Chapter 8.
Chase
The sun is almost gone by the time I’m back on the road.
Singing to myself in an empty car, only the highway and the sprawling fields of nothing-at-all and the air in my lungs.
And that lingering look in his eyes.
And a general feeling of … what the hell just happened?
I could have easily lost days with him. Weeks. Months. I could have forgotten who I am, abandoned my life, made a little home in his heart, moved right in, and refused to ever leave.
It’s thoughts like those that tell me one thing:
I gotta chill the hell out.
But the moment I try, I’m walking alongside him in his town, watching his eyes light up every time he’s got something to say.
I’m back at that duck pond, so close I feel his breaths on my arm.
I’m noticing the way he’s looking at me, with such attention, such curiosity—and occasionally unfiltered sass—I can’t remember the last time someone actually saw me not as an idol.
But as a real person.
Someone who can be annoying. And too much. And funny.
And whatever it is Timothy sees in me.
Whatever it is you see in me …
I pull over suddenly, struck. I don’t have my notebook, so I get my phone out and start thumb-tapping the lyrics before they flee my head.
It’s a battle every day … just to get out of my own way …
I nip the end of my finger, closing my eyes, and see Timothy in front of me, smiling.
His smile makes me smile. You’d think I’d have learned by now …
but I’m too smart to outsmart myself … I chuckle as I tap out the words, then lean back in my seat, playing my finger over my lips, hearing the melody.
Like a pleasure that’s always denied … tastes sweeter when it finally comes …
Happiness is just as easily found … in the stars as it is between legs.
But the stars are so far away …
And you’re right here.
I close my phone and lean forward on the steering wheel, eyes wild with inspiration. The sun is dipping itself in the wavy, wheat-filled sauce of the horizon, fizzling out, just as I’m starting to burn up, starting to smile, completely out of control.
I haven’t felt like this since I first started writing. And I mean really writing. When I had finally hit my stride writing the Hate Me album. Found my voice. When each note and each lyric and every thrust of fingers over strings filled me with bone-deep purpose.
I sigh. “I’ve got to get my shit together,” I tell myself out loud.
Then wonder if those are Ian’s words coming out. Or my own. Why would I think that when I feel like I’ve got my shit together more than I have in years?
The stars are so far away … and you’re right here.
The sun is gone by the time I’m back at the hotel. I park the car and just sit in it, staring at my phone, at the lyrics I typed out in haste, thinking about that lingering look in Timothy’s eyes.
I’m out of the car crossing the parking lot, thinking about the life I’ve built on the road and the people who depend on me.
I’m waiting on the elevator and wondering how selfish it is to want anything for myself when the world around me is built to collapse the second I turn my cheek.
The elevator door dings, opens.
Wily is standing there. Long hair drawn back, tied up. He’s in black shorts and a tank, leg sleeve showing, serpents and dragons from his left calf to the thigh. “Hey, man. Hitting the gym. Wanna meet me there? Raj didn’t answer his door. Fiona is … busy.”
His hesitation with “busy” tells me she’s having another night trying to get back with her ex Laina. “I was just thinkin’ I’d retire to my room and—” I start.
“I don’t care who you went off to bone.”
Every last word on my tongue dies.
Wily shrugs past me, then stops. “I just hate working out by myself in weird hotels. They smell funny and are too bright. Come and sit with me if you don’t wanna go up and change.” He’s on his way, not waiting for my answer.
I stare at the elevator.
Its door shuts.
And there it is.
Wily has one of those sleeper builds. You look at the guy and think he’s made of skin and bones until he takes off his shirt in a “weird hotel gym” and has a damned bookcase of abs.
There’s a TV on in front of the treadmills with no means to change the channel, stuck on an infomercial for some age-defying serum.
I’m staring at it while leaning against a treadmill, squinting in confusion.
Wily is nearby grunting over and over at the fly machine.
I can’t hold back anymore. “Are people sayin’ I ran off to bone someone?”
“Said I don’t care,” grunts Wily, launching into another set.
“Well, I care.”
“Forget I said anything. What do you think about Raj?”
Classic Wily. Changing the subject after bringing one up. “Are you seriously not gonna answer my question?”
“Been almost a year now. He’s different than Cam.”
I sigh. “Different good? Different bad?”
“Just different. Raj is cleverer, but simpler. Maybe it works for this new rock style of yours.”
New rock style … I shake my head. “Our style isn’t so different.”
“Cam leaned way more into country, hitting harder … He was so good at playing with the crowd. Remember when he would play games with the audience? Like, he’d hit two beats, they’d clap two times. Then he’d hit four, they’d clap four …”
“What’re you getting at, Wiles? Did Raj do somethin’ off at the last show? Are we seriously turning into a pair of gossips here?”
Wily dabs his forehead with a towel despite never breaking a sweat. “Everyone gossips about everyone. Even us.” He eyes me as he returns to the fly machine, tossing his towel aside. “Even you.”
I grip the treadmill. “Can you just spit it out already?”
“Like I said, I don’t care who you bone.” He hits a few more reps, grunting harder with each one.
I step off the treadmill I’m not even using and come right in front of Wily. “What are they sayin’? Who’s gossiping about me? It matters, and you’re being weird.”
He lets go the arms of the machine, letting them crash back into position. He sighs. “I don’t wanna get in the middle of this.”
“Obviously you do, otherwise you wouldn’t have started.”
He’s about to go into another set, then stops and droops his head. “Fine. I overheard Ian say you’re seeing someone. Or at least he’s 95% sure you are.”
This is because of our conversation at that hotel bar and Ian leaping to conclusions as usual. “Wiles, I’m not—”
“If we keep on this success streak of ours and break through the charts the way Ian thinks we’re gonna on this tour, you need to be ready for it. Your head can’t be … wherever it is.”
“Wherever it is?” I laugh at that. “You think I’m too focused on who I’m ‘boning’ and not on the prize? Seriously, this is Ian’s job to fuss over my personal life. Not yours.”
“Maybe it’s all of ours. We all have something at stake here. I know what it’s like to … to watch a band fall apart because …” All his breath comes out in one huge sigh. “Damn it. I just wanted to come down here and work out. Not get into all of this.”
“So that’s what this is? You still think I’m goin’ rogue?”
“Just remember what you’re doing all of this for,” he grunts. “That’s it.” He starts in on his next set hard, because how else is he gonna maintain that bookcase he keeps under his loose shirts?
I turn back to the treadmill, grimacing in frustration.
Today was the best damned day. Timothy and his smiles, now and then cut by a sexy smirk he’d give every time I said something playful. It was driving me wild.
When it came time to part, I had the distinct feeling neither of us wanted to. We stood by my rental—Timothy offered to walk me back, even though I said he didn’t have to—and I just couldn’t help feeling like he wanted me to kiss him.
Some look in his eyes.
The way he lingered, cutely dragging the moment on, stalling.
For whatever reason, I couldn’t dare be the first one to make a move. Something in me kept saying the ball was in his court. But was it? Should I have kissed him then? I kept weighing it back and forth, back and forth. It probably drove him crazy, too, wondering what my hesitation was about.
Then I caught sight of people approaching from behind him.
One of them seemed to lock eyes with me.
I’m sure it meant nothing. I’m rarely recognized in public.
It’s been this thing of mine since the start, keeping out of social media and away from cameras.
Ian indulged me right away, loving the humble, anonymous thing.
But quickly it became a point of deep, frustrated contention.
“This won’t last forever,” he kept telling me with mounting agitation each time, adjusting his glasses every five seconds, “and to be blunt with you, it’s fucking ridiculous.
People see you at your shows. Sure, you cover half your face with those cowboy hats of yours, but you can’t keep pretending to be one of those artists who live behind a mask.
You’re a star. And a fucking hot one at that.
Give up this peekaboo game you’re playing with the world and let us have our first actual photoshoot with the whole band.
Besides, when we hit it, you won’t have a choice anymore.
The world has to fucking see you, Chase.
” It might be the most times Ian has said the F word. He was pretty serious about it.
But regardless of how much I don’t show, I still see the eyes in public—especially here in Texas where I’m from.
And all it took was that one maybe-eye-contact from someone who may or may not have recognized me.
I looked away, said, “I’ll see ya soon, T,” gave him half a smile when he deserved the full-ass thing, then slipped into my car and drove off.
I think he was too happy to notice my rushed departure.
“Wiles …” I lean forward on the screen of the treadmill, arms crossed. “No matter what’s goin’ on with me, you know the music always comes first. Music is what saves me every minute of my life and will continue to be ‘til I’m dust. I’m not goin’ rogue.”