Chapter 21 Chase
Chase
“Need a favor.”
I glance up from Tag’s couch, half focused on the song I’m playing and half watching Toaster sniff around the room for stray crumbs. “A favor?”
Tag looks like he’d rather ask a favor from the IRS after accidentally claiming his ex as a business expense than ask me. “Don’t get too excited. It’s a one-off thing.”
“The excitement is dizzying,” I say with a straight face. “Please elaborate.”
“My friend is getting married in two weeks, and the band he hired for the reception bailed.”
“Good thing there are about fifty DJs within a thirty-mile radius.”
“He doesn’t want that overproduced bubblegum-pop bullshit. Jesus.” He scowls. “Fuck Bruno Mars.”
My lips twitch. “Understood.”
“It’s a low-key reception. You know, that backyard, DIY type of shit. Burlap, mason jars, fairy lights. Pinterest board nonsense.”
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline.
“Anyway, he asked me if I could fill in last minute. Bands are booked up. It’s prime wedding season.”
“You seem to know an awful lot about weddings.”
A glare. “I’ve only got my acoustics. His fiancée wants a whole-ass band.”
“Okay.”
Tag glances at my guitar case, then blinks over at me. “You gonna make me say it?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck off. I’ll ask my buddy Zach.”
I sigh, placing the guitar beside me on the couch. “You can borrow my custom, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Yeah, well, I was actually getting at something else.” He looks extra pale, like he might puke up his four pieces of bacon pizza. “Thinking you could join me. Annalise too.”
I freeze, my head snapping up. “Wait, what?”
“Never mind. Terrible idea.”
“You want me to play the wedding with you?”
Pivoting away, Tag swipes a hand through his shoulder-length hair, his posture tense.
He releases a defeated breath. “It kills me to say it, but you’re a better singer.
You both are. One of my coworkers is in a band—plays drums—and he offered to bring his bassist along, so I just thought…
” A shrug. “It’s three thousand bucks, split five ways.
Figured there are worse ways to earn a paycheck. ”
“I’ll do it.”
Jabbing his tongue against his cheek, he swivels to face me. “It’s just a one-off.”
“You mentioned that.”
“I don’t want my sister getting any wild ideas. She loves to poke.”
As if summoned, Annie traipses down the staircase in a pair of cotton shorts and a heather-gray tank top, hair damp from her shower. Toaster darts straight to her, pawing at her bare legs.
“What about poking?” she asks, distracted, crouching to scratch between his ears.
My skin buzzes at the sight of her, a physical reaction. Instinctual, inherent.
Fucking catastrophic.
Wet strands of hair fall over her shoulders, curtaining her face. Remnants of her citrusy shampoo fill the room, overpowering the scent of cheap delivery pizza. I swallow, shifting in place and picking the guitar back up.
I’m sensing Tag hasn’t filled Annie in on his plan yet.
“It’s nothing. Just had a bad idea,” he mumbles, collapsing into a reclining chair and reaching for a triangular slice of pizza, now cold and crusty.
She makes a humming sound. “Groundbreaking.”
I stare down at the taut wire strings. “Your brother wants us to play a wedding with him.”
An involuntary laugh slips out. But when a wash of silence answers, she lifts her head, attention flicking from Tag to me, then back to Tag.
Slowly, she rises to her feet. “Wait, what?”
“That’s what I said.” I keep my head bowed, watching her from beneath my lashes as she floats across the room, staring at her brother like he just dropped the bomb that “Blinded by the Light” does not, in fact, say douche.
“Tag.” Her voice pitches higher. “Explain.”
He fills her in, avoiding eye contact, barely decipherable between giant bites of pizza.
Annie blinks at him. Turns to face me. “Are you doing it?” she asks, close to breathless.
I nod. “Yeah.”
It’s a no-brainer. Who am I to pass on six hundred bucks, doing something I love?
“Oh my God.” A smile lights up her face, one that’s been absent lately. Suppressed by broken dreams and no-way-outs. “We need to start practicing. There are so many good covers. They need to be upbeat, songs about love. I can research. A mix of classics and modern. Maybe…”
Her voice fades out. She’s still talking, alive and soul-stirred, practically singing the words. But all I do is watch her, drinking in the new bounce to her step, the animated way her hands move, the grin that doesn’t falter. No tears, no sorrow, no ghosts.
Just joy.
Ten minutes later, we’re out on the deck.
Tag called it a night, but 1:00 a.m. is prime time for us.
Annie is still buzzing, a fireball of energy, pacing back and forth with a cigarette between her fingers.
Her eyes are wide, gleaming in the low light.
“God, this is going to be incredible. I can’t believe we only have two weeks to put together a setlist.” She takes another puff. “Think we can do it?”
My mind is somewhere else. “Maybe.”
“Maybe, as in, yes?” A grin flickers. Another pull, another cloud. “Sounds like a yes.”
My gaze pans to the half-burned cigarette as she flicks ashes to the ground. “You’ve been smoking more.”
She stops pacing and glances at me, the smile slipping. “Yeah, I know. It’s becoming a habit.” Her arm drops to her side, tiny live coals scattering. “Guess I’m in my rebel era. Did you ever have one of those?”
I’ve had plenty. But one stands out. “Told my parents to fuck off, packed a box of essentials, and moved across the country with my dog and no plan.” I pop a shoulder. “That count?”
“Yeah,” she murmurs, a small frown forming. “That counts.”
She takes another drag, lips glossy, parted. A plume of smoke slips through.
Her chest rises and falls beneath the thin fabric of her top, the breeze bringing her nipples to a tight peak. My gaze dips for a beat too long before I force it back up.
What I don’t say is that I’m one wrong look away from diving headfirst into another rebel era. All I’ve got keeping me grounded is a shred of integrity and a few threads of willpower, frayed like old guitar strings.
One bad pull, and I’m snapping.
I step toward her.
She watches me approach, still as the night, save for the slow rise and fall of her breath. The cigarette dangles between her fingers, delicate kindling against the dark.
I reach for it, my hand brushing hers, our gazes still tangled.
The energy shifts.
A jolt of electricity.
Her eyes flare. She waits for me to crush the cigarette beneath my boot, to kill the moment before it becomes something else.
Instead, I lift it to my lips and inhale deep. Heat curls through my chest. The paper tastes like whatever watermelon lip balm is smeared across her mouth.
I want to taste more. Fucking all of it.
Her throat bobs, gaze flicking to my lips wrapped around the cigarette.
My dick jumps.
Fuck me.
Just like that, we’re both reminded.
I see the memories come alive in the blue swirl of her eyes.
Our texts.
I didn’t say anything outright damning, but the context was there. And she’s not an idiot.
I exhale slowly, smoke winding between us like a dark secret.
Annie looks away, breaking the spell. Moonlight spills across her face as she stares at the inky horizon. “Why did you move?” Her voice cracks on the last syllable.
I hesitate. Not just because it still hurts, but because I’m afraid of what might come out.
Taking another drag, I hand the cigarette back to her and blow a thin stream of smoke toward the sky. “I couldn’t look at them anymore,” I admit. “Or maybe because when I looked at them, I saw my own sins reflecting back at me.”
She spares me a timid glance. “Your sister?”
Turning, I lean against the side of the house. “Sometimes we run from something. Sometimes we run from ourselves.”
“Sounds like a losing race,” she whispers.
I nod. “Maybe that’s the point.”
Something shifts in her expression. Pain, understanding.
She drops her cigarette to the wood planks, grinding it out beneath the toe of her shoe before settling next to me, mirroring my stance. “I don’t think you’re a sinner, Chase. You’re a good person.”
We’re too close. Feels like nothing but a flimsy sheet of lace between us. Everything seeps through.
My jaw clenches as I look at her. “We’re all sinners, aren’t we?” I wait for her to find my eyes before adding, “Some of us just hide it better.”
Annie’s lashes flutter, fanning out in thick, dark wisps.
I think she’s about to reply. Counter the pain in my voice with enlightenment or wisdom.
But she surprises me.
Her hand reaches out, clasping with mine.
I nearly buckle. Her touch is warm, intoxicating.
More soothing than the midsummer breeze, more healing than any carefully sanded fretboard beneath my fingers.
She holds on to me like she wants to put me back together, piece by piece.
A song taking shape, the melody uncertain but the rhythm undeniable.
I consider pulling away, putting distance between us…
But I surprise myself too.
My palm opens, and I thread our fingers together.
The contact slams into me, raw emotion locking in my throat. I tip my head back against the siding and close my eyes. I can’t look at her. My heart is fucking dynamite in my chest, a match strike away from detonating. It’s been years since someone has touched me like this.
Like they meant it. Like I mattered.
My mind races, telling me to run.
New city. New life. Different girl.
That’s what I do.
I run.
But she squeezes my hand, her thumb brushing against my skin.
As if she hears me howling.
“I hate that you lost someone so important to you,” she breathes out. “Something irreplaceable. It’s not fair.”
Her thumb keeps moving with careful, gentle strokes.
Is this how it’s going to be?
Every night, a new line crossed. A glance, a song, a hug.
This.
With every waning midnight, tragedy looms closer. She’d fucking hate herself if something happened. It would ruin her. And I think that’s the only thing keeping me from pulling her to me and kissing the watermelon balm off her lips.
Our hands are still loosely entwined as her words sink in. I’m not sure what to say. A few nights ago, I was the one holding her together, talking her through it. Now she’s the anchor.
“Yeah,” I finally answer, my ring dusting along the side of her knuckle. “It’s staggering what stays with you. Shapes you. You lose something, and you think the memories will fade, but they don’t. They just latch on tighter, like a song on repeat, getting louder every time you play it.”
“Songs are kind of like people,” she muses, staring at our joined hands, looking dazed.
Conflicted and settled, all at once. “Some people you just notice. You see their smile, hear their voice, but they don’t leave a lasting impression.
And then you come across the kind of people who burrow deep.
They become more than smiles and eyes, more than just another voice in the crowd.
They become ingrained. Even when the songs are over and those people leave, you still feel them. They just…stick.”
My chest hammers as I stare into the dark abyss, the stars blurring into streaks. “That’s when you know it’s a good song.”
She hums thoughtfully. “That’s when you know it’s love.”
I blink. Look back down at her.
Our eyes meet beneath the string lights, and something stirs. A quiet moment, soft and unseen, but so tangible it reaches inside and whittles me down to bare bones.
I feel it. I feel that she feels it. This attraction. This insidious draw, armed with teeth and wings and a pounding pulse. It’s not one-sided.
It’s mutual.
And fuck how I wish it wasn’t.
“No matter what,” she says, her attention drifting to the snuffed out cigarette on the deck. “At least we still have music.”
I let go of her hand. But I don’t reply.
I can’t.
Because something inside of me knows…
She’s the music.
And that’s one thing I’ll never have.