8. Zak
This was about to win the grand prize for the most impulsive thing Zak had ever done—and she had quit more than one job within the first week, taught herself how to play the accordion, and driven everyone to Las Vegas last year for Edge’s birthday with a hundred dollars in her wallet and no hotel reservation.
She pulled at the tarnished brass door handle as she twisted the key to their apartment door in the padlock, then jiggled it until it finally opened.
“Fair warning, our place probably won’t be up to your standards.”
“Is that a drug deal going on three doors down?”
Absolutely, but she didn’t answer Chase. Instead, she shouted, “I’m back,” through the crack in the door and waited a healthy pause before entering. She’d learned that lesson the hard way.
“You were gone?” Dallas grumbled.
She pulled back the blackout curtains in the living room to let in the late morning sun and picked the bottle of Smirnoff off the entertainment center before Dallas grabbed it himself. Sure, there was band equipment strewn about, clothes hanging from the curtain rods, and a few empty pizza boxes on the kitchen counter, but the place didn’t look too bad, all things considered.
Chase did not appear to share her opinion. He sidestepped an errant thong in the entryway, and she watched his eyes map out every crack, stain, and suspicious sound as though he planned to mail her an appraisal afterward.
Zak heaved an audible sigh. It was a causal dilemma as ancient as the chicken or the egg. Which came first: the diva or the talent?
“I brought someone with me,” she prompted when no one cared to notice.
Dallas was still half asleep in his “bedroom” behind the drum set as he sat up to reveal a fully naked woman next to him, presumably the thong’s owner, and pulled on a white tank.
Alex was sprawled out on the couch, red and blue pillows wedged beneath his head, arms, and legs as he watched the news.
Edge walked into the kitchen with a magazine rolled in his hand and whacked the side of the counter with it. “You sure did.” He smirked. “Chase Fuckin’ Payton, huh? Of all the guys to bring home. I thought you couldn’t stand him?”
“He’s… fine,” she said, shoving her foot in her mouth once again.
“What a raving review.” Edge held up the coffee pot and offered Chase a mug, which he politely refused, but not before eying the oily, speckled film on top.
Chase chuckled nonchalantly. “Maybe I’ll grow on you.”
“Like mold?” She intended the comment to sound like a joke, but it didn’t. Not even a little.
Logic would dictate she should be nice to Chase if she had any chance of getting him to join the band, and she swore she was trying. But so far, she was failing. Epically.
To her credit, he wasn’t making things any easier by acting like he might contract hepatitis from breathing the air within a hundred-yard radius of her home. Was this his first indication that not everyone got to choose between waterfront or mountain view?
“Am I supposed to know who this is?” Dallas rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Or are you suggesting we all leave so you can have a Sunday morning booty call?”
“Is that something you do often?” Chase asked in a tone that told her he was trying to make her uncomfortable.
“Why? Are you jealous? Or judging?”
“Or just making conversation.”
Zak opened her mouth to say that she brought men home all the time—thank you very much—but Dallas was back to providing his most unhelpful interruptions.
“Please, she rarely books Saturday nights. Why do you think she has so much pent-up aggression?”
Her cheeks burned. “No, that’s thanks to you.”
She didn’t dare make eye contact with Chase again until she finished facilitating introductions, which was a smart move in hindsight. He looked way too smug standing there, leaning against the door as he gave a small wave.
“Chase is an old acquaintance,” Edge explained to the others. “From high school.”
“Cool, but what’s he doing in our apartment?” Alex asked.
Zak shuffled a few inches further from Chase, using her guitar case like a cane. “He sings.”
Alex finally peeled his eyes away from the TV. Dallas cocked his head like he was silently mulling over the rock star merit of a guy wearing a freshly ironed button-down tucked into belted slacks, and a watch that looked like it cost more than her nicest guitar.
“Oh, really?” Edge patted the bar stool next to his own for Chase to take a seat. “I thought you played sports or something. Didn’t you go pro?”
“Hockey.” Chase’s easy smile went from fake to forced as he pulled out the high-top chair. “And yeah. I did.”
“You’re into music now?”
“Apparently.”
It was all she could do not to roll her eyes. This humble act wasn’t fooling her. No one could sound like he did and not realize how good they were. It had taken half of one song for her to feel it, marrow-deep. Chase had something special. He’d had a lifetime to figure it out. Either he was stupid, or playing stupid, and both options threatened to whittle the infant kernel of respect she held for him into a microscopic speck.
“I gotta say, I love his confidence.” Dallas got up, leaving his conquest behind and joining Alex on the sofa. Whoever the woman was, she was either impressively intoxicated or an impressively hard sleeper.
“He’s a rookie,” Zak said. “Don’t worry, I’m sure cockiness will set in as soon as he knows middle C. It comes naturally to him.”
Chase folded his arms over his chest. “You sure you want me to be here?”
“Yes,” they all answered.
“If Zak says you’re good, you’re the real deal. Especially if she doesn’t even like you.” Alex propped up on his elbows. “But how much of a rookie?”
“Like, a never-sang-in-front-of-a-crowd-until-last-night rookie,” she admitted. “You remember that event I worked yesterday?”
“Of course we do.” Dallas slung his arm over the back of the couch. “You complained about it for two days straight.”
She would have complained about it for way longer if not for the short notice. “Long story short, we ran into each other. There were drinks and karaoke involved. He’s good. Wicked good. And I think you should hear him for yourselves.”
She held her breath.
Edge gave Chase a friendly shove. “Let’s see what you’ve got, jock.”
“What, like—this?” Chase gestured to the absence of background music.
“A cappella,” Zak corrected. “That can be the first term you learn.”
Dallas chuckled to himself. “Ah, so you brought us a real newbie, huh? Were you drinking on the clock, Z?”
Absolutely, but he didn’t need to know that.
She sat on the black and white striped ottoman in the living room. “I’ll back you up,” she said to Chase as she laid her guitar case on the ground and unlatched the top. “Any requests?” she asked the room as she propped the instrument on her thigh.
“‘Plush’, Stone Temple Pilots,” Edge suggested. “New guy should know that one, right?”
That was low-hanging fruit, but Zak couldn’t blame him. She wouldn’t have known what kind of music Chase listened to either if not for his sister’s tailored karaoke selection and their conversation in the car. He struck her as more of an NPR kind of guy.
“Yeah, I know it,” Chase said. “But I’m just supposed to… what? Sing it? Right here? Now?”
“Unless you have a better idea, yeah.” Dallas lit a cigarette and walked to the patio door. He shoved it open a sliver and leaned against the glass. “That’s kinda the fuckin’ point of being a singer.”
“Relax,” Edge said. “You won’t be the worst one we’ve heard. That, I can promise.”
Chase looked as dumbfounded as she’d ever seen him. “So… okay. So, what do I—just wait for you?” he asked Zak.
She absentmindedly riffed around on her guitar. “Nah, I’ve been waiting for you. Wanted to see how long you’d freak out first. Let’s go.”
She was pretty sure she could play the song in her sleep—that was how many times they’d received the request for it at gigs. Muscle memory took over as she strummed out the intro.
Chase rubbed his palms down the front of his jeans and gripped his knees as he stood. Rigid. Neither moving his head nor tapping along to keep time. When he missed the place where he should have come in, she realized that he wasn’t going to come in unless someone forced him to.
Zak cut the music.
“I thought you knew the song?” Edge asked him.
“Yeah. Okay.” Chase nodded like he was trying not to throw up. “Yeah. I do.”
Zak started from the top, and… he missed it again.
Alex muffled his laugh behind a couch pillow.
“You sure know how to pick ‘em, Zak,” Dallas commented.
If Chase wanted to look like an idiot, that was fine. But she was not going to let him make her look like an idiot.
She restarted the song again, with heavy, deliberate downstrokes. This time, staring directly into Chase’s eyes, she shouted, “Now,” when it was his turn to come in.
She would have tried a verbal threat next time if the nonverbal one hadn’t done the trick, but it did.
Chase started to sing. Moderately at first, but her staring thing still seemed to be working because every time he looked at her, he tried a little harder.
Dallas, Alex, and Edge listened in mild astonishment, which was when she realized they had thought she was playing a twisted joke on them. Fair enough, it was something she would do out of spite, but her reluctance to find someone new had nothing to do with anger. Discomfort, abandonment, and grief, sure. But never rage.
Chase still irritated her as much as he impressed her, but she was glad she’d been the one to bring him in. To prove to her band that she wouldn’t let a setback, even the most insurmountable one, keep her from giving Saint of Spades everything. Her vow to them was the most solemn and unbreakable form of commitment.
An avalanche of bittersweet emotion caved in on the room as Chase finished singing. Before now, there had never been a face to the person who would fill Link’s vacancy.
She lifted her chin at Chase. “Not bad. A little pitchy.”
“A little bitchy,” Alex said under his breath.
It was true, Chase sounded amazing for a beginner. But she didn’t want “amazing for a beginner.” She wanted “outstanding for a professional rock band.”
Chase nodded. “I’ll try again. What’s next?”
“‘Heaven Beside You’,” Dallas threw out.
Zak shook her head. “Too one-tone.”
“‘Wind of Change’,” Alex suggested.
She played it through in her head. “Too slow.”
“‘Wish You Were Here’,” Edge offered.
“Way too slow,” she said.
Dallas’s nose wrinkled. “Yeah, you’re the only one who likes the psychedelic shit.”
“Look who’s talking. You listen to teenage girl music,” Edge said.
“Music has no age and no gender, baby.”
“Find me another grown man who owns every Madonna album. I’ll wait.”
“Hey, fuck you. Madonna rocks.” Dallas flicked his cigarette butt into the ash tray outside. “‘Wanted Dead or Alive’?”
Zak tilted her head side to side in thought.
Dallas went to the fridge and grabbed a can of Diet Coke. “If you hate all our suggestions, why don’t you just tell him what to sing?”
She tucked her bottom lip under her teeth and thought for a moment. “Alright. ‘Slaves and Bulldozers’. Soundgarden. Do you know it?”
Chase’s eyes widened. “I have no idea what makes you think I can sing that.”
“She doesn’t think that,” Edge said. “You’re just doing well. You might be a good fit for the band and she’s the queen of self-sabotage, so of course she has to make you look bad.”
Zak pointed at him. “You say self-sabotage, I say vigilance.”
It was petty of her, sure. A five-minute plus song hitting three vocal octaves that would sound disappointing with anything less than perfect execution.
Everyone was looking at her like she was setting Chase up for failure, but they hadn”t been at the party. He had belted out some of the wildest runs she’d ever heard without even trying. In actuality, she was setting him—and everyone else—up to experience the same astonishment she had last night. She didn’t want the contentment she was seeing right now. She wanted them to be blown away, to envision him on stage singing their songs next time.
She wanted them to know that she would never have brought Chase here if he wasn’t the one. The person Link would be proud to see in his place.
“He’s not Chris Cornell, Zak.” Dallas laughed. “Shit, that one would have been a stretch for Link.”
“There you have it. So, they won’t be too heartbroken if you fuck this one up then,” she told Chase with mock encouragement. “And it wouldn’t be right without bass and drums. I think we should set up and give this one a fair shot.”
“I would call this anything but fair,” Edge said.
Chase breathed in. “Well, I’m here. I asked. I might as well give it a shot.”
They shuffled around, setting up the equipment. Chase hopped down from the bar stool and stood in the middle of the living room, looking all over the place like he wanted to help, but didn’t know how.
“That’s the spirit. Don’t look so nervous, rookie.” Alex seemed as skeptical as the others, but he shared her enthusiasm for pushing boundaries. “You’re giving Zak the reaction she wants. She loves making guys sweat.”
“She’s good at it,” Chase said. “But I can handle a little sweat.”
Zak spun around after hooking up her amp and accidentally brushed against his hard stomach.
Fuck.
She backed away, bent over, and grabbed a preamplifier by its handle. Holding it at full arm’s length like a shield, she pushed the box to Chase’s chest until he took it.
But, as for the microphone, it had been a month since anyone had opened the third drawer in the entertainment center.
She grabbed the knob, but that was as far as her head would let her hand go.
In the small patches of open space that existed in their apartment, the air thickened.
“Let me.” Dallas stepped forward.
He pressed his palm flat to the chipped wood, then pulled the drawer open like ripping off a bandage. More aptly, like ripping the staples out of an unhealed gash.
Inside were three microphones. Two spares, and Link’s concert mic, which was covered in their signatures. Parts of the silver marker had smudged off over the years, but Zak still remembered the day they had all scribbled on it before their first big show at a beach festival. Link had told them they better have their autographs ready for all the adoring fans.
“What is this?” he said with that big, goofy grin of his, holding the mic up to her. “Your name’s got three letters and you can only be bothered to sign one of them?”
Zak turned it over and examined his signature. “Yeah, well, your name has four letters and I can’t read any of them.”
Dallas’s eyes lingered on the concert mic as he picked up one of the spares.
Zak’s heart plunged in her chest.
In the light, oil marks from Link’s hands were still printed on the handle. Like rain on a sunny day, tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. She turned her head and blinked until they subsided.
“Let us know if you need help setting it up,” Dallas told Chase, his voice cracking.
Chase accepted the microphone as if it were made of crystal. “Thank you.”
Once cords weaved over every inch of floor space, and the white noise of tuning and sound testing had finally faded away, they all faced one another.
She nodded to Edge and Alex. “Your lead.”
The bass began, heavy and morose, with drums kicking in on time. No one paid heed to the pounding of their downstairs neighbor’s broomstick through the floor, the “Shut the fuck up!” coming from the neighbor they shared a wall with, or the irritated noises coming from Dallas’s date as she finally got dressed and left.
On rhythm guitar, Dallas embellished a little as he tried to find his groove with a song he’d probably never played before. He was as fine a musician as any professional band could ask for, but he’d always been more of a technical instrumentalist than an improvisational one. She could scribble down chord progressions or tabs and he’d be playing along in no time, but he was never the first to volunteer for an impromptu solo.
Zak now brandished the burgundy Les Paul Studio she had bought four years ago—her first big purchase with gig money. The black and white checkerboard strap that slung it over her shoulder was clunky with button pins she had collected from venues they played at.
Clear and loud, she made the lead guitar part scream, adding her own twist to the opening solo.
Songs were both immortal and ever-evolving. Once they were recorded, they stayed forever, but she took special pleasure in those small changes that made them sound different every time. The mood, the notes, the tempo, the crescendos and diminuendos. She loved manipulating sound like she loved feeling her fingertips against the frets. Bending strings with her touch.
Then it was up to Chase. She’d bought him a little extra time with her part to focus and fill his lungs with air, but by the sound of that first line, it seemed like he was no longer uncertain. He’d surrendered to some innate part of himself that was gritty and wounded but completely in control of every note.
He gripped Link’s old microphone, a line leashed to his new life, and the sound ripped through his body like a shockwave. It wasn’t without effort this time. The tension in his strained jaw and the lines gathering between his brows—in the way he squeezed his eyes shut as he belted out the verses—was something fierce.
They all melded together, not a completely cohesive band, but the most perfect new beginning she could have asked for. Saint of Spades had a weak pulse for the first time since Link had been the one holding the mic, but for every granule of hope, there was a landslide of pain.
Their old sound crumbled before her ears. Link’s brighter, more energetic voice was replaced by the richer, fuller sound of Chase’s. She relapsed into mourning, and buried it with music.
The song ended with the five of them breathless, speechless, and staring at each other.
Eventually, Zak was the one to break the long stretch of silence. “And? What do you think?”
She knew the answer. They’d all come to the same revelation she had during the reunion.
Chase was it. He was exactly what they needed, and then some. It was like an otherworldly force had planted him in front of Zak to see how far she would be willing to sink to save her band. Having to put up with the most boring, straight-laced person she’d ever known must be her punishment for not believing in fate.
Chase cleared his throat, breaking up the four sets of eyes staring at him.
Zak set her guitar aside and went to get him a glass of water. It was the least she could do after peer pressuring him into shredding his vocal cords. She was a hardass, not a monster.
And importantly, it had been the right call to make. After what she heard last night, she suspected there could be an insane vocal range camping out behind Chase’s Malibu Ken exterior. Forcing him to shoot for those highs and lows was the only way to test her theory, and test it they did. If she could get him to loosen up, he would be pushing four octaves.
Dallas shook his head in disbelief. “I hate it when you’re right.”
“I’m fine with you being right this time.” Alex tucked his sticks into his back pocket as he stood from the drum throne. “You are insanely good, man.”
“No kidding.” Edge looked like a perfect replica of Zak at the bar last night, arms braced on the countertop like the shock would have rendered her unable to stand otherwise. “Jesus Christ. How have you been hiding that voice all these years?”
Zak handed Chase the water, which he took his time to drink. Like he was trying to figure out how to answer the rhetorical question.
“And Zak told you about our situation?” Alex asked. “With the competition, the contract, all that shit. You’re cool with it?”
“Yeah.” Chase lowered the glass. “It’s all cool.”
“So, are you in?” Zak asked.
“I don’t know,” Chase hedged, stunting her soaring hopes. “I mean, it really doesn’t seem like you want me around, Parker…”
A scheming smile took over his face, and Zak felt all her sarcastic remarks—not only from today, but from years of shared history—driving a knife through her back.
“Are you extorting me?”
“If I have to resort to extortion to drag a single polite sentence out of you, then I don’t think we’d work well together, would we?”
Zak cast a silent curse on that taunting fucking dimple of his as her friends all stood by and laughed.
“I’ll start. Zak,” Chase said, his gaze emphasizing her name. “You’re an incredible musician. Anyone would be lucky to have the opportunity to work alongside you. I’m honored you’re considering me for the role.”
She gritted her teeth.
He was clearly out to prove he could match her smartassery line for line, but he still sold his little speech with an air of substance. The false sincerity bothered her even more, considering he’d only heard her play covers for ten minutes, but she swallowed her pride. If she could plead with Janet to let her keep a job she hated, then she could placate Chase to keep her band, her greatest love, alive.
“Chase. No one else has, or will, come close to matching your raw vocal talent,” she started, battling the sneer that kept fighting its way out. But then those nice words started flowing liberally because there was one thing in the entire world she had ever wanted, and right now, Chase was her unstable staircase straight to success. “You’re our only chance of making this happen. And I really, really need you to say yes. So, please, from the bottom of my heart, will you? Will you join our band?”
Alex whistled his support. “Oo, that was good.”
“Because I meant it,” she doubled down. “You can make me do this fucking song and dance all you want. I probably deserve it. But you need this, too. You look like you need a change.”
Of that, she was half-certain. Chase could probably retire on the money he’d made as an athlete and never have to work again. But then she pictured what it would be like to retire now, at twenty-three, and realized she couldn’t picture ever retiring as long as she was doing what she loved. Painkillers existed. She could play through arthritis. Reading glasses existed. She could write music as her vision deteriorated.
Chase, seeming pleasantly surprised by the conviction of her response, held his hand out. Like he expected a formal, businesslike conclusion to their new partnership. “Alright. I’ll do it.”
“Good.” Zak grabbed a copy of their self-recorded demo off the entertainment center and slapped it into his palm. “Study up, new guy. Practice starts tomorrow.”