4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Logan
I sit at the edge of the worn leather bench in the back of the tour bus, my acoustic guitar balanced on my lap. My fingers absently pluck at the strings, and the familiar notes of a song Braden and I wrote together years ago fill the quiet space. I find myself lost in thought, hands picking at chords I normally avoid in sequences that speak to me. A smirk tugs at my lips as thoughts and memories drift over me. The rest of the band is scattered around. Chace stretched out on the opposite couch, rhythmically tapping his drumsticks on his knee, Sam scrolling through his phone and Trey leaning against the small kitchenette counter, nursing a beer.
Even with everyone here, the mood is heavy. A cloud that’s been hanging over us since Braden’s death. Burnt Ashes was always Braden’s dream before it was anyone else’s. He built it from the ground up, dragging me along with him, even when I wasn’t sure I wanted the spotlight. Braden had this way of making you believe in him, in his vision. With him gone, the shine had lost its luster.
We talked—long and hard—about jacking it in. Maybe stepping back from music altogether. Maybe writing for other artists, getting into something else, or hell, even going back to our old jobs.
What started as garage band sessions that pissed off the neighbors ended with a record deal that changed our lives. We were mid-tour when Braden’s accident happened, and everything fell apart. I strum a minor chord, the sound cutting through the ache in my chest. Glancing up at the guys, I clear my throat. “We need to decide what we are doing about the set list for tomorrow. Are we keeping ‘ Second Chances’ in?”
Chace stops tapping his sticks, frowning. “I don’t know, man. Playing that one just feels…weird without him.” Sam looks up from his phone. “It was one of Braden’s favorites. I think the fans would want to hear it.”
“Yeah, but is it for them, or is it for us?” Trey’s voice is quiet but firm. He takes a swig of beer, his eyes locking with mine. “You’re the one who’ll have to sing it, Lo. What do you want to do?” I exhale sharply, leaning back against the couch.
“I don’t know. Every time I think about playing it, it’s like…he’s right here. I can hear him in the harmonies. I don’t know if I can handle that.” The room falls silent, Braden’s absence settling over us like a thick fog. Burnt Ashes has always been more than a band. We’re a family, forged through late-night jam sessions, shitty motels, and the kind of chaos only the road can bring. Braden was the heart of the family, and without him, it feels like we’re missing something vital. Chace breaks the silence.
“What if we played it as a tribute? Strip it down, acoustic? Make it about him?” Sam nods slowly. “We could bring the lights down low, make it intimate. The fans would get it. They’d feel it.” My fingers still on the strings as I consider their words. Turning ‘ Second Chances’ into a tribute feels right, but it also feels like ripping open a wound that’s barely started to heal. I look at Trey, who gives me a small nod, like he’s saying, “Whatever you decide, we’ve got your back.”
“Okay,” I say finally. “Let’s do it. Acoustic. Just one guitar and vocals. No drums, no bass, no frills. Just…raw.”
Chace taps his sticks once against the couch arm, a subtle acknowledgement. “We’ll make it count.”
The bus falls into contemplative silence, each of us lost in our own memories of Braden. My mind drifts back to the early days of Burnt Ashes. Braden was relentless, dragging us to every dive bar and open mic night he could find.
“We’re gonna make it, Lo,” he said one night after a particularly rough gig. We’d been paid in beer and peanuts, and the crowd had been more interested in the football game on the TV than our music. “We just have to keep going, people are going to know our name. Burnt Ashes is going to be legendary.”
Now, the name Burnt Ashes is known, but not for the reason’s Braden envisioned. His death turned the band into a tragic headline, and I hate it. I hate that our success is overshadowed by the loss, that every interview comes with questions about Braden and what it’s like to keep going without him.
“You think he’d be proud?” I ask quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. Trey sets his beer down and crosses the room, sitting on the arm rest of the couch next to me. “Of course he would. He believed in this band more than anyone. He’d want us to keep going.”
“Yeah, but would he want us to be this?” I gesture vaguely around the bus, my frustration evident. “Would he want us to be the band that’s famous because he’s gone.”
“We’re not famous because he’s gone.” Sam says firmly. “We’re famous because we’re damn good at what we do. And yeah, people talk about Braden because he was amazing. But that doesn’t mean we’re riding on his coattails. We’re honoring him by keeping this going. By playing the music he loved.” I nod slowly, considering Sam’s words. I contemplated what to say for a moment, before I sucked in a breath and set my guitar in her case.
“We’re still Burnt Ashes, even without Braden.” My voice is steady, firm. “The heart of the band might be gone, but the fire he started. It’s still burning. We owe it to him to keep it alive.”
I look at each of the guys. My brothers.
“We’re missing another family member. After tonight, we get her back. Because if Braden were here, there’s no way in hell he’d leave her trapped in the personal hell she’s locked herself in. Right?”
Silence. Just for a second.
“He’s talking about Britney Spears, right? Save Britney 2025—” Trey stage-whispers.
Chace’s drumsticks whip through the air and smack Trey upside the head.
I nod my appreciation for his fine work.
“Management isn’t gonna like this,” Chace warns, ever the voice of reason.
Trey rubs his head. “We’re rockstars, baby. Just living up to our reputation.”
Sam sniggers. I smirk.
Yeah. Sounds about right.
Music felt different as I got older—as I was introduced to more genres, more sounds that cracked open something inside me.
For the longest time, I was forced to practice every day—classic Spanish pieces on acoustic guitar. My abuela made sure of it. She was strict about it, relentless even. But I never resented it. Not really. She had a love for music so deep it felt like religion, and because of her, I did too. I played for her. Always for her.
Then that awkward, bony kid and his loudmouth twin sister shoved metal into my hands, and it was like my brain chemistry rewired itself on the spot. The first time I heard those distorted riffs, that raw, unfiltered energy, something clicked. It wasn’t just about technique anymore. It was feeling. Rage. Power. Freedom.
I never stopped loving what my abuela taught me. I still hear her voice when I pick up an acoustic. But metal?
Metal was mine.
I stand backstage, staring out at the stadium. The crowd is silent, an eerie contrast to the usual roar of anticipation. On the massive screens, a memorial for Braden plays, a montage of moments frozen in time. His crooked smile, his fierce energy on stage, the way he commanded every room he walked into. The weight of his absence hangs heavy in the air, pressing down on all of us.
I drag a hand through my hair, glancing at my guitar leaning against the wall. Tonight’s set is daunting. We’re deviating from the script, and some people are going to hate it. But fuck it.
We are not the Burnt Ashes tribute act.We. Are. Burnt. Ashes.
I’ve sung these songs a thousand times, but of course, they sound different without Braden. With me taking lead, there were pauses and delays in the early soundchecks, those little moments where we instinctively waited for him—only to be met with silence. It had been rough at first, but the fans had rolled with it. Management wasn’t breathing down our necks or threatening to pull the plug, so something must be going right.
But tonight… tonight is different.
This isn’t just me as Logan Dale from Burnt Ashes.Tonight, for at least one set, it’s just me.
I can feel it building inside me, that pressure, the weight of the moment. The encore is coming, the make-or-break part of the night, and I know what’s next.
Second Chances.
The song that belongs to him.
I swallow hard. We could skip it. Avoid the inevitable. Pretend it doesn’t exist.
No. That’s fucking cowardly.
The set moves forward like clockwork, the band hitting every cue, the energy electric—right up until the encore. The lights dim. My heart slams against my ribs as Sam and Trey offer silent nods of reassurance, patting my shoulder before they slip off stage with Chace close behind.
The stage manager’s voice squawks in my ear.
"Four seconds, Logan."
I move back, finding the stool a stagehand just set down. Another one rushes over, handing me my acoustic as I exchange my Strat with care, watching her like she’s made of fine bone china.
"Wait—where’s the rest of the band? Logan? Logan!"
I pull the mic earpiece out, cracking my neck with a smirk.
"Apologies. We’re doing this a little differently."
The crowd is still cheering, screaming, but as I angle the main mic and tap it lightly, the energy shifts. People quiet down, sensing the change.
"You’ve all been a fucking brilliant audience tonight." My voice carries across the venue, raw, unpolished. Real. "We—Burnt Ashes—want to thank you. It means everything to us."
The screams surge again, a mix of sweet declarations and—yeah, a few sexually explicit ones. A smirk tugs at my lips.
The lights come back on, but the guys aren’t at their stations.
"Just me for now, por favor."
The stage crew catches the hint, dimming the other sets until I’m left alone in the glow. The butterflies churn in my stomach—not from stage fright, but from the weight of what I’m about to do.
"You all know there’s a song we’ve avoided. One that means too much."
The crowd erupts again, anticipation mixing with something heavier—an almost palpable sorrow settling over the venue.
I let them murmur, let them feel it. Then I press on.
"How can we play our brother’s song when he’s not here to sing it?"
A ripple of hushed agreement moves through the audience.
"We will never be the same. We can never sound the same. And I will not—I refuse—to imitate my friend."
Silence stretches for a heartbeat. A breath. A pause.
"So tonight, we try something different. This…" I inhale deep, steadying myself. "This is my second chance."
The crowd is completely still now, hanging onto every word. Some are crying already, and fuck if I don’t feel it too.
"I know he would have loved this. He would have laughed his ass off at me sitting here talking your damn ears off."
A few chuckles ripple through the tension.
"I’ll be honest… I feel nervous." I glance down at my guitar, then back at them. "But fuck it. Let me know what you think, yeah?"
A few whoops and hollers break out, but I don’t let it distract me. I close my eyes. Breathe.
And then I start to play.
A soft, intricate riff, something my abuela would have been proud of. My fingers move instinctively, tracing old memories—warm kitchens, sunlit afternoons, her encouraging smile as I played classic Spanish ballads for her.
I start to sing.
The moment I open my mouth, I’m gone. Caught in a past life. Braden’s voice in my head.
The first time he played this song for us. The way his face had fucking lit up when he nailed the first recording. That stupid conversation over pizza, when we swore we’d be world famous, filthy rich, and forever drowning in women—even though he’d been head over heels for his girl.
That night at the dive bar when we played this live for the first time, Mac’s face glowing with pride in the crowd. The way the verses had come together over mini-golf, inspired by the ridiculous beeping retro beat of Skull Mountain.
The echoes of a past I can’t get back.
My voice comes out raw, aching, my fingers chasing notes I don’t have to think about.
And then, it’s over.
The last chord fades into silence, my breath hitching as the venue holds still—so fucking still—
And then the noise erupts.
Shouts. Cheers. Sobs. The kind of reaction that doesn’t need words.
I blink against the heat behind my eyes, realizing—fuck, I’m crying too.
"Thank you, everyone. For your support. For—"
Movement catches my attention.
The guys step back on stage, closing in.
"You been holding out on us, you Latino beauty," Trey sniffs, his eyes shining.
Sam stands stoic but solid, offering silent support. Chace shakes his head, still coming down from it all.
"Fuck me, Logan," Chace breathes. "That was incredible."
Trey, always Trey, grins through the emotion, wiping at his eyes. "Let’s hear it for our support acts! They warmed you up better than any foreplay could. Maybe even edged you just a smidge?"
The crowd roars with laughter, and just like that, the tension cracks.
Inflatables—because of course there are inflatables—get tossed toward the stage. Security swats them down, but one fish makes it through.
Trey snatches it up, thrusting obscenely with it.
"Trey, put the fish down," I groan, fighting a grin.
Chace chuckles, eyeing it. "Look at its face, man. That fish has seen some real shit."
Trey lifts it to eye level, staring solemnly as Sam says, "It’s like looking in a mirror."
"Maybe for you, Baldilocks." Trey deadpans.
We crack up, the crowd joining in. The moment is heavy, yet somehow light all at once.
Chace steps forward, voice ringing through the mic. "We’ve been Burnt Ashes. Thank you, goodnight!"
As the lights cut out, I rise from my stool, unslinging my guitar.
I let the weight settle.
Tonight, we honored Braden. And we fucking owned it.
I’m still catching my breath as I step off the stage, the energy of the crowd still buzzing in my veins. The weight of the guitar lingers in my hands, the strings still humming beneath my fingertips, even though the music’s stopped. Sweat sticks to my skin, and the air around me feels thick, charged with something I don’t know how to shake.
“Logan.” Phil’s voice cuts through the backstage noise, sharp and eager. He moves toward me with purpose, his suit crisp, glasses catching the dim light. His smile is wide, electric. “That was... phenomenal, man.”
I barely nod, still caught in the rawness of it. The ache. The empty space Braden should be filling. I drag a hand through my damp hair, exhaling, but it doesn’t make the weight in my chest any lighter.
“You know,” Phil continues, eyes gleaming, “we need you in the studio right away. That track, Logan, it’s a hit. I want it on the album.”
I glance down at my guitar, my fingers flexing around the neck like I don’t quite recognize it anymore. The crowd’s roar still lingers, but all I hear is the silence after the last note.
“I don’t know, Phil.” My voice comes out rough, quieter than I want it to be. “That song... it was for Braden. A tribute. Not something I planned to put on the record.”
Phil’s smile tightens, just for a second, before he smooths it over. He steps closer, voice dropping like he’s trying to level with me. “I get it. But that kind of emotion? That connection? That’s what people need, Logan. It’s real. It’s raw. That’s what makes a song unforgettable.”
I shake my head, the weight in my chest pressing heavier. “It wasn’t for them. It was for him.” I swallow hard, gripping the guitar like it might ground me. “I’m not sure I can turn that into something for the album. Not like this.”
Phil exhales through his nose, considering me. “You’re an artist, Logan. And tonight, you gave people something real. Think about it.”
I don’t answer. He studies me for a second longer, then nods like he’s already decided I will. “Talk to the guys. Let me know.” Then he turns and walks away, disappearing into the maze of backstage corridors.
I watch him go, jaw tight, my pulse still unsteady. I don’t move until the sound of footsteps pulls my focus.
Chace. Trey. Sam. They’re waiting, watching me. Expecting something.
I shift my grip on the guitar, exhaling. “Mac should be here.”
Because if anyone would understand how tangled up this song is inside me, it’s her.
“She needs as much time as she needs.” Sam says opening his hands.
“I understand what you are saying Sam, but I need her. ” My chest tightens, and I can’t shake the image of Mac from my mind.
No calls.
No texts.
No snaps.
It’s driving me insane. I turn to the guys. Sam leans against a speaker case, his head bowed. Trey has his arms crossed, staring blankly at the floor. Chace, always restless, twirls a drumstick between his fingers, but even he looks deflated.
“So, what are you doing here, man?” Chace asks, his sticks coming to a stop.
“We got like, what, a week till the next performance? Tonight was special. Next time can be for her.” Sam says with a lazy smile.
“Besides, how are the rest of us supposed to get any female attention with your ridiculously attractive, brooding self, flooding ovaries left and right?” Trey adds.
I wrinkle my nose at Trey’s choice of words. “Flooding ovaries? Is that a thing?”
Chace tilts his head. “Is that scientifically possible?”
“It will be when I get to them.” Trey deadpans, holding his hand up for a high five. Unfortunately, he only elicits uncomfortable groans from the rest of us.
“We need a doctor. I don’t think Google will help.” I mutter.
“For the ovaries thing?” Trey asks.
“Dude.”
Sam and Chace have started laughing now. “Stop saying ovaries.”
“No, you adorable idiota, for you and your way with words.”
Trey huffs, slicking back his hair with his heavily tattooed hand. “I think you’re missing the effect I have on women. I am like a magnet.”
“Yeah, one that pushes.” Chace shoots back.
“Hey, I’ll have you know I push and pull.” Trey waggles his eyebrows.
“Fuck, Chace, stop setting him up like that.” I groan.
“He’s quick.” Chace shrugs.
“I heard that about him, yeah.” Sam is in like a flash, wiping the smirk off Trey’s face.
“We talked about this before, you Vin Diesel wannabe.”
“Guys…”
Sam and Trey turn to look at me.
“What are you still doing here, bro? We’re holding down the fort—go get Mac.” Trey’s voice is lighter, but there’s a thread of seriousness woven through it.
“Yeah, we got this. Family first, brother. Always.” Sam’s voice lands like a punch to the gut. A lump rises in my throat as I take in their unwavering support.
Burnt Ashes has always been more than a band. It’s a family forged in Braden’s vision and carried by all of us.
I squeeze Sam’s shoulder in thanks, then turn to Chace. “You gonna be okay with these two?” My voice is barely above a whisper.
He scoffs, twirling his drumstick one last time before tucking it behind his ear. “They haven’t realized they’re into one another yet, but when they hit puberty, we’re gonna be in for hell.”
This is immediately met with sudden violence as both Trey and Sam tackle him.
“She’s part of this, Logan. Whether she likes it or not.” Chace’s voice is slightly muffled, considering Sam’s rear end is too close to his face.
I exhale, feeling the weight of it all settle over me. The laughter, the brotherhood, the gaping hole Braden left behind. I grab my guitar and swing it over my shoulder. My fingers brush against the ink beneath my shirt—the angel on my back, the words forever etched into my skin: My brother in this life and the next.
Braden’s face flashes in my mind—grinning, alive, full of fire.
I promise him silently… I’ll bring her home.
But instead of heading to the stage, I turn toward the exit.
It’s time.