“She’s selling her shop.”

I stared over the Melbourne skyline and resisted the urge to smash my fist through the window. Mostly because I’d break my hand and not even dent the glass.

“It’s a good thing, you know,” Josh went on, giving his opinion even though I didn’t want it. “She can set herself up someplace else with that kind of money.”

Someplace else wasn’t here.

I turned and scowled at my best mate, and lead guitarist of Beneath. We’d known each other forever, since we’d been bratty university students with wandering cocks, but right now I felt I was farther away from him than I’d ever been.

He had his hair tied back in a man bun, his black jeans had holes in the knees, the vintage Nirvana tee he wore was washed out to the point that it was about to fall apart, and the black eye he sported was courtesy of my fist. The first thing I’d done when I got back to the city was make good on my promise to punch him in the face.

His scuffed boots were kicked up onto the coffee table as he flicked through the latest copy of the glossy tabloid Stargazers. I didn’t even want to know where he’d gotten it.

The penthouse at Crown Towers was one of the most lavish hotel rooms in the city. It overlooked the Yarra River and the city and had every comfort a cashed-up rock star could want. Save for one thing money couldn’t buy—Juniper Rowe.

“Shit, this stuff is like a soap opera,” Josh declared, holding up the magazine. “Did you know her daddy threw himself off a cliff?”

“Gimme that.” I snatched the tabloid from his hands and threw it into the bin. “Don’t read that shit, mate. It’ll rot your brain.”

“You need to forget about her, man. She dumped you, remember?”

“She was rattled by the paparazzi, thanks to fucking Vix.”

“You can cry and stamp your foot all you want, but it worked. You’re back.” He leaned forward and slapped me on the leg. “Change out of your nappy, cry baby, and grow your balls back. We’ve got a fucking album to release, or have you forgotten about the music? I hear it’s all that matters to you these days.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Josh fished his phone out of his pocket and tapped the screen. “You need to change your Instagram password.”

I snatched the phone from his hands and glared at the picture. It was a photo of the venue for this weekend’s concert with some stupid fucking light leak filter over it. The caption read, ‘Pumped for this weekend’s show @FestivalHall #rocknroll #Beneath’. It already had ten thousand likes and half as many comments. Obviously, it was Vix’s handiwork. Damage control, I’m sure.

“I can’t do this shit anymore,” I said throwing Josh’s phone at him.

“Calm your farm,” he cried. “Smash your own shit, bro.”

“I’m just expected to get on with it like nothing ever happened.”

“It’s been a week.” He shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Whatever? Juniper could be the one, man. The fucking one.”

He raised his eyebrows and looked me over like he was seeing me for the first time. And maybe he was. “Fuck, you really care that much about her?”

I threw my hands into the air. “I’ve only been trying to tell you that for the last month.”

I began to pace back and forth, wracking my brain for anything that’d help me get through to Juniper. So far, all my attempts had been futile. The Page Break’s phone was disconnected and all her social media accounts were deleted. I couldn’t blame her, really. The abuse she’d been copping was disgusting on so many levels. She didn’t seem to have any online profiles in her name, either. My last resort was tracking down Vanessa.

Josh snorted. “You’re acting like a psycho, just so you know.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Juniper’s words came back to me as I stared out over the Melbourne skyline. The connection between the music and everything else. A link is missing.

I knew what it was now. Why nothing had ever felt one hundred percent right. I’d always been a little off centre, standing half a step out of sync with everything around me. For the longest time I’d believed it was just who I was, but now I saw it for what it was.

The missing link was love. It was her. Juniper. Without her, all this was nothing but a nightmare I couldn’t wake from.

“I need a pen,” I said, striding to the desk and opening a drawer.

“What do you need a fucking pen for?” Josh asked, watching me with a perplexed look on his face. He thought I had a screw loose.

“I need to write a letter.”

He rolled his eyes and stood, making for the minibar. “Write her an email like everyone else in the twenty-first century.”

“An email won’t work,” I said, finding a biro in the drawer. “I need to write this one by hand. Don’t you know that’s how all the greatest love letters were written?”

Josh snorted and twisted the cap off a tiny bottle of Jack Daniels. “You need to go to rehab.”