14. Chase
Chase lay wide awake on the couch.
The cushions were worn and flat, the piece of furniture not long enough for his body—his foot dangled off the end—but comfort had nothing to do with his restlessness. That, he owed to the single wall separating him from Zak.
Every time he closed his eyes, he felt her hand on his thigh again. Shit. He felt her hands everywhere. She was the air from the ceiling fan sweeping over his skin. She was every fiber of the knit blanket covering his body. She was the heat pooling in the pit of his stomach.
And he was the idiot with a dumb grin smeared across his face every time he thought about the way she had smiled back at him.
He was so fucked.
Zak was way too busy to be teaching Chase anything. He should have considered her schedule before he asked for help, because now that she voluntarily spent time with him, there was absolutely no way his mouth would let his brain put a stop to it.
Their first session, he had gotten as far as, “Are you sure you’re okay? Didn’t you work all night?”
But she had come back with, “Hockey player, rock star, and nurse. How long is your damned resume?” Then immediately launched into explaining the difference between major, minor, augmented, and diminished intervals.
He didn’t know it then, but those were the easy days. Sitting around at the beach or a park and talking through concepts, like good old-fashioned studying. They mostly talked about music, but that was fine by him because he realized early on he’d never seen her truly happy before. Not the way she was now, giving him animated, long-winded responses to every question he asked.
She’d even clued Chase into her songwriting process, in between teaching him theory and giving him crazy assignments. One day, she made him hop in the passenger seat of her car, switched the radio to the pop station, and told him to turn the next song that came on into a rock song. The next day, with the hip-hop station. Then again with the country station.
They had spent hours sitting in the parking lot at this point. Chase, embarrassing himself. Zak, thoroughly entertained. And when he had finally started to get good at radio roulette, she upped the difficulty again by driving him to the library. She had gone through the stacks, picking up poetry collections, flipping to random pages, and having him turn those into songs too while she stood by critiquing everything he did.
The pressure combined with his own ignorance hadn”t made for a promising start, but yesterday, after weeks of failures, she had listened to what he came up with a satisfied smirk and asked him if he felt it.
And finally, he knew what she was talking about when she mentioned finding his sound.
He still felt like a poser during band practice, but now, one who could experiment with his voice. Lyrics flowed more easily. He wasn’t reaching for them anymore; he was harmonizing with the music in his own way. Going higher or lower. Whispering, rasping, screaming, whatever seemed right in the moment.
But would it be enough?
They were now two weeks away from leaving for New York to film Amped, and the shorter that distance became, the more Chase overanalyzed everything he did. A side effect of his upbringing, no doubt.
When he brought home his first B on a report card in the sixth grade, his mom and dad sat at the dinner table with him and pored over every question he’d gotten wrong on every math assignment he’d turned in from the beginning of the semester. They kept all of them in manilla folders, and probably still had them somewhere in the office. That little learning experience had been capped off with a speech to the theme of, “If you’re letting your grades slip now, what’s going to happen when the classes get harder?”
And, of course, it worked on Lydia, too, who had a perfect four-point-oh to show for her time in undergrad and was so efficient at her job she’d gotten promoted in less than a year.
“Figured you’d be here. Are you ready?” Zak asked when she arrived at their meeting location, her guitar case bouncing off her hip. Predictably, fifteen minutes late.
He didn’t correct her, but this time, Chase had been late too. The night café was such a hole-in-the-wall there hadn’t been a sign at the entrance. He still wasn’t sure if the place had a name or not, since everyone seemed to call it exactly that, “The night café at 3rd and Maple.”
The menus had been handwritten and Xeroxed, free of branding. Mismatched furniture filled the floor in an array of colors and styles. Odds and ends like spray-painted machine parts and hideous cartoon portraits hung from the walls. And the lack of name clearly didn’t translate to a lack of customers because every seat was taken.
“Ready for what?”
She sat across from him and picked up the crinkled drink menu with a beaming grin on her face that could only mean one thing. Trouble. “It’s open mic night. I signed us up.”
Chase looked at the small platform in the back, adorned by hundreds of colorful scarves tied to the exposed beams above, then tied to each other to form chains and drapes. A young woman played folk music and sang into the microphone, and until now he had assumed she was the live entertainment for the night. Apparently, he was as well.
“You”ve come a long way with finding your voice,” Zak said. “Now you need to find your place on stage. It all goes together. People don”t just go to concerts for the music, or else they”d listen to the albums at home instead of buying a ticket. They want a show. They want an inside look at how the music was made, why it was written.”
“Well, that’s great, considering I didn’t write any of it.”
“It doesn’t matter if you wrote the words. Everyone’s going to think you did because you’re the one singing them.”
She tied her hair back into a ponytail and he instantly missed the way it looked down and messy. Falling in her face and feathered all the way to the belt loops of her jeans. He also missed not fantasizing about someone who wasn’t interested in him.
“And it doesn’t bother you, signing away all the credit?”
”Not at all. I want people to love my music. I don”t care how they find out about it.”
“You’re the one who made all this possible, though,” he said. “You deserve recognition.”
More than anyone. She poured her soul into her music. She had the vision, she had the guts, heart, and talent. It killed him to think she was so used to people like Jerri minimizing her when she was built for center stage.
“Album sales are the only recognition I care about. And I’ll make sure I get my fair cut, don’t you worry,” she promised.
The waiter came by and dropped off the iced teas Chase had ordered. He no longer waited to ask Zak what she wanted, or else she would sneak off and pay. Plus, she was easy to order for, especially when it came to food. All he had to do was pick the spiciest thing on the menu.
“I told you, Chase. You’re going to ruin our truce if you keep buying me shit.” She glowered at him. “And don’t think I didn’t catch the new cassettes in my glove box.”
He did think that until now. With how many she owned and how disorganized she was, he hadn’t been expecting to be called out for it anytime soon. “How much do people pay for music lessons?”
“How should I know? I already told you I never took any.”
“Because they’re not cheap. Consider this payment.”
An argument bubbled up in her eyes. Knowing her, probably something about how she was really teaching him to benefit herself because if he got better, the band would be better for it. But she took a sip from the straw and thankfully let it go for the night.
She jutted her chin toward the stage. “Know what you wanna play yet?”
“I don’t know. Maybe ‘Bad Company’?” Chase lifted his glass.
“‘Feel Like Makin’ Love’?”
He choked on his iced tea. Coughed. Rubbed his chest. Prayed his face wasn’t bright red as he met her eyes, but clearly it was, because those maroon-painted lips were pressed tight as she held back a laugh.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard it. That song’s, like, their number one hit.”
She crossed her arms under her chest, which only made matters worse for him because then he was looking at her chest. A place he had been trying very, very hard not to look.
“And you want to pick a big hit for your first one,” she continued. “They’ll let you play up to three as long as the crowd’s into it.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard it,” he finally got out.
Of course he knew the song. He just hadn’t known the words “making love” on her tongue, aimed at him, phrased like a question, were going to completely derail his efforts to behave level-headed and platonic around the woman he’d harbored unrequited feelings for since he was practically a child.
“I meant the song, ‘Bad Company’,” he clarified.
“Ah.” Her eyes flickered over his face. “Shame. I like ‘Feel Like Makin’ Love’ more on acoustic. ‘Bad Company’ doesn’t sound right without the piano. It will give you a little more room to show off your range, though, so still a good pick. Especially if you’re going to get all flustered about sex.”
“I’m not flustered about sex.” Which, of course, only made him sound moreflustered.
“Aww, Chase.” She prodded his shoulder. “Are you a virgin or something?”
“I played professional sports for almost four years.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t be an amateur in other areas…”
“I’m not.” He looked up from the tablecloth and leveled her with a stare. Fuck it. She started this. “Are you asking me to prove it?”
And this time, he watched the shift play out in her eyes. Maybe she felt nothing for him, but his comment struck a nerve.
“I keep my love life way away from my work.” She fiddled with the straw sticking out of her drink. “Break-ups break up bands.”
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“That sounded more like an ‘I can’t’ than an ‘I don’t want to.’”
At some point, Chase had unintentionally started holding his breath. He fully attributed that comment to the oxygen deprivation.
“It was both.” She waved a hand, but once she set it back down on the table, her fingertips went white from pressing against the surface.
Whatever she wanted to call it, it wasn’t doing anything to help the distraction, so he changed the subject. “Let’s do the song you wanted. You’re right. It’s catchy, the guitar’s fun. You could add in a solo. They’ll love it.”
“And for two and three?”
“You said this was about the audience interaction, right? So, if they want us to stay up there, I’ll just ask them what they want to hear.”
She looked pleasantly surprised by his answer. A smile spread across her cheeks, all relaxed and starry-eyed. He wanted to keep saying things to make her smile like that. “You’re really catching on quick. Almost like you were made for this.”
“I don’t know if anyone is made for anything.” He draped his arm over the seat back. “I think we make ourselves.”
“I do, too,” she told him. “That’s why I said almost. Come on. We’re up.”
Zak popped out of her seat and grabbed hold of his hand to take him to the stage. She didn’t have to. It wasn’t like he was going to flee the scene or anything, but he lagged behind so she wouldn’t let go until they were up on the creaky wooden platform under warm yellow lights.
“Uh—” He filled the emptiness in his palm with the microphone. “How’s everyone doing tonight?”
Crickets. Worse than crickets, people were murmuring. Maybe they recognized him. They were probably wondering what the hell he was doing here.
Or, more likely, they were wondering why the hell he was standing there staring at the wall. Potentially forgetting the lyrics to one of the most straightforward rock hits of all time.
So much for being made for this.
Zak nudged his sneaker with her strappy stiletto heel. Keep going, she mouthed.
“Hi, I’m Chase. This is my—uh, this is Zak. And, uh, we’re going to play some Bad Company for you tonight.”
A solitary whoop echoed off the walls. At least it was something.
Zak caught his eye, gave him a nod, and dove right into the guitar intro. Chase wasn’t sure if the little flourishes she added were to buy him time, or because she couldn’t help herself, but he appreciated the extra couple of seconds either way.
Of course, he realized by the time he got to the end of the first line, he was still watching her, relying on her to guide him. Which defeated the purpose of why she had brought him here. He faced the crowd and gave his best impression of what a confident individual should look like.
The side conversations died out and then people were watching or singing along, enjoying the show. Unlike hockey, there was nothing desperate or charged about it.
Exactly like Zak had described, the sense of belonging hit all at once.
The subtle changes happening to him over the past month all aligned and clicked into place like puzzle pieces. He found himself catching her hints and cues. Predicting when the next beat would hit without having to be told by watching her hands, by anticipating.
They were communicating on some unspoken wavelength, the way he’d always seen her do with the rest of the band. Her to him, and him back to her for once. Side glances when he wanted to hold on to a note longer. Little winks back and forth when either one of them did something unexpected and impressive.
It wasn’t stressful to be singing for a crowd of people anymore, it was fun. Freeing. It was like being someone else who lived in this sugary, technicolor dream world. Someone who didn’t give a shit what anyone else thought about him.
There was a constant conversation in their music, between all instruments but especially between vocals and guitar. A secret language only the two of them shared, and he was finally speaking it. Not like Link, not like anyone before him on any record, but like the truest version of himself.
And in spite of the rocky start, everyone else must have felt the “click,” too, because they were singing along, moving to the music. Laughing and smiling and having a good time.
Zak eventually goaded him into loosening up. She reclined back onto his shoulder during the chorus, circled him, jumped and rocked into downbeats. Chase was sure he didn’t look half as coordinated as she did, but it didn’t take much convincing for him to give in when his body seemed primed to want to lean in close to her and brush up against her.
The greed didn’t sink in until they finished the song. He didn’t want it to end. One song wasn’t enough. Three wouldn’t be enough. He could stay up there all night with her. He could do this forever and never get sick of it.
But for now, “Alright guys, what are we playing next?”
“Give me the rundown, boss. How’d I do?” he asked her after their three songs were up and they’d stepped off stage.
Of course, in true Zak fashion, she turned the question on him. “How do you think you did?”
“It felt… good,” he said. Because “transformative” sounded melodramatic and “better” didn’t quite cut it. “I had a really good time.”
“Good.” The corners of her lips turned up, softly, for all of two seconds. Then, she tampered it down and hit him with a friendly punch in the arm before turning away to put her guitar back in its case. “I think you’re well on your way to being Saint of Spades material.”
“In that case,” Chase said. “Do I finally get to know where the name came from?”
They’d all had more pressing things to deal with since he came on board. Namely, teaching him the songs, and how music worked in general.
She gave him a quizzical look, as though she’d just realized herself they had never talked about the origin of Saint of Spades. “That can definitely be arranged. Don’t make plans on Friday night.”