Chapter 33 Chase
Chase
It’s done.
Finally.
The new custom is heavy as hell as I sling the strap over my shoulder and pull it against my chest. It’s more showpiece than instrument, but I only plan to use it for one song.
Shaped like a crescent moon with a black burst melting into midnight blue, it looks like it was carved from the night itself. The Luminlay inlays catch the light with an otherworldly glow, like stars waking up under the stage strobes.
My upper body’s going to hate me, but she’s got presence. All sleek curves and sharp promise. The perfect storm for Annie’s “Night Song.”
We nailed the outro last week.
[Outro]
I used to chase the sun
A fire bold and bright
Now I watch the embers fade
Waiting for the night
We’re one day out from our set at The Soundproof. Five songs, all tightened, polished, and refined. Hours of rehearsals over the past few months. Fingers raw and calloused. Tag’s neighbors ready to file noise complaints. But every minute has been worth it.
Toaster sniffs around the sawdust shavings as I prop the instrument on the couch and take a step back, reaching for my phone. Snapping a quick photo, I shoot it off to the group text.
Me: She’s ready.
I take a seat and wait for the reactions to pour in.
Rock: LFG!!!!!!
Zach: Whoa. Hella sick.
Tag: ??????
Tag: ??????
A sense of pride settles in my chest.
I can’t help but think about where I was at the beginning of the year, drowning in debt with a bullet wound in my leg, an empty fridge, and my dog as my only friend. Not long ago, life felt like a pointless, uphill crawl, all sharp corners, wrong turns, and dead ends.
I think about the gas station owner, what I cost him, and how I’m finally getting closer to making it right.
Because now I’ve got a guitar business that’s finally breaking even, a band that feels more like family than an outlet, and tomorrow night, we’re opening for Unbidden at one of the most iconic music venues in New York City.
Not bad for a guy who used to pull fifteen-hour shifts carving furniture and hustled random shit online just to afford string packs and instant noodles.
I drag the guitar onto my lap and study the high-gloss polyurethane finish, my fingers skimming over the wire strings.
Another text notification comes through.
Annie: Chase. Wow. It’s absolutely stunning.
Annie: I’m crying.
My lips twitch. She probably is.
Me: One more sleep until we hit the stage.
I tap Send.
Rock: Celebrating early, baby!
A picture of a bong pops up on the screen.
Tag: Same bitches
Another picture swooshes: Tag’s hand wrapped around a beer bottle.
Zach sends a photo of his daughter holding his bass guitar, the instrument as big as she is.
And then there’s Annie.
She sends a picture of the moon.
Annie: One more sleep. One more honey moon. ??
***
The energy tonight is absolute electricity, and The Soundproof is alive with it.
Nestled between an unassuming alley and a bustling dive bar, the venue boasts velvet curtains, blackened rafters, and a stage worn by decades of stomped boots and shattered snares.
The hallways vibrate with basslines and setlists past as we wait in the green room beneath the stage, a cramped space that smells like old amps and bourbon.
The walls are riddled with signatures and Sharpie-scrawled lyrics from every act that’s ever come through. Some legends, some forgotten. I hear the crowd buzzing with anticipation, most here for the headliner, some curious about the no-name band opening for Unbidden.
Luckily we’ve come prepared.
A worn graphite-gray couch sinks in the middle of the room, half covered in guitar cases and leather jackets, while the hum of the audience filters through the floorboards above, revving my pulse.
Tag paces near the minifridge, tapping out beats on his thighs.
Zach tunes his bass for the fifth time, and Rock chats with Crowley against the far wall.
“—which is prime for maximum shreditation,” my drummer says, his grin goofy and eyes half-lidded. “Are you a shredator?”
Crowley looks perplexed. He folds his arms over a crisp white button-down and sharp checkered tie, the look toned down with the addition of a faded leather vest. He’s part businessman, part rock aficionado. “Not sure. Am I?”
Rock eyes his outfit. “You’re suppressing the shred. But there’s potential.”
Shaking my head, I glance at Annie curled in the corner with her notebook, mouthing lyrics like a litany. A smile pulls as I approach, returning my guitar to its stand as the inlays sparkle under the overhead fluorescents. “You’re in the zone.”
She flicks me a look, face paler than snow. “Is that what on-the-verge-of-puking looks like?”
Now that she mentions it, she does look borderline green.
I crouch down beside her, dropping to my butt. “Nervous?”
“That’s a word for it.”
“You’re going to kill it out there.”
“Or die trying. Actually, that’s more likely.” She gulps. “Probable, even.”
My eyes rake down her thigh-length leather dress. Raven black and skintight. A vision pops into my head, but it has nothing to do with her text about loving to give blow jobs.
Nope.
That mental image has been scrubbed from my mind.
On every day that doesn’t end in Y.
Refocusing, I clear my throat and stretch my legs, our thighs brushing.
“My sister used to give me advice whenever I was teetering the line of a nervous breakdown. Back when I played sports, mostly. She would say, ‘Always end on a high note.’ And that was to say that no matter how many times you inevitably screw up, never let it get to you. Never let it show. Keep going, stay confident, and leave them with the best version of you—the version you want them to remember.” I glance over, smirking faintly.
“Of course, she said that right before I struck out three times in a row at regionals, but you get the point.”
Annie breathes out a laugh, ducking her head. “I like that.”
“Something to keep in mind.” My head presses back against the scratched, scribbled wall, and I twirl the silver band around my thumb, centering myself.
I’m nervous too. But the rush of adrenaline overpowers the jitters, giving me clarity. This is what I’ve worked for. This is what Stella always wanted for me.
As Annie tosses her notebook aside, her slinky of black bangle bracelets slides down to the edge of her palm, revealing a gnarly bruise around her wrist.
My stomach twists. I snatch her by the elbow.
She jumps. “Chase, what—”
“What is this?” My touch is gentle but firm, my thumb dusting over the purplish ring glowing on her skin. I lift my gaze, frowning as I stare at her. “Alex?”
Her eyes bulge as she tears her arm away from my grip. “No…no, it’s from a bracelet I was wearing the other day. It was on too tight.”
She swiftly pulls to a stand, floats away, and approaches Tag near the fridge as he cracks open a beer.
I follow. “Annie.”
Ignoring me, she steals Tag’s beer and downs half of it. “I need some fuel.”
Tag gives me a side-eye before glancing down at his sister. “Fridge is stocked, thank you very much.” He snatches it back. “Some vodka in there too.”
“I haven’t eaten. That won’t end well.”
“Annie—” I take her by the shoulder and whirl her around to face me. My hand skims down her upper arm with a light squeeze. “Talk to me.”
She paints on a smile. “Ready, rock star?”
My jaw tenses, muscles turning to stone.
Fucking Alex.
He did that; he left those bruises. And she still wears his damn ring, ready to spend forever under his thumb, drowning in shadow, smiling through the pain she’s convinced herself to bear.
“Yeah,” I mutter, having no other choice but to let it go until after the show. “Ready.”
Stepping away, I press the heel of my hand to my head.
Pressure starts to thrum behind my left temple.
Fuck.
Not now.
Crowley gives us a five-minute warning, and I use it to lock myself in the en suite bathroom, swallowing a handful of pills in one go.
It’s just drugstore pain reliever, nothing strong enough.
But it’s all I have, and I need to get through this set as clearheaded as possible, because once those stage lights hit, there’s no turning back.
I lift my eyes to the mirror, cracking my neck, rolling my shoulders.
My reflection blurs for a beat before refocusing, and I blink away the flecks of light skating across my vision.
With sheer willpower alone, the headache dulls.
It placates into a mild ache, subdued by the adrenaline running marathons through my blood.
I got this.
We fucking got this.
I splash cool water on my face, rake my fingers through my hair, and take a deep breath.
Showtime.
When I reenter the green room, the band is gearing up for our cue.
Crowley pops in and out, inspecting equipment and assessing our spirits.
Annie twinkles under the low light with glittery eyeshadow, shimmer-doused skin, and pixie dust in her hair.
She glances my way, shoots me a nervous smile.
Then she circles a hand around her bruised wrist and drops her head, the smile fading.
I saunter over to her, forcing my concern to take a back seat. My shoulder nudges hers. “Honeymoon phase,” I remind her softly.
A tiny grin flickers back to life. “No nerves allowed in the honeymoon phase.”
“That’s right.”
“Always end on a high note,” she says, echoing my sentiment from earlier. Squaring her shoulders and standing tall, she exhales a calming breath. “I can do this.”
Before I can respond, Crowley points at me. “You’re up.”
The room stills. No one breathes.
Then something unspoken clicks into place, and we all converge. Tag cracks his knuckles and slings his guitar across his back while Rock mutters a half-hearted joke that doesn’t land, but no one cares because we’re already moving.
The hallway narrows, the floor thumping beneath our boots as we follow the pulsing beat of the crowd up the stairs and beyond the curtain. Stage lights spill from the wings, casting our shadows against the concrete wall.