He wasn't his normal self.

That was what I repeated in my head, over and over.

August had taken something, probably a lot of it. He wasn't in his right mind when he said those awful things.

It was a small consolation. He'd still said them. He'd still hurt me, using my vulnerability against me. I broke into tears at least twice a day, thinking about it.

But despite my heartache and guilt and anger, the knowledge that August was so far gone he would do such a thing only made me worry for him more.

I texted Damon, telling him the broad strokes of what happened. August was on something, his shoulder problem was worse than we thought, he'd shut me out and refused my help. I hoped one of the guys would be able to get through to him. I hoped he'd let them.

While waiting for news, I threw myself into my work. The tour was over. Although I now had a fat wad of cash to keep me going for a while, it wouldn't last forever. I applied for any job I could, anything even remotely in my field. I kept working on my portfolio, applying for grants, submitting to award programs, uploading to stock photo sites. Working as a photographer meant doing a thousand little things to make ends meet.

A few days after my confrontation with August, my mentor Ashford called. A local art gallery wanted to display some of my photos in a show. I was overjoyed, until I learned they wanted me to speak about my inspiration at the opening night reception.

"I'm not sure how I feel about that," I hedged. "You know I like to keep myself separate from my art."

"The owners are very well connected in the art community. If you impress them, you'll open a world of possibilities for yourself."

"I'm doing fine on my own."

"And how many jobs have you secured since getting back?" I could hear the arched eyebrow in his voice.

"The tour only ended a couple days ago," I protested.

"Take their offer," he said firmly. "Stand up, say some brief words in front of a few dozen people and then you can go right back to hiding away like before. Baby steps."

You did something that scared you and made it through. Baby steps.

August's words came back to me.

Even after everything that had happened, I couldn't forget the lessons he'd taught me.

"Okay," I said before I could second guess myself. "Tell them I'll do it."

Of course, saying yes meant I spent the next few days with my stomach tied in knots. At the very least, it was a distraction from my agonizing over August, over what he'd said, what he'd done.

It was upsetting I hadn't heard back from Damon. He said he would keep me up to date. I had to hope no news was good news.

When I finally heard my phone ding with a text, that knot in my stomach twisted even further.

We can't find him, Damon's text read.

What do you mean, can't find him? I texted back furiously. He's not a lost cat!

He's not at home. No one at the label has seen him.

Maybe he's locked himself in his bedroom and is just not answering the door.

No, we broke in and searched the house. Cameron smashed a window with a rock.

Drastic, but necessary.

We're working on tracking him down, Damon reassured me. We'll let you know the minute we find him.

I tried to take heart that August had such good friends, but it didn't stop the worry gnawing in my chest. Who knew what could have happened in the week and a half since I'd last seen him? For all I know he could have overdosed again and—

I clenched my fists and shook my head. I refused to contemplate those defeatist thoughts. We'd find August, we'd make him see reason, we'd get him cleaned up. And then, as Damon kept saying, we'd figure out what to do from there.

I found myself at the art gallery only a few days later. There were a lot more than the few dozen people Ashford had described. The place seemed packed with at least a hundred. I wasn't ready for this.

But it was too late to back out. People were already chatting about my work, mentioning my name with curiosity, wanting to know more about the artist.

When the gallery owner stood on a small raised platform at the front of the room, my pulse spiked. I had no idea what he said to the crowd up until I heard him say my name. My vision went fuzzy around the edges. Ashford nudged me in the ribs. I walked to the stage on autopilot.

"Let's hear a few words from one of our artists," the owner announced with a smile, gesturing to me.

My fingers went cold. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. I had no idea why any of these people would care what I had to say. Besides, wasn't it enough that I poured my soul into my art? Did they need to know everything I'd been thinking, too?

I don't know why she thought anyone would care about me. I just take photos.

I'd said those very words to August after my first interview.

Because I'm not the only one who sees passion in your art, he'd replied.

It's all thanks to you. You're the one who helped draw it out.

Don't thank me yet. I'm not done with you.

I could feel the phantom touch of August's hands, his teasing fingers, drawing passion and pleasure from my body.

I took a deep, slow breath.

"Hi." My voice came out weak, shaky. I cleared my throat. "I'm Cassie Blake. I'm one of the artists here tonight." I paused, trying to remember what I'd planned to say. All those carefully thought out words fled my brain. "I've never really been sure what I should say about my art. I just take photos and let them speak for themselves."

I glanced at Ashford. He nodded, encouraging me to continue.

"But recently I've been thinking about what drives me. What sort of motivation I have behind my work. What sort of message I want to convey." My breathing was coming easier now. "All artists use art to express ourselves. We use art as a catalyst, as a way to work through our thoughts and feelings. Even feelings we may not be conscious of."

Avid murmurs filled the room. I ignored it and continued.

"We use art to wrestle with our demons, to bring them to light and triumph over them. It's a form of catharsis. It's intimate and it's scary and it's hard. But in the end, we're better artists for it. And I think, through our art, we become better people."

Ashford's expression was one of pride, beaming and nodding.

The owner took the stage again to introduce the next artist to speak. I slowly made my way to the ladies room, shaking hands with a few people here and there who stopped me on the way.

Leaning against the sink, hands pressed into the counter, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. No wide deer-in-the-headlights look. No flushed cheeks. I didn't look frazzled or terrified. My heart wasn't even pounding all that hard.

I hadn't planned on saying any of that. I hadn't even known I'd been thinking anything like that. But the words I'd said felt true. They felt right.

My phone pinged.

I scrambled in my purse for it, hoping it was Damon.

Cassie, it read. Please come. I need you.

My heart jumped into my throat as I read the last words.

I can't do this alone.