A groan escaped Ethan's lips as he stirred awake, his head pounding like a bass drum at a rock concert.
"Arghhh..." he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut as if that would somehow shield him from the relentless headache hammering away inside his skull. His entire body felt like it had been through a war—or, more accurately, an all-night party that went way too hard.
Raising a sluggish hand, he rubbed his left eye and blinked at his surroundings. It took him a moment, but he realized he was back in the hotel room. The last thing he remembered was... well, actually, he didn't remember much at all. Just flashes—bright lights, roaring music, drinks, people shouting his name. Yeah, definitely a party. And from the way his body protested even the slightest movement, it had been a legendary one.
A fresh wave of pain slammed into his skull, making him wince. He groaned again, shutting his eyes tight as if that could will the headache away.
"Shit," he mumbled, reaching around blindly with his left hand, feeling the sheets, the pillows, his own tangled-up clothing—until finally, his fingers brushed against something hard and rectangular. His phone.
Gripping it tightly, he brought it up to his bleary eyes and forced them open.
The moment his vision cleared, his heart nearly stopped.
100 missed calls.
60 unread messages.
Instantly, his drowsiness evaporated, replaced by a surge of adrenaline. His eyes widened as he scrolled through the chaos on his screen. The messages were from Jessica, Rebecca, and Bill—some of the most important people in his life and career.
His pulse picked up speed as he skimmed through the frantic texts:
Ethan, are you on your way?!
Dude, we saw you at the Super Bowl game. You're blowing up! Keep doing what you're doing!
Hey, your concert is tomorrow night. Make sure you come on time.
Wtf is going on with you and Billie? You guys are everywhere.
Ethan, I need you in Oklahoma NOW. Why aren't you picking up?!
Why is the NFL commissioner calling the label? What did you do? And why is Stan Kroenke also asking about you?! You sure you're fine?
Is everything okay? What's this about a Shaq party?!
Make sure you leave that party and get on a plane! If Eminem can't get you his jet, enter a plane—even if it's first class. Just get here.
Dude, where are you? Jessica is freaking out. I had to stop her from getting on a plane. Your show is in 8 HOURS. Where. Are. You?!
ETHAN, PICK UP YOUR DAMN PHONE! Your show is in 6 HOURS!!
Ethan felt the color drain from his face. His body stiffened as the words sank in. Six hours. His show was in six freaking hours, and he had no idea where he even was.
"Shit," he cursed under his breath, panic setting in. He moved to get up—only to instantly crash back onto the bed with an "Oof!" as something heavy anchored his right arm.
Dazed, he turned his head to the side and froze.
Billie Eilish.
Snuggled up against his arm, her dark hair spilling over the sheets, breathing softly in her sleep.
Ethan's brain short-circuited for a second. What. The. Hell.
He barely had time to process this before urgency kicked in. He didn't have time to be shocked—he needed to move. Now.
He reached over and gently shook her shoulder. "Billie, Billie—please wake up."
She groaned in response, shifting slightly but not waking up. Ethan sighed, shaking her a bit harder. "Billie, come on, I need to get up."
After a few moments, she stirred just enough for him to slide his arm free. He wasted no time—grabbing his phone and springing out of bed.
Only to immediately step on something.
"ARGHHH!"
A pained groan erupted from the floor.
Ethan's heart nearly leaped out of his chest as he looked down—and realized he had just stepped on Finneas.
Billie's brother.
He was lying face-down on the floor, still half-asleep, but clearly not pleased about being used as a human rug.
"Oh, shit—sorry, man!" Ethan sputtered, lifting his foot off him immediately. Finneas just groaned again and rolled over, mumbling something incoherent before going still.
Ethan took a deep breath, mentally filing stepping on Finneas under Problems to Deal With Later. Right now, he had bigger issues.
His gaze swept across the room. Maddie. His girlfriend. Also here. Asleep.
Great. Just great.
Carefully sidestepping the bodies sprawled around the room, Ethan made his way to the door. He yanked it open, stepping into the living room—
—and into absolute chaos.
The entire hotel suite was still in full party mode.
Loud music. Empty bottles. Red cups everywhere. People draped over couches, dancing on tables, and laughing loudly. It was a full-blown rager—and he was right in the middle of it.
He glanced at his phone again.
1:30 PM.
His heart slammed against his ribcage.
"Shit," he muttered for what felt like the hundredth time.
As soon as he stepped into the party, chaos erupted.
"HE'S BACK!" someone screamed. "WOOOOOOO!"
Suddenly, the entire room was chanting. "ETHAN! ETHAN! ETHAN!"
Ethan blinked. What the hell did I even do last night?
Forcing a tight-lipped smile, he lifted his hands slightly in surrender. "Uh, guys—"
"THE PARTY GOD RETURNS!" someone bellowed, and the crowd roared in response.
Ethan ignored them and pushed forward. "Eh, does anyone know where Eminem is?" he asked, his voice urgent.
A few people pointed toward a section of the room, and Ethan wasted no time heading in that direction.
As he approached, he spotted Eminem, laughing with a group of people, drink in hand.
"Em!" Ethan called out.
Eminem turned, grinning. "Dude, you're up?! How the hell are you even standing?!"
Ethan stopped in his tracks, his stomach twisting with unease. What the fuck did I do yesterday?
He had no time to figure it out. He just took a deep breath and said, "Em, my show—I need to get to Oklahoma. Where's your pilot? I need to leave NOW."
Eminem's expression instantly shifted.
"Shit, shit, shit—your show!" he cursed. "Fuck, I forgot!"
"Yeah, me too," Ethan admitted. "So—is your jet available, or do I need to book a flight fast?"
Eminem and Ethan walked briskly down the hotel corridor, their steps echoing in the empty hallway. Eminem, still rubbing his temples as if trying to piece together the events of the night before, glanced at his phone before speaking.
"Okay, I called him. Thank goodness he's near the area. He's already heading to the airport, and the driver is downstairs waiting to take you there," Eminem said, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
"Thanks, man," Ethan said, exhaling.
Eminem sighed, shaking his head. "Dude, I'm sorry. I totally forgot."
Ethan waved it off. "It's not your fault. I should've been more organized."
They reached the lobby, where a sleek black SUV was already idling by the curb. The driver, a middle-aged man with graying hair and sharp eyes, nodded in greeting. Ethan slid into the backseat, turning to Eminem one last time.
"Thanks for hosting me, man. Truly. No issues—I had a great time. Just an unfortunate ending, which is my fault."
Eminem just hummed in response, watching as Ethan shut the door. The driver shifted gears, pulling away from the hotel.
As they hit the congested streets of Los Angeles, Ethan's gaze flickered outside, watching as the post-Super Bowl crowd filled the sidewalks and roads. His leg bounced anxiously.
"Sorry to be a bother, but can you go faster? Or do you know a shortcut or something? Please, I really need to get somewhere on time," Ethan asked, leaning forward slightly.
The driver let out a hesitant chuckle. "Ehm, sir, I wouldn't recommend that. The only shortcut I know is through the old Griffith Canyon Road. It's a rough path—steep, narrow, and not exactly legal for commercial vehicles. Not to mention, some parts are under construction. It's risky."
Ethan sighed, running a hand through his already messy hair. "Man, just do this. I'm begging you. I have a show to get to, and I am seriously late. Like, career-ruining late. My manager is about to have a full-blown meltdown. The entire label is panicking. The venue is expecting me in hours, and I'm still here. The fans, the crew, the media—everybody is waiting. If I don't get on that plane now, I might as well cancel the tour before it even starts."
The driver stayed silent for a moment before letting out a thoughtful hum. "You're lucky I'm a native, but… hmm. Two autographs."
Ethan blinked. "What?"
"Two autographs—for my daughter and my, uh, other daughter," the driver said, his voice faltering slightly at the end.
Ethan narrowed his eyes. "No problem, man."
The driver smirked and pressed down on the gas. The SUV lurched forward as he maneuvered through the gaps in traffic with precision. Ethan quickly scrawled a signature on a notepad the driver handed him.
"Alright, first one's for Laura. Who's the second for?" Ethan asked, keeping his handwriting steady despite the car's sharp turns.
"Ehm… Steve."
Ethan looked up. "Your daughter's name is Steve?"
The driver let out a nervous laugh, his hands gripping the wheel a little tighter. "Yeah, uh, short for… Stephanie Evangeline Veronica Edwards. STEVE."
Ethan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Okay, man."
The driver let out a breath of relief. "Yeah, thanks. She—eh, I mean, they—would love it."
Ethan signed the second autograph and leaned back in his seat, finally allowing himself a moment to breathe. But there was still one thing he had been dreading. Taking a deep breath, he picked up his phone and called Rebecca.
The phone barely rang before she picked up, her voice sharp and loud. "Dude! Where have you been? Your show is in five hours! Jessica is livid—she's about to call the cops and declare you missing!"
Ethan winced, pulling the phone away from his ear. "Rebecca, I—"
"Pass me the phone!" came Jessica's voice in the background. There was some shuffling, and then, unexpectedly, Jessica spoke in a calm, level tone.
"Okay, Ethan, you've had your fun. Where are you? Please, this is not funny. Are you at the airport?"
"Rebecca, tell one of the drivers to go pick Ethan up," Jessica instructed in the background.
Ethan cleared his throat, glancing out the window as the airport hangar came into view. "Ehm… yeah. I'm at the airport."
"Okay, they're coming for you now."
"Ehm… yeah, but… it's the one in California," Ethan said softly.
Silence.
Then, a sudden outburst. "Jessica! Jessica! Jessica!"
Ethan's eyes widened. "What's wrong?"
Rebecca's panicked voice came through the speaker. "Dude, she passed out! What did you tell her?! Man, just get here, please!"
The call cut off. Ethan slowly shut his eyes, guilt settling in. The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror.
"Sorry, man. But hey—at least we're almost there."
As soon as he said that, a distant wailing sound filled the air. Ethan's eyes snapped open. Through the side mirror, he saw flashing red-and-blue lights.
"Shit," the driver muttered.
Ethan groaned, already feeling a headache creeping in. "This is just fucking great."
The SUV slowed as a police cruiser pulled them over. An officer, wearing dark sunglasses and an unimpressed expression, approached the vehicle. The driver rolled down his window.
"License and registration," the officer said. "This road is restricted. You shouldn't be driving here."
Ethan leaned forward, desperate. "Officer, I'm really sorry, but I have to be somewhere. It's urgent."
The officer lifted his sunglasses slightly. "Wait a minute… Ethan Jones? No way. My daughter is a huge fan. I just saw you at the Super Bowl yesterday."
Ethan forced a smile. "Thanks, man. Listen, I really need to catch a flight. If there's anything you can do—"
The officer sighed, shaking his head. "Even still, this is a restricted area. You shouldn't be driving here at all."
Ethan felt his heart sink. The driver's hands gripped the wheel nervously.
"But…" the officer continued.
Ethan and the driver perked up. "Ooo, but—" they both said in unison.
The officer smirked. "If you could give me two autographs for my, ehm… daughters… then maybe all this didn't happen."
Ethan blinked, relief washing over him. "Thank you, thank you!" He grabbed a pen and a piece of paper, ready to sign. But as he put the pen to paper, a thought struck him. He looked up.
"Wait. I thought you said you had a single daughter?"
The driver, still gripping the wheel, muttered, "Yeah, earlier, you said 'my daughter,' not 'daughters.'"
Ethan looked at the officer, his expression saying, 'Dude, thats rich coming from you?'
The cop's expression darkened behind his sunglasses. His voice dropped a few degrees. "You sure you want to make it on time to your show?"
Ethan let out a nervous laugh. "Two autographs coming right up!"
Ethan leaned back in his seat, exhaling deeply as the private jet soared through the sky. His head pounded—a mix of exhaustion, stress, and the overwhelming chaos of the last few hours. He shut his eyes, trying to drown out the hum of the engines. Just as he felt himself slipping into much-needed rest, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
Jessica.
Or so he thought.
Frowning, he pulled out his phone and blinked in surprise.
Sydney Sweeney.
He hesitated for a moment before answering. "Hey, Syd."
"Ethan! How are you?" Her voice was light, friendly.
"I'm fine," he lied automatically.
"Oh, that's great!" she said, relieved. There was a pause, and they both spoke at the same time.
"So I wanted to ask—"
"Honestly, not fine. I fucked up."
Another awkward pause.
"Oh," Sydney said. "Wait What did you want to say?" He said
"No, no, you go first. Yours sounds serious." she said back
Ethan opened his mouth to talk, but his screen flashed with another call. Rebecca.
"Syd, I'm so sorry, but I have to call you back. This is important."
"Oh, no problem. Just… take care of yourself, okay?"
"Thanks, Syd," he said before quickly switching over. The moment Rebecca's voice came through, he didn't even wait. "How is Jessica?"
"She's fine. Resting now," Rebecca said before her voice hardened. "Dude. For real. You're still in California? Jessica is talking about canceling the show. Why did you let this happen?"
Ethan let out a long breath. "I don't even know myself. My memory is messed up. I feel so bad. But tell Jessica not to cancel the show. I'll make it in time."
Rebecca sighed. "I get it. You were probably having a great time. Just… remember you have responsibilities, man."
"Yeah, yeah, I know." Ethan rubbed his forehead, exhaustion hitting him harder. He opened his mouth to say more when the phone screen suddenly went black.
Dead.
"Fucking great," he muttered under his breath. He checked his surroundings—just him and the pilot. No way he was about to go up front and ask for a charger. Slumping back into the seat, he groaned, "Way to screw up, Ethan."
The plane touched down, and Ethan barely waited for the steps to lower before hopping off, giving the pilot a quick, "Thanks, man." He hurried toward the terminal, eyes scanning for any sign of a charging station or a cab.
Then, he heard someone shouting his name.
"ETHAN!"
His head snapped up, eyes widening in relief as he spotted Jeff, his tour driver.
"Jeff! Man, am I glad to see you—"
"Sir, now is not the time for reunions," Jeff cut in, waving him over. "We have 30 minutes to get you to the concert venue."
Ethan bolted toward the van. "Yeah, let's do this."
They pulled up outside the venue, and before Ethan could even breathe, the car door was thrown open. A swarm of people surrounded him—makeup artists, stylists, assistants—everyone working in a synchronized frenzy, dabbing, adjusting, fixing.
"He's here!" Rebecca's voice cut through the chaos. "Ethan, you're on in five minutes!"
Ethan barely had time to register what was happening as a mic was shoved into his hands.
"Bella, give him the mic," Rebecca ordered.
Bella—Ethan's fan club president—handed it over, but in the madness, Ethan didn't even realize it was her. Before he could say anything, he was pushed toward the stage wings.
Jessica stood there, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
"Jessica, I'm so sorry about—"
"Ethan, later," she interrupted. "Your show. Go crush it."
And just like that, he was shoved forward.
Blinding lights. Deafening screams. The stage stretched out before him, the energy in the air electrifying. His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins as he lifted the mic to his lips.
"WHAT'S UP, OKLAHOMA?!"
The crowd erupted.
And just like that, the chaos, the stress, the exhaustion—everything faded away. The music started, the beat thrummed through his body, and Ethan became alive.
Backstage, the adrenaline was still coursing through him as he stormed into his dressing room, yanking off his sweat-drenched shirt.
"I need a fucking shower," he muttered. "I haven't had a bath in two days."
Rebecca, who was in the room sorting through his things, glanced up—and immediately froze.
"Wow. Nice tat, dude."
Ethan whipped around.
"What?"
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