A beat. “But I’m quicker.”
He groans.
“Stronger.”
“Fuck. Off.”
I bite my lower lip, unable to contain my stupid ass grin.
“Shawn’s looking at me weird.”
Chuckling, I ask, “What kind of weird?”
“I don’t know, but it’s less weird than it was a moment ago. Now it’s more like he wants to take the spoon he’s holding, and scoop out my jugular.”
I hum. “Something about that sentence doesn’t sound right.”
“Whatever. What are you doing?” His voice still sounds a little reedy, but I don’t point it out.
Shaking my head, I say, “Sitting on my bed.”
“Shit, it’s like, what, the middle of the night over there?”
My mouth ticks up. “It’s okay.”
“Fuck,” he mutters. “I’m sorry.”
“Shut up.”
He huffs.
“You good?”
A moment passes, before he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
My teeth clench, and I feel the phone creak in my hand. The hard screen digging into my ear. “Say that again, and this time, make me believe it.”
That gets a short laugh out of him, but I know better than to think that means everything’s all roses and daisies now.
“I’m fine,” he says, dragging out the word. I picture the barbell poking through his tongue flicking over his teeth, and fuck me, I should not be getting a boner right now.
But I miss him.
I miss him so much it steals my breath.
I miss him more than I ever thought possible.
“Just three more days,” he whispers, and if I’m not mistaken, his voice has deepened, as if he senses where my thoughts have shifted.
“Three more days,” I repeat robotically, staring vacantly around the bedroom, before landing on the ball of cotton on the floor next to the hamper.
Waylon’s sweatshirt.
He threw it there the morning we came back from watching the sun rise on the bridge. Our last morning together. The rest of our clothes quickly found their way on the floor, too, but have since been put in the hamper. Normally, Waylon doesn’t leave anything laying around—he’s far neater than me—but in our rush to get to Philly once we realized we were late, he somehow overlooked his hoodie.
It hasn’t moved from that spot in ten days. I just can’t bring myself to pick it up.
And while there’s only three days until I see his face again, there’s still another month and a half, give or take, before he will notice his hoodie’s still on the floor.
Fuck. This is harder than I thought.
“Will?”
I shake my head and force a hard swallow. “Sorry, did you say something?”
I can hear the grin in his voice. “No, you just got really quiet—”
My eyes roll, already knowing where this is going.
“—and you’re never quiet.”
“Har, fucking, har.”
“I should go,” he says, and I don’t miss the exhaustion settling in, weighing down his words. This was far from being the worst panic attack he’s ever had, but it’s clear he’s still zapped. “Mase just paid the bill. We gotta get back to the studio early.”
“You think you’ll be up for it?” I ask, not even bothering to hide my concern.
He sighs. “I have to be.”
“Way—”
“Shut up, Mase,” he says, making me think I’m not the only one calling him out. “It was just a little one. I’m fine now. We’re already behind as it is, and I—”
Either Mason or Shawn must cut him off, but I can only hear muffled mumbling.
“Not if it means fucking you guys over,” Waylon says, and I realize they’re talking about this upcoming weekend, when I’m due to visit.
I already told him multiple times that I understood if he needed to work—that we’d still find time to be together. Alone.
But he was insistent.
“It’s only two days, Will. Two fucking days. They can work around me. I’ll just make sure I’m caught up on my parts so they don’t need me.”
I rolled my eyes at that. As if they could not need him.
But I know he meant recording. It’s different from writing or practicing—when they’re rehearsing with the sole intent to either perform, or to find their rhythm to hash out whatever might not be working.
Recording is a far more isolated process, apparently. It’s just them, their instrument, or their voice, and the guy behind the glass barking orders at them.
Despite how much the guys didn’t want to rely on machines to piece their music together, they kind of have to when it comes to slapping their songs on an album to be distributed to the masses.
“Babe, it’s o—”
“It’s fine,” he cuts in quickly.
That’s how many fines now? Three?
Shaking my head, I try again. “Way—”
“Look, I gotta go. They wanna clear the table.”
“Are you—”
“I’m fine, Will,” he says. There’s a heaviness to his words now that wasn’t there before. A pointedness, almost like he’s pleading with me. To believe him. To drop it. To accept what we can’t fucking change right now.
He’s there.
I’m here.
Thousands of miles away from each other, with nothing but a phone line to tether us.
And all I can think is, that’s four.
“I love you,” I tell him, instead of what I want to say.
I’m not fine, Way. I’m not fucking fine, and neither are you, and this, right now, saying goodbye to you, knowing just how not fine you are, but not being able to see you, kiss you, touch you, and breathe you in…
It’s straight up agony.
But I don’t say any of that.
I just let those three little words slip into his ear, and silently pray the weight of them is enough to compensate for what I can’t show right now. Not for three more whole fucking days.
Hearing his gulp in my ear, I know this is just as hard for him. But like me, he’s trying to be strong. “I love you too. You’ll call me in the morning?”
I smile thinly. “You know it.”
After we say our too-quick byes, I let the phone drop to the bed next to me and bury my face in my hands.
The television is still playing in the living room, but the droning sounds of an infomercial ain’t cutting it anymore.
The place feels like a tomb.
This room, this apartment…
The bar without them, without him…
I know some of it’s in my head. These fears of mine, deep-seated with nowhere to go but further in. To places I can’t even reach. Places I don’t even know about until I get that itch and can’t see anything outside of it.
Outside of what I need to do.
Muttering a curse, I grab my phone, pulling up my second recent contact.
It rings a couple times before I hear a click, then: “You better have a really, really fucking good reason why you’re calling me in the middle of the night.”
Cracking my knuckles against my knees, I say, “There’s been a change of plans.”
Ivy groans, but before I can say anything, she goes, “I swear on my cousin’s life, if you don’t get on that fucking plane this time, I will change all the locks and you’ll have no fucking choice but—”
I hang up on her, shaking my head.
Guess that’s all the permission I need.
Jumping to a stand, I head back to our dresser and start grabbing shit.
