Chapter 30 Chase
Chase
Somehow, it’s the last thing I expect to hear.
“Happy birthday!”
Confusion washes over me as I stand at the opening of the garage, looking like a bewildered puppy. Rock busts out a zippy drum solo while Annie blows on one of those neon-red party horns, then tosses a clump of something at me. I blink down at my boots.
Confetti.
“We’re going out. Hope you’re well-caffeinated and fully hydrated.” She does a hair flip, her heels clicking as she fetches her purse off one of the stools.
Tag smacks me on the back. “Congrats, old man. Another year around the sun.”
I forgot it was my fucking birthday.
But Annie remembered. I mentioned it once, some late night when Kenna crashed our practice and dove into one of her astrology speeches. Said Virgos were perfectionists with a martyr complex—artistic, analytical, and too observant for their own good.
Annie had smiled then. Not in a teasing way, but like she was putting the pieces together. Like she understood why I overthink everything. Why I care too much and say too little.
When she sends me that same smile from across the garage, I know I haven’t said enough.
Leave him.
Pick me.
I know you feel it too.
But I keep my mouth shut.
Because, martyr complex.
Zach downs his beer, his braids curtaining his face as he crunches the can. “Who’s D.D.?”
Annie clears her throat. “Alex.”
“Alex is coming?” My blood runs cold.
“Yeah.” She won’t look at me. “He has an SUV.”
Tag grumbles under his breath, packing his guitar back up. “Yippee. Can’t wait to be on the receiving end of death stares and backhanded insults all night.”
“He’ll behave,” Annie insists.
“Whatever. But if you invite him to my birthday party, I’m cutting all familial ties.”
I blow out a breath.
Part of me can’t comprehend why she’d invite him to my birthday outing.
Then again, part of me understands completely.
A black SUV rolls up ten minutes later in the form of a hulking Kia Sorento with tinted windows. The horn blares.
Annie whooshes past me, gripping her purse strap, practically hugging the edge of the garage as she moves, putting as much distance between us as possible. A warm breeze steals her hair, wrapping multicolored ribbons around her face as she hightails it over to the vehicle.
She slips inside the passenger seat as the guys and I climb into the back.
Alex smirks, taking her hand in a firm grasp and smacking a kiss to her knuckles before planting it on his knee. “Hey, baby.”
Her head bows. “Hey.”
The car reeks of familiar cologne. Something cheap but meant to smell overpriced and provocative. I slink lower in the seat and latch my buckle.
“Comfortable back there, birthday boy?” Alex’s eyes snag mine in the rearview mirror.
“Yeah. Thanks for the ride.”
“Absolutely. It’s nice to finally be included in these after-hours get-togethers.” He shoots Annie a look, pops the lever into Drive, then slams on the accelerator.
It’s a torturous fifteen-minute drive to Sand Bar.
Nobody speaks.
Nineties jams spin on rotation from the Bluetooth, “If You Could Only See” by Tonic a scoffing soundtrack to my discomfort.
I watch Annie fidget in her seat, plucking invisible threads from her ruby-sequined cocktail dress.
Her hand hasn’t left his knee, and his finger hasn’t stopped tracing little designs across her knuckles. He has her on a goddamn leash.
She peeks back at me every now and then, her chest inflating with stiff breaths, her floral perfume the only antidote to the spicy cologne plugging the air.
Closing my eyes, I tip my head against the headrest and zone out until we curve into the parking lot.
“I’ll find parking,” Alex says, dropping us off at the entrance. “Save me a seat.”
I leap from the SUV as if my legs grew wings. Fresh air rushes into my lungs, doing what it can to filter out the stubborn cloud of lingering disappointment.
Annie calls my name, though I’m already charging ahead, toward the bar lights. The reprieve.
This is fine. Preferable, even.
I’ll have a few drinks, socialize, and maybe meet a woman who isn’t borderline betrothed.
Unfortunately, she’s determined to follow like an all-consuming shadow, darkening my plans. And now she’s right behind me, hot on my dirty, black boots, refusing to let me chase the light I fucking crave.
“Hey. Wait up, will you?”
The rest of the guys shuffle around us, entering through the main door. Tag sends an ambiguous look over his shoulder that I decide not to read into. “What’s up?” My hands slide into my pockets, fingers curling.
“I, um…I’m sorry about the extra addition.”
“Why are you sorry? He’s your boyfriend.”
“I know, but—”
“But nothing. He has a right to be here.”
Edginess gnaws at me, gravel coating my tongue.
I don’t know if it’s the lack of sleep, the reminder that I’m another year older and Stella is another year gone, or the way Annie beams in her dress, gift-wrapped and glowing. The sewn-on sequins twinkle beneath the moon like bloodred stars, the fabric making love to her curves.
She blinks up at me, frowning slightly. “Okay. I just…I realize it’s your birthday, and he’s not someone you’d choose to celebrate with.”
I shrug. “To be honest, I forgot it was my birthday. I haven’t celebrated in years.”
Her lips shape into an O. “Oh.”
“So, I appreciate the effort. Extra addition or not.” It’s not a bold-faced lie. I appreciate the effort as much as I loathe it. Effort means she cares, and as long as she cares, hope dwells.
The hope is what I loathe.
Nodding, she draws her bottom lip between her teeth.
I can see she’s about to say something. But I also see that Alex is storming around the corner with lightning under his white leather sneakers.
Whipping around, I push inside the bar, leaving her just outside the entrance.
Strobe lights paint the floor in watercolor lights. A live band plays from the stage while patrons dance below, a swirl of hair, limbs, sweat, and capsizing glasses.
That godforsaken pressure grows, pulsing between my temples.
Goddammit.
These migraines are shit.
I wind over to the bar, squeezing between two women in summery citrus dresses.
Lemon rakes her eyes over me on my right.
Orange sends me a smile to my left. An order is placed, a whiskey neat sliding across the counter through a puddle of melted ice.
It goes down smooth, a quick, cheap remedy to the hole in my heart and the boulder in my brain.
Before pivoting away, I pause, glancing at Lemon. She’s the opposite of Annie with sheaves of golden blond hair, cocoa-brown eyes, and a rail-thin frame. Pretty by all standards.
Yet the sight of her does nothing for me.
And that’s fucked.
I’m twenty-five years old, have been celibate for longer than I care to admit, and have no ties to anyone, no loyalty in question, and no good fucking reason to not introduce myself.
See where it goes. Open my eyes to someone other than Annalise Adams, who is currently arm in arm with her long-term boyfriend, a sun-kissed smile on her scarlet lips.
Pressing two fingers to the center of my forehead, I turn back around and slump against the bar. Another whiskey is placed in front of me several seconds later.
I down that one too, then order a third.
“You okay?”
A mousy voice registers on my right. Lemon.
I stare straight ahead, my liquor glass hiding the smile I’m not wearing. “Yeah. I’m good.”
The truth is, I drink beer when I’m good. I drink straight whiskey when I want to forget that I’m not.
“I’m Jaclyn.”
I finally spare her a glance, watching as she teases a plump cherry between her teeth.
To my detriment, all I can think about is the way Annie braided cherry stems into perfect little bows with only her tongue.
“You’re too good-looking to look so sad,” Lemon-slash-Jaclyn continues, inciting conversation.
My face sours. It’s an odd thing to say, but it’s nothing I haven’t heard over the last few years. “I wasn’t aware those two attributes were correlated,” I reply.
The cherry disappears inside her mouth. “Good-looking people have a duty to uphold.”
“Elaborate.”
“It’s nothing concrete, of course, but I feel like it’s the tradeoff for being gifted with physical perfection. You have a responsibility to make the less fortunate around you feel beautiful too.”
“Perfection,” I echo.
I’m not sure why I’m humoring her, but the guys are huddled at the opposite end of the bar chugging J?gerbombs, Alex is grinding on Annie amid a mass of people, and I’m not sure what else to do but guzzle whiskey until I black out.
“Did I say that?” Another cherry finds its way to her mouth, lingering between her lips for a beat before sliding inside. “Tell me what you do for a living.”
The migraine grows teeth, chewing through my skull. “I’m a woodworker. Also play in a band.”
Her eyes gleam. “You’re a musician?”
“We’re just starting out. We have a gig in two months at The Soundproof.”
“Where’s that?”
“New York.”
Pillowy pink lips curve up with a smile. “Wow, that’s big-time stuff. What’s the date?” She turns to fully face me. “I’ll come see you.”
My gaze flicks over Jaclyn’s head, catching with Annie’s. Her movements slow, her eyes meeting mine across the dance floor. She glances at the blond, then back at me. Notable tension creeps across her face, as if she doesn’t like what she sees.
That’s fucked too. Almost as much as the empty feeling churning in my gut while this pretty girl flirts with me.
Swallowing half my whiskey, I exhale a long breath. “October fourteenth.”
“On my calendar.” She pulls out her phone and pops in the date.
I’m all out of conversation.
Seconds slug by as I finish my drink and toss the glass on the counter, avoiding Jaclyn’s throat clears and jittery limbs as she thinks of new ways to earn my attention.
But my attention is earned when Annie pushes her way between me and Orange. My body stiffens, skin starts to sweat. It’s instinct. A physical reaction to her arm brushing mine.