Chapter 35 Annalise
Annalise
The week flies by in a whirlwind.
Everything hit a no-turning-back pinnacle when Crowley’s text came through midday, hours after I received the first slew of messages, while I was scrubbing ketchup stains off my apron.
Crowley: Hope you’re ready. The Soundproof wasn’t your peak. It was your beginning.
I’ve watched that video more times than I can recount, the fifteen-second reel currently sitting at a shocking 7.2 million views. We looked like a band. A real one. Not a garage experiment or a maybe-someday fantasy, but something authentic.
Something people want more of.
Suddenly, everything we joked about, whispered about, wished for, became more than a dream. Now it’s a reality. A ticking clock.
At my urging, Kenna’s taken on the role of unofficial talent manager, leveraging her social media hustle and an old boyfriend’s music-industry hookup to spin our fifteen minutes of fame into big-time stuff.
I told her she was being wasted at that diner, that she could do anything, and if she was up for it, I wanted her by my side.
She didn’t even hesitate. Even before I insisted on paying her.
Kenna: BESTIE! Labels are sniffing. You guys have a window. If you want a tour, I’ll talk to Crowley. We can make it happen. The world is waiting.
My best friend’s texts are already spiraling into action-mode as she showcases her managerial knack and puts her go-getter nature to good use.
Interviews with gossip columns, reposts, and reaction videos flood our feeds.
Music blogs call it “a cosmic collision of grit and glitter,” and someone even dubs Chase “the man who strums stars.” My voice gets dissected on social apps and looped into mashups.
One viral stitch compares our sound to “if Florence my heart is a playlist. “Yes.”
He clears his throat, falters briefly. Almost like the song scares him or intimidates him in some strange way. I brace myself for the lyrics, for the pieces that spoke to him, wondering how they’ll speak to me.
Chase swallows and lets out a breath. Then his voice wraps around me in velvet and smoke, softer than usual, but no less alive. His fingers find the chords with practiced finesse, but there’s nothing practiced about the way he sings. It’s raw and real. Soul deep.
The air stills.
I hear the ache in his voice before I register the words. Grief wrapped in longing. Someone chasing ghosts. It’s not a performance.
It’s a confession.
And suddenly, I do know the song.
But not from playlists. Not because I’ve heard it before.
I know it because I know him.
My throat locks with sentiment. A gritty, painful chokehold. Lyrics flow through me, moving like thick molasses, catching in too-tight places.
Don’t cry.
Please don’t cry.
Stinging pressure builds behind my eyes. I clench my hands in my lap, begging them not to reach for him. The diamond on my finger glints under the lights, reminding me. Scolding me. It’s supposed to be a promise, but it feels like a weight.
I cover it with my palm, hiding it away.
The lyrics cleave holes in me. His voice winds through my veins, rewriting my blood.
I love this song.
I hate this song.
Bowing my head, I close my eyes and just wait for it to be over.
And when it is, I want more.
“Here,” Chase says, his voice a pitch-perfect note through the murky static. “Try it out.”
I force my eyes back open, lashes damp and fluttering. “What?”
“The guitar.”
When I finally look at him, he’s handing it over to me. A mass of gorgeous, polished wood. Too breakable for my unsteady hands.
I shake my head slightly.
“Have you ever played?”
“Once,” I whisper. “A little. Tag tried to teach me, but I wasn’t any good. It doesn’t come naturally.”
“Just takes practice. I can teach you.”
He’s too close, and he’s only getting closer. But the guitar hovers between us, beckoning me to take it. On a deep inhale, I do.
I place it on my lap, fingers curling around the neck. “I don’t—”
“Scoot forward.”
My body stiffens, pulse jolting. Gulping, I inch toward the edge of the cushion. Chase leans back, just enough to give me space. Just enough to make me aware of how little of it there is.
Then he moves around the couch, behind me.
His denim-clad thigh brushes mine as he gets into position, knees bracketing my hips, chest grazing my spine. The heat from his body sears me, and I feel it all, every breath, every heartbeat, every whisper of his fingers as they reach around to guide mine on the strings.
“Relax,” he murmurs near my ear, and I’m pretty sure the word relax has never done the opposite so effectively. “Let your hands follow mine.”
He adjusts my grip, slow and steady, his calloused fingers grazing my softer ones like they belong there.
Sinking back, I release a breath, a shiver, a prayer.
“Right there,” he says.
I feel the words more than I hear them, reverberating through my marrow.
I try to focus; I really do.
But the scent of him, warm and familiar, a hint of smoky cedar and something darker, settles into my lungs, and the room around me blurs like a rain-beaten window. Water echoes off the shingled roof in streams of pitter-patters, pounding in time with my pulse.
Chase hums a chord to demonstrate, then guides my fingers to mimic it.
My strum is clumsy, and I wince. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He smiles against my cheek. “You’ll get it.”
I won’t.
I can’t concentrate.
My heart is beating too loud, overpowering every chord.
We try again, and a few more off-key notes breach the air.
“Not bad. Try pressing down a little harder on the A string. Like this.” His hand wraps around mine, firm fingers guiding my graceless ones.
The contact sends a shock up my arm. My breath catches, nerves curdling in my throat. “I’m really bad at this.”
“You’re not. You just don’t trust yourself yet.” His voice drops a little. “Trust me instead.”
I nod, barely.
We strum again, better this time. Still not perfect, but enough to take the shape of a melody.
“There it is,” he says, voice low and damn near haunting.
I laugh under my breath and risk a glance back. His eyes lock on mine.
Our faces are inches apart. As he swallows, his gaze drops to my lips, then flicks up again, unreadable but charged. The smile is gone. Mine was never there.
I’m fucking petrified.
His hand stills, but he doesn’t move away. Just stares at me, breath hot and heavier, focus fixed like he’s memorizing the color of my eyes, every swirling, frightened pigment.
A frown creases on his brow. Something creeps across his expression, and his legs tighten around me, caging me in. His hand starts moving up my arm, my shoulder, my neck, landing on my jaw and tilting my face toward him.
A beat.
A lean.
Our lips touch.
Not a kiss, but a graze. The briefest brush of something too big to name. His mouth hovers against mine, tongue poking out to taste my bottom lip.
A tease.
And it detonates inside me.
I suck in a sharp breath, choking down razor blades. I’m frozen. Shaking. Cracking open from the inside.
Panic floods in.
No.
With a sharp gasp, I jump off the couch. The guitar topples off my lap with a dull thud. I don’t turn back. Can’t look at him.
I just run.
Out of the room, through the kitchen, into the dark, wet night, a trapped scream shredding my throat and tears bursting from my eyes.
The rain falls hard.
But I’m falling harder.