All Strings Attached

26. Zak

On the morning of their first live show, Zak arrived at the makeup station to find Izzy Sartori parked in the chair next to hers. Logistically, it made sense—Abstraction was playing directly before Saint of Spades—but that didn’t make it any less jarring to be greeted by Izzy’s welcoming squeal before Zak was in the headspace to deal with strangers.

“Hey! It’s you!”

The other woman’s greeting was so boisterous, it almost surprised Zak to see herself in the vanity mirror as she took a seat and allowed the makeup artist to start transforming her face into something unrecognizable.

“Hey,” she responded hesitantly.

Her initial thought was that Izzy had forgotten her name at some point over the last three weeks, with all the constant chatter that must be running through her brain, but Izzy quickly disproved that theory.

“Good to see you again, Zak!”

Is it, though? Is it really? “Sure. You too.”

“I’ve been meaning to find you ever since that first day of filming, but you know how it is. Long workdays and blind composition rules and all that. Anyway. Y’all killed it up there! I mean, you’re one lady-guitarist-legend, aren”tcha?”

“You’ve got quite the voice yourself,” Zak returned the compliment, eyes closed as the makeup artist slathered product onto her lids and dark circles. For once, she didn’t have to lie. The last thing she expected to see when they watched the other bands play that night was someone as tiny and peppy as Izzy heavy-metal-screaming into a microphone like Phil Anselmo. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed that you’re my competition.”

“Because you’re intimidated?”

“Because it’ll suck, having to crush your spirits,” Zak tossed back, feeling encouraged by that small dash of sass from the other woman. “You seem like such a positive person.”

Izzy laughed, snider than her usual bubbly giggle. “Hey, my happiness is mine to control. That’s what my mom always told us growing up.”

That must have been nice. Zak’s mom had always been brimming with such gems as, “I hope you get your attitude in check because you’re not nearly as pretty as your sister,” and, “You and your father ruined my life. I wish you’d never been born,” when she was growing up.

“Besides, I didn’t come here to win. I already know where I stand. I mean, how many female metal singers do you hear on the radio?” Izzy tossed a shiny red ringlet of hair over her shoulder. “I’m here for the publicity.”

She had pegged Izzy early on as a happily-ever-after optimist, but maybe they weren’t so different after all. If anyone had told Zak when she first arrived that she would be sitting here, willingly participating in a conversation with the resident socialite ahead of their first live show on Amped, she would have asked how many drinks she’d had first.

Yet there she was. Stone-cold sober. And surprisingly? Enjoying herself as they went on to discuss songwriting, camera fatigue, and the circumstances that had led them both to the show.

There was something bonding about being stuck here together. Enduring the same horrors of having stylists pick out every imperfection on their faces and bodies.

Sure, Izzy was no more reserved than she had been the night they met, but it turned out she was an equally voracious listener. And stubborn about it, at that. Conversations with Izzy were like getting zapped by a defibrillator every three seconds with questions and anecdotes and plain raw energy.

“Did you see how big the crowd is?” Izzy asked after she returned from a trip to the vending machine down the hall. She had finished getting ready a while ago, but for reasons beyond Zak’s comprehension, she seemed to think that sitting around talking to a rival was better than joining her own band in the stage queue. “It’s crazy. I feel like I’m going to throw up. Or pass out. Never sure which when it comes to live shows.”

Zak couldn’t conceal her shock. “You get stage fright?”

“Well, yeah,” Izzy said, like it was the most obvious trait for her to have. “Half the appeal of going to college for chemistry was that I didn’t have to take public speaking or give any presentations. The other half were the professors.” She wagged her eyebrows. “Dr. Rennalsen could have taken points off my final grade and I still would have hit that.”

Zak jerked forward as she laughed, nearly ripping out the chunk of hair a stylist was currently smoothing with a flat iron. “You’re awfully outgoing for someone who hates public speaking.”

“This isn’t public,” Izzy said. “This is girl-talk.”

“Which is as good as public. You just met me, and I’m your competition. Why trust me?”

“Sometimes you know people your whole life and they stab you in the back. Sometimes complete strangers carry your secrets with them to the grave. I can’t make other people’s decisions for them, so I might as well give them a chance to show me if they suck or not, right?”

That was certainly one way to look at things. “That sounds like something my best friend would say.”

“Which one? The hot blond, the hot brunette, the hot drummer, or the other guitarist?”

Though it was refreshing having another woman to talk to, Zak suddenly wished Dallas had been there. “The brunette. Edge. Well, Eduardo, but he’d be pissed if he found out I was disclosing his full name to strangers.”

Izzy relaxed back in her chair. “You never did tell me about how you all met. I love band stories. They’re like love stories, but better.”

Zak smiled. Maybe that was why they were getting along, against all odds. Sometimes it felt like music was a core belief that could anchor people together, above all else. Above religion or politics or family values.

“We—” she started. Why was this so hard to talk about? It was like letting someone get to know her on any level was physically impossible. Her jaw locked every time a stranger asked her about herself.

Just say something. What is your problem?

“We’re all old friends. It’s not much of a story, to be honest.”

“If it really is that simple, then I’m jealous. Working with your sister, your ex, and your casual hook-up isn’t for the faint of heart, but I manage,” Izzy confessed.

Zak waited for the stylist to finish on her hair before she risked burning both of them again. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I wish.” Izzy laughed. “Bobby’s a good guy, though. It’s not like we ended on bad terms. He’s got a girlfriend now, no hard feelings. And with Jensen, it’s easy. We’re around each other all the time. Sometimes it gets lonely because there’s so little time for dating outside of our work. But we both know there”s no future for us. It would never work out in the long run. No strings attached.”

Zak felt like she’d walked into a conversation that was none of her business instead of one she had been invited to. She wanted to hide under the rug, and at first, she couldn’t figure out why. It wasn’t like her friends were modest about their sex lives, or like she judged Izzy for whatever went on off-stage. But it struck a nerve in her to be confronted with living, breathing proof that her worst fears of ruining everything with her unwanted attraction toward Chase were, possibly, unfounded.

“It doesn’t affect your working relationship at all?” she asked, like this was some sort of field research project. “What if things end badly?”

“We both agreed to put the band first. We trust each other on that. And frankly, there’s never been any real risk of either of us developing feelings. We have different lives, different interests, different goals. It’s just convenient, and we get along well enough. That’s all.”

Zak could feel her face getting red, but there was nothing she could do to stop it. She cleared her throat. “I don’t know if I could risk it.”

“But you want to?” Izzy filled in the blank. She grabbed the armrests like she was about to launch herself to her feet and celebrate in the name of Zak’s sexual awakening. Or—reawakening?

Zak grimaced. That small motion was all the confirmation Izzy needed.

“If it’s who I think it is…” Izzy”s eyes flitted to the hairdresser and makeup artist, vested in their own conversation, but better safe than exposed by staff and secret cameras. “There’s definitely something there. But you don’t have to tell me. Not here.”

I wasn’t planning on it. “Something there? Like what? How?”

“Chemistry, you know? I thought maybe you were just a good actress, but that doesn’t check out.” Izzy grabbed Zak’s wrist with a wrestler’s grip. “He’s so into you.”

“Yeah?” It wasn’t like she had been deaf to Chase’s comments, or blind to the way his eyes followed her movements through a room. But to hear that someone else noticed, someone who barely knew her and didn’t know Chase… “That’s why I shouldn’t, though. Right? If he’s that into me, it’ll only make things complicated.”

She wasn’t playing it safe by admitting these thoughts to another person, but this was completely anonymous. Coded.

Who else was she supposed to talk to? All her other friends had a personal stake in this thing with Chase. But bad idea or not, it was starting to feel like an urge she needed to get out of her head before it spread through her system like a virus. Maybe the only way to do that would be to give in to the temptation.

Fuck him. Just once, just a fling. No strings attached, like Izzy had said.

Izzy bit down on the side of her thumb. “If you’re asking, then it sounds like it’s complicated already.”

Zak assumed she had been quiet for too long, or for what Izzy deemed too long because she piped up again.

“Hey! By the way, I did finally find a place for our watch party. They’re playing reruns at Brownstone Tavern tomorrow night if you and your band wanna hang. Assuming neither of us are packing our bags or anything.”

Zak wasn’t practicing her contract signature quite yet, but she knew her band was top six at a minimum, and she couldn’t picture Izzy heading home tonight either. Though she had never imagined saying yes to the offer the first time Izzy had brought it up, she told her, “Sure. Things have been way too hectic. I haven’t watched any of the episodes yet. It’ll be fun.”

Izzy’s smile immediately made Zak feel like a terrible person. Like she had been so icy that the other woman hadn’t genuinely expected her to say yes. “Yeah. It will. See you then!”

The crowd was insane. The largest they had ever played for.

Stepping onto the stage this time, something snapped within Zak. The lights were bright and scorching like they always were. The joy was there, wrapped up into six strings and slung low over her shoulder. The music was loud. Deafening. But this time, everything was overwhelmingly new.

People had paid to see them play. A lot of people.

This was the first glimpse of what awaited Saint of Spades. It was breathtaking. It was mind-bending. And when she turned to the side to tell Link, “You were right,” he wasn’t there.

She searched the familiar faces alongside her on stage, but there was no way to know whether she was alone in seeking his ghost.

Dallas was a blank slate. Alex was looking down at the pedal to the kick bass. Edge was focused straight ahead. No one was outwardly breaking down, but during a moment like this, it was impossible not to feel Link’s presence. Not to remember how he fed off other people’s energy. How he radiated his own.

Instead, Chase—steady, centered Chase—stepped away from the microphone while they were still on commercial break, and said to her, “Okay, this is way more intimidating than the café you took me to, for the record.”

“I was trying to give you practice, not a panic attack.”

“Well, consider me panicked now.”

No one would have guessed it by looking at him. Could he guess she was falling apart behind the smile on her face?

“You’re gonna do great,” she assured him. And before he could get too sentimental about it, added, “You’d better. There’s a quarter of a million dollars on the line.”

Chase laughed nervously. “What’s a guy gotta do to get some comfort around here?”

She deliberated her response. A little flirting never killed anyone, right? “Win this thing with me and I’ll comfort you however you want, Payton.”

“Now that’s encouraging.”

They shared one last private look in front of three thousand people as the MC finished hyping up the crowd and throwing out T-shirts. Then the sign flashed on. They were live.

How was it possible for a heart to be so broken and so full, all at once?

After how well the show went, everyone was in a celebratory mood the following night. Both Saint of Spades and Abstraction made the cut. Predictable as it may have been—with the media conglomerate creaming their stuffy slacks over the viewership dollars Chase was netting them—it still felt like a victory because Zak knew they had earned it.

The benefit of being her own biggest critic was that if she thought a show went well, it had been damn-near flawless.

Her name was officially out in the world. She heard it, though to a much larger extent, “Chase,” being shouted by the audience. And while she didn’t take much stock in the judges’ opinions—as they had been hired more for the cameras than the quality of their input—crowd approval meant everything.

Regardless of what happened next, some of those people would be future listeners, setting aside cash and making trips to the CD store to buy their music. Tuning into rock radio stations to hear Saint of Spades’ latest releases.

“Hey, you!” Izzy’s voice cut through the crowded lobby before she did. She stomped over in a pair of studded platforms underneath some truly outrageous pink and yellow striped bell bottoms. “What a night, huh?”

Zak found her arms abruptly pinned to her sides as Izzy gave her an enthusiastic hug that wrung some sort of affirmative noise out of her.

She stepped back to avoid early-onset hearing loss as Izzy greeted everyone in the group.

“Nice to meet you all! I hope this place doesn’t suck. I found out about it through the grapevine, but I can never tell whether New Yorkers are being sarcastic or serious. Then again, I guess I can’t tell if people back home are being nice or saving face. Regional differences, am I right?”

“The grapevine” sounded like code for Izzy scouring the city until she found somewhere that aired the show.

Zak wasn’t sure how she felt about seeing herself on TV, but at the same time, she was curious. They were putting in over sixty hours a week between songwriting, rehearsing, and filming, and it would be validating to see what that amounted to.

“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or serious,” Dallas said to Zak on the side while Izzy was busy giving her friends the no-details-barred recollection of how she and Zak had met.

“Give her a chance. She’s sort of cool,” Zak said through her teeth.

“She’s definitely not what I expected when you said you made a friend,” Edge added.

“Why? ‘Cause she’s nice?”

“Precisely because she’s nice.”

Up until now, the guys had only ever heard Izzy aggressively growl into a microphone, backed by heavy drums and industrial guitar riffs. It must have been quite a shock for them to discover she was basically a cheerleader off-stage.

Experiencing the duality of Izzy Sartori in the reverse order had certainly been a shock for Zak as well.

“This is my sister, Gemma,” Izzy prattled on, unfazed by their whispered conversation. She gestured toward the taller, calmer, more angular version of herself. Then, to the man at her other side, who was wearing red-tinted shades and had a ponytail of pin-straight, glossy dark hair that hit the waist of his oversized cargo pants. “Bobby, our guitarist. And Jensen, our drummer.” Who greeted everyone with a wave and a wide, exuberant smile that stretched across his square-shaped face. Gel held his short, light brown hair up in messy spikes, and thick brows arched over his ice-blue eyes.

“So you’re the guy everybody knows, huh?” Izzy said, giving Chase a once-over. Giving Zak a wink.

Chase, with a questioning glance, answered, “Too many people do, that’s for sure.”

Apparently, Izzy was in charge of all the introductions, because she continued pointing down the line. “Dallas, Alex, and… Eduardo, right?”

“Hmm.” Edge glowered at Zak. “I think I get it now.”

Izzy beamed, extending her hand to shake his. “Just kidding with you, Edge.”

“It’s alright, Isobel.” Edge took her hand. “Or is it Elizabeth?”

“Isabella.” She bit the inside of her round cheek as her bright pink lips curved upward. “Well played.”

“So,” Alex interjected. “Are we going to party or what?”

“Amen. Let’s get outta here,” Jensen agreed, already starting out the door.

They needed a night out. It had been an all-work, no-play three months, which Zak realized might have been a touch excessive and was mostly her fault. But her friends were troopers. She should have had more faith in them from the day of the funeral, but Link’s death had truncated her already limited capacity for trust.

It had never mattered what anyone said or did, or how much support he had. It didn’t matter that getting high had turned him into a liar, a manipulator, and a cheat, for the sake of his next fix. All that had ever mattered to him was feeling good, and the fact that music made him feel good was probably the only reason he had stuck with it for so long.

Link chose his fate. He had abandoned them, like everyone else had abandoned her, and she didn’t piece together until now that she had spent the entire summer waiting to see who would leave next. Would Dallas drop out of the band now that his best friend was gone? Would Edge decide the band was a lost cause and choose a smarter career path? Would Alex want to escape the party lifestyle that had brought so much death into his life?

It had never been so apparent how committed they all were to their craft, even though she should have seen it all along. Edge had picked the band over college, Dallas had picked it over home, and Alex had picked them as his new family. Chase had taken a chance on something he’d never done before instead of sticking to what he knew.

It would hurt when Chase left, but this experience taught her that there was no limit to what they could overcome. Saint of Spades wasn’t just them together, it was them individually. It was in the way she bounced back from bad news. In the way their drummer let no one tell him who he should be. The way their bassist believed that living for art was more important than living for approval. Even in the way Dallas said “fuck the rules” and made his own.

It was in the way Link remained part of who they were when he was no longer part of their music.

They walked the fifteen blocks to Brownstone Tavern, everyone laughing and getting to know each other along the way. There was a buzz in the air, the thrill of knowing hundreds of thousands of people had watched them play yesterday, watched them win. And Zak was happy. More than that, she was elated. She was living her dream.

So why was she standing next to Dallas at the back of the entourage, crying?

“Yo.” Dallas slowed beside her. “What’s wrong?”

Fuck if she knew. She wiped at the tears rolling down her cheeks and shook her head.

“It’s the shoes, isn’t it? I don’t care how often you wear those things, there’s no way your foot gets used to stepping down on a shank. It defies the laws of nature.”

“Name one law of nature, Dallas.”

“‘What goes around comes around,’” he answered with misplaced confidence.

“That’s karma.”

“Whatever. You didn’t ask for the scientific name.”

Zak’s chuckle came out quivery, and that was when Chase—ahead of her and wrapped up in a conversation with Bobby—realized something was wrong.

He turned back for a spell, brows drawn together, but she didn’t need to call any attention to herself looking like this. More importantly, she wasn’t about to tell Dallas her feet were perfectly fine, and she had been thinking about Link ever since she stepped out on stage last night.

Dallas missed him more than anyone. So much so, he couldn’t handle Link’s absence on a regular basis without doing his best to black out on liquor-induced dopamine. She wasn’t going to be the one to make the problem worse.

Once they arrived, though, she pawned a smoke off of Dallas and waited outside to gather her composure under the pretense of needing her nicotine fix.

Chase conveniently excused himself from the group like he did too, even though she’d never seen him touch a box of cigarettes. Athlete’s lungs, or some shit.

“You wanna talk about it?” Chase asked.

She lit up, took one hit, and flicked the cigarette into the trash can. It had been over a month since her last one. She had stopped missing that familiar numbness when she noticed how much more energy she had without it, but shitty occasions called for shitty coping mechanisms.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “Just needed to clear my head before I go back in. The live show made me think of Link, that’s all.”

Chase”s arm snaked around her waist, pulling her in. It was the closest he’d gotten to her since their night on the town, and it instantly brought her back to that moment. His embrace was warm and chilling, rousing and comforting.

“Tell me about him.”

“We don’t have time. The others—”

“Have all just done a round of shots and aren’t worried about us out here.”

Zak wasn’t so sure about that. Her friends were nosy as all hell. “He would have loved this. I’ve always had the big dreams, but he was always the big believer. Amped was all his idea, and I gave him so much pushback in the beginning. We’d be packing up after an unpaid gig and all he could talk about was, ‘Next stop, Madison Square Garden.’”

Now she had to be her own believer. A job that was more difficult than it should have been.

“Not that I’m not glad you’re here, because I am,” she clarified. “I guess I haven’t slowed down since the funeral to process that our last show with him was the last show with him. And I wish he could have seen the way we all killed it yesterday.”

“You don’t ever need to put a disclaimer on that.” His arm tightened around her. “No matter how amazing this experience is for me, I never would have wished for things to happen like they did for me to be here. Hell, I can’t believe how accepting everyone has been with me. From day one, those guys have treated me like an old friend.”

“Just the guys?” Zak ventured sarcastically.

“On day one, you were treating me like your nemesis. On day seventy-one… not sure. Do you kiss all your old friends like that?”

She met his eyes. Lighting the spark that she had choked out between their last show and this one. “Sure I do. Every last one of them.”

“I love that you’re a terrible liar.”

She took Chase’s hand in her own and pulled them both through the entrance, letting go once they reached the bar where everyone else gathered. But the tingle in her fingertips lasted long past the first round of drinks, and the second. Dizzy or not, there was no mistaking his eyes on her as the nine of them crowded the counter.

For once, Chase partook in the drinking, his body brushing against hers with more frequency as his practiced balance loosened. When it came time for the third shot, his chin dipped over her shoulder as he grabbed that tiny glass. His breath hit Zak”s neck like a tequila-scented aphrodisiac, and she knew with blinding certainty they were not going to be just friends.

Not tonight. Not ever.

“Look!” Izzy folded over the bar top and pointed to one of the grainy TVs mounted on a wall full of neon brand signs. “It’s youuu, Zak!”

None of the other patrons had been paying attention to their group until that outburst, which triggered a few glances of recognition. They were all nobodies in the grand scheme of the music industry, but it was still jarring to be noticed by a stranger.

The footage cut to an old clip of Chase in his hockey uniform—signing jerseys for kids after a game—then back to Zak during her interview.

“Who gives a shit if Chase is missing a leg? I don’t care about what happened to him and neither should anyone else,” TV Zak said with a sour frown. “I never would have asked him to join the band. I mean, this isn’t the fucking theater. Who cares how famous he is?”

Zak stared at the television in disbelief. What. The. Fuck. Did they do to her?

Then came Chase’s interview:

“Of course I’m happy to be here, I’m grateful to be alive.” He shot the camera a well-practiced grin. “And to fall in with a group of such talented musicians? It’s been great. Truly.”

“Motherfuckers,” Zak spat. “Look at me, I’m such a bitch.”

“Finally, video evidence has confirmed it.” Dallas gave her a mock salute to cut through the thickening tension.

“It’s not so bad,” Alex said unconvincingly.

“Everyone knows this stuff is scripted,” Edge reasoned. “I’m sure people don’t actually believe that. Why would we be in a band together if we hated each other?”

“Plenty of musicians hate each other.” She looked at Chase. “And you.” She raised her empty shot glass to the TV, where their first performance now aired. Cameras alternated between Saint of Spades on stage and the glowing reactions on the judges’ faces. “They made you look like Susie-Fucking-Sunshine, didn’t they?”

No, Chase actually is Susie-Fucking-Sunshine. There was no other personality they could have superimposed onto his golden hair and skin, his stupefying smile.

Zak let out an animalistic groan that made her friends laugh but made Izzy’s friends uneasy.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Izzy handed Zak another drink. “I haven’t seen the episodes either. I never would have suggested we watch them if I had known they were like this. All I wanted was a fun night out, but I probably ruined your night instead, didn’t I?”

“It’s fine,” Zak said, and thus, convinced herself it was. It didn’t really matter if viewers thought she was a bitch because plenty of people already did—her entire family, for one. “What’s the saying—‘any press is good press’?”

Izzy gave a meek smile. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“Drinking game,” Alex announced, standing up on a barstool. Edge tugged him back down by the sleeve of his shirt before the entire establishment was in on it. “Take a shot every time the editors make you look bad on national television.”

And that was how Zak ended up plastered by the end of the first episode.

All things considered, she hadn’t drawn the shortest stick. Izzy, they’d made out to be some hyper-sexualized shell of herself. Gemma, they had referred to as a “MILF” three times, which she claimed was redundant because, “Every mom has gotten fucked. How else do they think we got pregnant?” Edge, Alex, and Jensen didn’t get enough screen time to matter thanks to the inherent powers of invisibility possessed by all bassists and drummers.

And Dallas… well, it was hard to make him look bad. Considering he had sprinted outside to throw up fifteen minutes ago and had to be dragged back in by Alex and Edge, so he could pass out in a booth seat until their watch party concluded.

The walk had been nice, but they were all going to need a cab back.

The group splintered off into smaller, more laid-back conversations once the show ended. By then, Dallas was unconscious. Alex was nowhere to be seen until Zak caught him out of the corner of her eye, making out with a server in the kitchen corridor. And Edge was watching a baseball game, so that left her with a window to be reckless.

“Ready to get your ass kicked at foosball, yet?” she asked Chase, heading to the corner of the bar and circling the game table.

Where did that idea come from? She had never been good at foosball, and Chase’s arms looked strong enough to launch that flimsy plastic ball clean through the drywall. In fact, she knew they were, because she’d felt them flex under her fingers as he’d gripped the back of her thighs and tasted her mouth.

“Oh, you’re on.” He chuckled, positioning himself opposite her with his hands on the knobs. “You might play circles around me out there, but this is my domain.”

They both fumbled around with the handles, completely uncoordinated. Their eyes were closed in obnoxious belly laughter half the time. There was way too much movement to keep track of anything, but Zak was pretty sure neither of them managed to score for the first five minutes.

Eventually, Chase annihilated her. At least, she thought he did, but she forgot what color she had been as soon as they stopped playing and bought another round of drinks.

“’S not what I actually said during my interview,” Zak slurred, a tiny cocktail straw still lodged in the corner of her mouth.

Was she looking up at Chase, or was he looking down at her? God, he was so tall. Where were her shoes? No, she was still wearing them. She was leaning against a high-top, one leg kicked back onto the foot rail for stability. She had been on a boat only once, for her mother’s third wedding on a dinner cruise, and this felt exactly like being on that deck again, rocking with the swell of the waves.

“I cou’tell.” By the look of it, Chase was just as hammered as she was. He had always kept his distance around others, but now he was leaning into her space. One more inch, and every inch of him would be on her again. Mmm. That would be good. “The part about you not asking me to join was a dead giveaway. ‘F I remember correctly, you were pretty desperate for me to join the band.”

Zak tried to seem impassive, but her face was so numb she couldn’t tell if she was smiling. “In the same way a traveler stranded in the desert is desperate for water, sure.”

She needed some water in this perfectly air-conditioned establishment. She needed to cool down, needed fresh air, because he was standing over her, making heat pool in the pit of her stomach. Making the fabric of her clothing grate against her bare skin. And all that liquor had done nothing to ease the dull throb between her legs. If anything, it amplified it.

“What’s that look for?” Chase grinned.

“What look?”

“That one,” he said, as though that would clear things up. “That smile. The blush, the biting your lip. God, that fucking drives me crazy, you know that?”

No, but her heart responded to it by dropping out of her chest and erratically spurting blood all over the slightly sticky floor. Because while she wasn’t aware that she’d bitten her lip, she explicitly remembered the way it felt when Chase bit her lip. And she wanted to feel those teeth on her—

“Beautiful,” he blurted. “You’re beautiful.”

She’d never thought of it before now, but no one had ever called her that. Beautiful was the kind of word guys reserved for girls they were serious about.

“You’re drunk.”

“I don’t think you’re beautiful because I’m drunk.” He combed a piece of hair behind her ear and cupped her jaw with his hand. “I’ve always thought you’re the most beautiful woman in the world. And now I’m just drunk enough to admit it.”

Zak pulled back before anyone could notice. Not that it was likely. “About the kiss—”

“Not now.” He held his index finger to her lips, and she wondered what he would do if she ran her tongue up the palm side of his knuckles. “In the morning. Sober.”

“Hypocrite.”

“You’re braver than I am.”

She wasn’t sold on that. If she were brave, she would have taken him back to her room the night they first kissed, because it wasn’t a matter of not knowing what she wanted. She knew exactly what she wanted. She just didn’t want to find out what would happen if she went for it.

Zak may have been able to get over a lot of things, but she wasn’t sure Chase could be one of them.