18. Zak
Chase did not wake her when the tow truck arrived.
That much was apparent when Zak got up the next morning in her bed with no recollection of how she had ended up there, and yet, what would have been a drug and alcohol screen clean enough to make even her sanctimonious mother proud. The rest of the story, she didn’t piece together until she got a call from the mechanic down the street, telling her a new radiator had been installed and the six-hundred-dollar bill had already been paid.
It certainly made a statement about her circle of acquaintances that she only knew one person with six hundred dollars in the bank and the arm strength to carry her up the stairs.
“You seem off. You’re not still mad about the car thing, are you?” Chase asked, referring to that exact incident after they got off the long, tense flight to New York.
“I’m not mad.”
“Oof.” Edge sucked in air through his teeth. “She’s really mad.”
No, I’m trying to keep my distance.
Zak didn’t have time to deal with this right now. Every shrapnel of her focus was devoted to finding her guitars on the baggage claim carousel. Placing her most beloved possessions in the care of an airline was like hiring a cokehead as a babysitter. She put out a silent prayer into the void as the buzzer went off and the conveyor groaned into action.
“That’s just what friends do,” she said in her best imitation of Chase. She turned around and gestured toward her actual friends—friends who didn’t cloud her thoughts and send abnormal tingling sensations all over her skin—with her crumpled-up boarding pass. “No. That’s not what friends do. Right?”
“I wouldn’t know, I’m broke,” said Dallas. “But if Chase wants to be mysugar daddy instead, I wouldn’t complain. You can fix my ride any day, blondie.”
He probably would give her the money if he had it, any of them would, but that wasn’t really her point. Come to think of it, she didn’t know what her point was, but she knew there should be a line between her and Chase. Same as the one she’d drawn between herself and every other guy in the band.
That line had never, ever been blurred before the way it was with him.
“You don’t have a car,” Alex said.
“No.” Dallas smirked. “But Chase can buy me one, if he wants.”
“I’m not going to aid and abet your first DUI.” Chase gave the other man a critical glance before he returned to pestering her. “But really, you need a car, Zak.”
She spotted the green hardcover case she kept her Superstrat in and snatched it. “No, I need-ed—past-tense by the way—a method of getting to work. The bus works just fine.”
Janet wasn’t pleased about the three-month sabbatical, but Zak had asked for her approval long before the whole getting-canned incident. Knowing her boss, Janet had probably only signed off on the trip to get Zak out of her office, with no real expectation it would happen. Every single employee at Salt Surf was an aspiring actor, musician, or artist, after all.
“If by fine, you mean sometimes late, sometimes broken down, and sometimes occupied by a guy named Mud who will knife you in the throat over twenty bucks, then yeah. It’s dandy.” Edge rested his elbow on one of the retractable barrier posts.
“Exactly,” Chase said. As if he needed more support for his case. “Thank you.”
How great to see her bandmates were making productive use of their time, now that she was the only one with equipment left to collect.
Zak’s remaining two guitars were thrown haphazardly over one another, and though the sight made her cringe, she was glad they weren’t sitting in a lost-and-found bin in Chicago. She nabbed them both as they rounded the corner.
“I’m not mad,” she repeated as she checked to make sure her guitars were unscathed before they all headed to the shuttle station. “I’m just stressed, alright? It’s a big day. Anything can happen.”
“And whatever is meant to happen, will happen,” Edge said in that annoyingly sanguine way of his.
She didn’t want a prophecy; she wanted a plan. She wanted assurance that they still had their slot, assurance Chase wouldn’t dip out if they didn’t, and a dozen other options for every scenario in between.
Most of all, she wanted to remain as level-headed as possible every step of the way. Which meant no indulging the little voice in the back of her mind, which kept saying: That’s not how friends look at each other. That’s not how friends think about each other. That’s not how you are with your other friends.
“How can you be so sure?” she asked.
“I’m not,” Edge said. “But my way’s a lot less stressful than yours and has the same end result.”
Well, she couldn’t argue with that logic.
There it was, on page fourteen of their contract:
Early Termination: Prior to filming, if it is determined the contestant(s) have failed to appear in accordance with the obligations outlined under Section 8.4, STUDIO 7 ENTERTAINMENT? may terminate this agreement in its entirety.
Section 8.4—Suitable Appearance:Upon arrival to set, contestant(s) should maintain a suitable appearance based on the conditions upon which this agreement was signed. Contestant(s) should not engage in any immoderate alterations to their personal appearance or to their group’s makeup, including but not limited to: changes in group members or instrumentation, visible cosmetic surgery or body modification, excessive weight gain/loss…
And now, it was highlighted in fuck-you-yellow by a production assistant with bloodshot eyes and a smile devoid of all humanity. She brought a VOID stamp down like a guillotine over Saint of Spadeson her clipboard.
“As you can see, failing to provide your original lead singer disqualifies you from the competition.”
Zak clawed onto the edge of the table. “We would have provided him if we could reanimate a corpse.”
“Sorry for your loss.” The production assistant waved them out of the check-in line. “And, as a reminder, Studio 7 is not responsible for reimbursing return travel expenses in light of a failure-to-perform kind of sitch, ya know?”
Edge and Chase stayed behind, trying to reason with a woman who made Janet look like Employer of the Year. But Zak was done subjecting herself to bad news.
Her blood ran cold in her veins. Just like that, it was over. All the practice, the heartache, for nothing.
And to think, some na?ve part of her had woven moments of this summer together like they were fate. Like there was a reason she’d run into Chase at the party—something more profound than him being a guy she used to know who happened to be in the right place at the right time, when they were both at their lowest points. It was probably a combination of grief and desperation that made her search for meaning, when really, there were only coincidences.
Zak covered her mouth with her hand and steadied herself against the nearest potted plant.
On the bright side, a five-star hotel in Brooklyn would be the most beautiful place she’d ever had a mental breakdown. All peach, teal, and mahogany, with plush furniture to crumple onto. Crystal chandeliers and lit fireplaces that would make her tears glisten like in the movies, and faux fur pillows she could wipe them off on.
But before any of that, she spotted the bar and decided liquid therapy was the most logical midway point between holding it together and crying in the lobby until the staff realized her band’s stay had been canceled and escorted them off the premises.
“What are we drinking today?” she asked Dallas and Alex.
She shouldn’t be enabling an alcoholic, but they were stranded in New York City. And she was going to need something strong to wrestle her ego away long enough to confess to Chase that she’d need to borrow money from him to get home. After criticizing him for spending money on her when she hadn’t asked for it.
“Ain’t no party like a pity party, right?” Alex perused the liquor cabinet as they approached the bar.
Dallas patted the wallet in his front pocket. “It’s bottom-shelf for me.”
Zak wasn’t convinced a place like this offered something cheap enough to drown her sorrows without over-drafting her checking account in the process, but she was willing to try.
“I’m fine with a hangover.” She claimed the bar stool in the middle, between her friends. “I have nothing better to do tomorrow.”
They finished their first round of vodka—cheers to a great effort, but as usual, not good enough—and had just flagged down the bartender for a second one by the time the others rejoined them.
“Let me guess. We’re still disqualified,” she said over her shoulder.
When she looked back at her glass, it had been topped off. Rock bottom came with excellent customer service this time around.
Edge climbed into the seat next to Alex. Which meant it was Chase’s hand tucked between her shoulder blade and the seatback, and suddenly she was all too aware of the knots of his knuckles lightly prodding against her spine.
Just what she needed. A new, ridiculously insignificant thing to dwell on.
“We tried our best.” If Edge thought his phrasing helped soften the blow, he was wrong.
Chase tapped on the leather backrest. “What’s our Plan C?”
“Why do you care? You can go back to looking for coaching jobs now,” she said. “You were my Plan E. Right after taking vocal lessons, becoming an instrumental rock band, and hiring one of those knuckleheads from the open mic nights. All my time wasted so that you can be exceptionally good the next time your sister signs you up for some fucking karaoke, I guess.”
She didn’t realize how cruel she sounded until Chase pulled away. Leaving a small patch of warmth where his hand had been.
Zak had messed up a lot of things and hurt a lot of people in her life, but the sting she got when she messed up and hurt Chase was different. Especially when it was all her fault for not controlling her own feelings better. He didn’t deserve to be punished just because she was pissed off at the world.
“That’s what I am to you? A waste of time?”
She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, knowing she was the reason for the bruising in his tone.
He had never been a waste of her time. The opposite. This was why she needed to lock herself away and drown her sorrows, alone, before picking up the pieces. If Chase was there when she shattered, cutting him was inevitable.
She was still thinking of how to take back what she’d said when he spoke again. “You know, I meant it when I said I never thought you were mean before. But I do now.”
Her cheeks, warm from the liquor, cooled. She had managed to stall her tears until now, but Chase’s words—her own words, because it was her fault—cut one loose. I’m sorry, was stuck in the back of her throat. You were just trying to help, and I was a bitch. Story of our lives.
“We should see if there’s anyone else we could talk to about making an appeal,” Edge said, dragging the conversation back to the broader issue at hand.
“Good luck with that,” said Alex. “They were calling the first group off the waitlist before we even walked away.”
“You’re gonna hate this—” Dallas nudged Zak’s arm with his elbow. She already knew where this was going because it was hardly the first time he’d broached the subject. “But don’t you think it’s time we talk to your dad about making some introductions?”
“No. I don’t think that.”
“Introductions to who?” Chase stepped back into the conversation.
Edge did a double-take between the two of them. “He doesn’t know who your dad is?”
“I wish none of you did. Then we wouldn’t need to have this conversation again,” she muttered. “Look, my dad obviously didn’t think I needed any help, or else he never would’ve left in the first place. He would’ve made an effort to find me at some point over the last sixteen years. It wouldn’t have been difficult for someone like him. But he didn’t, and that’s fine. I don’t need to be a product of nepotism, I can do this on my own.”
Dallas rocked his vodka glass back and forth on the coaster. “I wouldn’t mind being a product of nepotism. Nothing wrong with taking the easy way sometimes. Life sucks bad enough on its own, no need to make it harder.”
“Holy shit,” Chase uttered under his breath like he’d pieced everything together at once. Not only who her father was, but how his influence tied back to the way she resented people for their success and money. Ironically, the two things she vied for herself. “It’s Scott Lee, isn’t it? He’s your dad?”
She groaned into a long sip of vodka.
He used the same tone of voice people always did when they talked about her father. Excitement. Adoration. Why wouldn’t they? Scott Lee looked like such a nice guy on TV, up on stage tossing picks to fans in the front row after solos and singing into the mic in a warm, clear tenor that made everyone in the audience stop and stare. Always with this blissful, carefree look on his face, which was eventually the reason Zak had to stop watching him perform altogether. His happiness was a parasite to her own.
That’s how much better his life is after getting rid of Jaclyn with an NDA and a wad of hush money. Now that he’s done dealing with her shit and done taking care of you.
“Scott Parker, off stage,” Zak said. She wasn’t sure why the name was an important distinction to make, but she made it anyway. As if the guy who had guessed her lineage would also accuse her of lying about it. “I look nothing like him. You’re the first one to put that together on your own.”
“I knew he was a singer-guitarist. Someone who became famous in the eighties.” As soon as he ditched you, Chase didn’t say. He gave her an assessing glance, and added, “You’ve got his eyes. His smile.”
Zak laughed because she’d never seen Jaclyn smile without the intent to lure in her next husband, so who would know? But everything else came from her mother. The jet-black hair, far too dark next to her pale skin. The heart-shaped face, the long legs ending in whopping size ten feet. The good and the bad, all except for the odd moss-green color of Zak’s eyes.
It seemed improbable for anyone to notice such a small similarity, but Scott Lee had been all over posters and billboards from ’83 to ’93—when his touring hiatus had begun.
“And I don’t know why, but there’s something about your songwriting,” Chase continued. “That’s what made me think of him. Your music reminds me of his.”
“Well, I hate the guy, but I suppose he’s won enough awards for me to take that as a compliment,” she said, as if she hadn’t repeatedly listened to all of Scott Lee’s albums and wondered if there were similarities. If she had subconsciously taken inspiration from her father, or if she had inherited his lyricism. “Is this the part where you tell me to phone in a favor?”
“No. This is the part where I look for coaching jobs, apparently.”
Chase didn’t have to say anything for her to know she wasn’t being fair, but damn. She wasn’t feeling very fair at all, not when the universe left no effort unpunished. As much as she didn’t want to be the one to put a look of defeat on his face, every time she opened her mouth the only words that wanted to come out were vicious ones.
She may have been happy around Chase the past few weeks, but nothing happy ever lasted long for her.
“No way,” an approaching voice cut through the lobby. A tall, heavyset man with graying brown hair and tortoise-shell glasses made a beeline straight for their group. He wasn’t the first person Zak had seen recognize Chase, but he was certainly the most enthusiastic about it. “Chase Payton? I’ll be damned. Do you mind if I get your autograph?”
The man already had a permanent marker uncapped and a Yankees snapback outstretched before Chase could answer.
By the looks of it, Chase wasn’t especially pleased to be stuck doing this—or he just wasn’t pleased to be stuck with Zak—but he grabbed the hat with a performative little laugh. Like there was something quirky about signing baseball merch as a hockey player, when he’d probably signed much more unusual things in his career.
A fabricated mental image of pen gliding over lingerie and bare skin, women throwing themselves at him after every sporting event, popped into Zak’s head. She squeezed her empty glass tighter.
“Sure. Who do I make it out to?”
“Joshua, that’s my nephew. He’s going to flip.” The man held out a hand for Chase to shake. “I’m Sergio.”
Chase’s signature was large and crisscrossed by flourishes on his h, y, and t. The kind of cursive collectibles were made for. It wasn’t a surprise to see he put the same care into signing his name as he did into everything else, even if he’d done it thousands of times.
The exchange seemed standard. Fine. Until Sergio accepted the hat, gave Chase a pat on the shoulder, and said, “So, can I see the leg?”
A muscle clenched in Chase’s jaw that Zak wasn’t sure she’d ever seen before. He reached down, and she almost yelled, “What the fuck are you doing?” when she realized which pant leg he was rolling up.
“Haven’t shaved in a while.” Chase’s real calf muscle flexed as he showed it off.
“Ha! You’re a funny guy, huh?”
“Thanks.”
The first time a “thanks” had been issued during this interaction, and it was from the guy who’d just been interrupted for his signature and asked about his personal medical history by a stranger. Zak thought she had reached peak irritation five minutes ago, but now there were teeth marks imprinted on the inside of her cheek.
“Guess they aren’t gonna let you back on the rink, huh? It’s a shame.”
Chase’s fake smile was good. So good, she wouldn’t know if not for the way his dimple was engraved on his cheek instead of faint and inconstant. “Sure is.”
“What brings you to New York?” Sergio asked, unaware—or uncaring—that his courtesy time had expired two questions ago.
“There’s some filming going on for a show.” Chase signaled to the four of them over his shoulder. “It’s nothing, really. Our plans have changed. My friends and I were just figuring out what we should check out around the city.”
The only thing Zak would be checking out was another bottle of vodka from the nearest liquor store, because there was no way she was going to keep paying hospitality prices when she had a perfectly good pouring arm. She waved kindly to Sergio anyway, then flipped him off as soon as he turned his head.
Sergio was suddenly enthralledwith their group as he noticed everyone behind Chase for the very first time. He took in their luggage and instruments propped underneath the counter. “My show?”
Zak gauged her friends’ reactions. The liquor had numbed her cheeks and blurred her peripheral vision, and she thought it might have messed with her hearing, too, but everyone else was equally stunned.
Chase cleared his throat. “Pardon?”
“I’m the director for Amped. That’s the show you’re here for, no?”
What gave it away, the seven guitar cases?
Sergio stared blankly at Zak, which was when she realized she’d said that aloud. She fumbled around until she landed on what she hoped was a somewhat cordial facial expression. “I mean, yes. We’re Saint of Spades.”
His mouth parted in a silent ah sound. “I remember you. The girl with the guy’s name. Plays guitar like a guy.” He laughed at his own shitty joke. “Ryan?”
“Zak.” She felt a pinch at the corner of her mouth.
No longer interested, he turned his attention back to Chase. “I definitely would have remembered you, though.”
Which was to imply he remembered no one else from their audition tape, despite having watched it repeatedly when they narrowed the contestants from thousands down to nine.
“New addition. Their original singer passed away a few months ago and I’m filling in. Looks like that’s against your rulebook, though.” Chase tipped his chin toward the production assistant who had shooed them off.
Sergio held out his hand like he was training them to stay. “Give me just a minute.”
Zak wished she could vanquish the rosy feeling stirring in her gut. Sergio was as likely to track down another piece of personal memorabilia for Chase to sign as he was to come back with the two show producers and override his underling’s decision to toss them out.
But for once, the better of two outcomes was exactly what happened.
Sergio introduced them to a middle-aged woman wearing a purple pantsuit and an older man with lips too big for his face. They all shook hands and chit-chatted about nothing important for two valuable minutes until Zak finally ran out of patience and interjected.
“So what’s happening here?”
She couldn’t help herself. Everything was dangling off a cliffside—her career, her mental status. Whether she needed to find a nice, quiet place to bawl her eyes out while she thought up a new way forward. Waiting for someone to reach a ruling at her present anxiety level was like waiting for an orchestra conductor to release a fermata.
“Oh, didn’t mean to keep you waiting!” Silly, silly girl, Sergio’s chuckle said. “Don’t worry about whatever you were told when you got here, we want to keep you on the show.”
It couldn’t have been more obvious that he was referring specifically to Chase with the pronoun “you.”
Chase’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know if I’m any good.”
“That’s it, Chase.” Dallas clapped. “Talk them out of it, why don’t you?”
“This guy’s got the right idea.” Sergio shared another compulsory laugh with his co-workers.
“Good or not, this is a promotional goldmine,” Pantsuit Lady explained. “Adding a former athlete of your caliber is going to pour gasoline on our viewer ratings and help us tap into a whole new market with sports fans.”
“Three episodes minimum should be enough to kick-start the season,” Fish-Lips said to his colleagues. “We can chat with the judges to make sure it works out, if need be.”
To make sure they stayed through the qualifying rounds, whether they deserved to or not. But it was clear by the way Sergio’s team discussed the details in front of them, not with them, their thoughts on the matter were irrelevant.
Zak allowed all her aspirations, swirling around like particles of dust that had been disturbed in an abandoned building, to settle once more.
Getting told no all the time was a real soul-crusher, but maybe was where they thrived. An opportunity to prove their worth was all Saint of Spades needed.
The production team may have thought an ex-hockey player could make for a fun gimmick, but they hadn’t heard Chase sing yet. They hadn’t seen the way he could take words and make them bend, take minds and make them fantasize, take a stage and make it his home.
“You won’t need to chat with the judges,” Zak vowed. “We’ve got it covered from here.”