Chapter 47 Chase
Chase
It’s wild how fast everything can change.
One minute, we’re watching Tag fight for his life on a hotel bed. The next, we’re signing big-money contracts, packing out venues we used to dream about, and answering calls from managers who wouldn’t have given us a second glance when we were nothing but a garage band.
The West Coast run turned into a sprint we couldn’t slow down. Interview requests, sponsorships, festival invitations, photoshoots. Every day, something new lands in our laps, and the stakes get bigger.
Gear cases slam shut around us, the heavy thud echoing off the warehouse walls. Dust floats in the pale light filtering through cracked windows.
“Somebody kill me now,” Kenna groans, dropping onto a battered leather couch that probably came with the building. “I’m too pretty to die stacking amps.”
I kneel by the pedalboards, coiling cables I can barely see straight. The pressure in my head is drilling deep, making the room swim if I move too fast.
“You good?” Tag claps me on the back as he passes with an armful of mic stands.
“Yep.” I shoot him a nod, swiping the sleeve of my hoodie across my sweat-glazed forehead. “Just beat.”
We’re back in LA for two days, rehearsing for a surprise pop-up show that our agent thinks will “keep the hype train rolling” and hopefully land us a label deal. After barreling up and down the coast, living out of buses, hotels, and gas stations, we’re already planning the next lap.
Bigger venues. Bigger crowds. Bigger expectations.
And if Carter has his way, we’ll be locked in a studio by February, cranking out an indie album at record speed. He even floated a European tour for spring, dangling sold-out venues in front of us like a prize we weren’t allowed to blink at.
For the first time, it isn’t about fighting to survive.
It’s about keeping up.
Tag eyes me with a trace of suspicion, as if he’s not buying what I’m selling.
But who the hell am I to complain about a headache when he literally came back from the dead two weeks ago?
The Narcan saved his life. Thank fuck for Zach, who’d packed it without fanfare or explanation. It wasn’t until after the paramedics left that he finally told us why.
His old bandmate back in Castleton had been using, trying to take the edge off late-night gigs and early-morning shifts.
Zach found him slumped over in a rehearsal space, gray and barely breathing.
He didn’t have Narcan then.
Turns out the Xanax Tag took wasn’t just Xanax. The single pill, bought off a random groupie to help him sleep, was laced with fentanyl.
Enough to kill him.
Almost did.
Setting aside the mic stands, Tag pulls off his beanie and saunters toward me. “You’re a terrible fuckin’ liar,” he says.
My eyes narrow. “Pot, meet kettle.”
“You think I’m not good?” He huffs a derisive laugh. “I’m fantastic. Better than ever.”
“Mm.”
“Death has a way of making you feel invincible.” He flashes a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Like you’ve already burned through your worst day, so what’s left to be afraid of?”
Wish I could say the same.
Death feels decidedly different for me.
It’s gripping a bathroom sink somewhere backstage, head pounding, vision tilting sideways, wondering how much longer I can ride this without crashing. It’s heaving my guts out in a gas station toilet, clinging to the porcelain like it’s my only salvation.
It’s losing myself in my girl, the animal taking over as I try so goddamn hard to cherish her while her pretty face goes in and out of focus.
My muscles tighten. I study him—his messy hair, faded band tee, the edge in his smile that wasn’t there before. “Is that why you’ve been acting like a rock star cliché lately?” I probe.
Tag shrugs. Sniffs. “Might be. Or maybe I’m just finally living like I’ve got nothing to prove.”
“Bullshit,” I say, softer now. “You’re still trying to outrun that night.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Just tugs the beanie back on and looks past me. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Guess you don’t walk away from something like that without a few ghosts in your closet.”
Then he turns, heading back to the sea of gear like he didn’t just admit something he’ll never say again.
My shoulders loosen. Relief floods in because he’s here. Breathing. Moving. Cursing under his breath about tangled cords.
But the image of him lying on that hotel bed, lips blue, still haunts me. Or the sound of Annie crying herself hoarse outside the hospital room, curled in the fetal position across my lap. Or the sight of Zach’s trembling hands when the EMT finally nodded and said Tag was going to be okay.
Tag jokes now, but I know he’s still carrying it. We all are.
And it scares the hell out of me. Because if death can slip that quietly into his pocket, it could just as easily find its way into mine.
Into any of ours.
“There’s my rock star.”
I pivot, watching as Annie skips toward me, a mod-dress vision in smoky eyeshadow. There’s a cigarette between her fingers, the embers stark against the dusk. “Hey,” I say.
She’s smoking again. It seemed like she’d ditched the habit somewhere between breaking up with Alex and our East Coast tour. But ever since Tag’s brush with death, she’s been lighting up like it’s the only way to keep from unraveling.
She doesn’t talk about that night, but I see it in the way her hands shake when she thinks no one is watching, her gaze full of shadows, or in how she drags each inhale like it’s tethered to something heavier than nicotine.
“It’s been a long day,” she murmurs as she steps into my space. Her free hand finds the hem of my shirt, tugging me closer.
“Long week.” I press a kiss to her temple. She smells like smoke and hotel shampoo and something distinctly her.
Annie leans in, cigarette dangling from her fingers. “Want to grab a bite to eat?”
I nod, glancing around the jam-packed room.
The label booked us a warehouse rehearsal space on the east side. Concrete floors, busted couches, a fridge that sounds like it’s trying to self-eliminate. Perfect for a last-minute pop-up show that’s somehow already sold out.
“Come on.” She stomps out her cigarette and takes me by the hand.
The sun is setting over Los Angeles like a crackling fire hearth. Low and golden, casting everything in a haze of heat and exhaust. Out here on the east side, it’s all warehouses and taco trucks, graffiti-tagged alleys, and that constant hum of something just barely holding itself together.
We don’t make it ten steps before a trio of girls spot us from across the parking lot. One lets out a squeal that cuts through the noise like feedback off a mic.
“Oh my God, that’s them!”
They descend fast—smiles wide, phones out, already filming as if documenting history.
“Chase Rhodes! Can we get a picture? Please? My sister will die.”
Someone shoves a napkin and a Sharpie at me.
Annie steps back as the women swarm.
“We’ll be at your show tomorrow. We have killer seats.” The blond smacks her gum. “Will you guys play ‘New Moon Rising’?”
“Yeah, it’s on the setlist.” I pop the cap between my teeth and scribble my name on a Starbucks napkin. “Thanks for coming to the show. You local?”
“Denver,” they all say at once.
Annie hangs to the side, head bowed. I wave her over. “Annalise.”
She smiles nervously. “They’re here for you. I’m—”
“Are you shitting me?” a brunette perks up, the purple streaks in her hair all too familiar. “You’re my idol. I’m low-key obsessed with you.”
“Hardly low-key,” the blond adds.
“She’s right. High-key as hell. I need a selfie stat.” Her grin is leagues above giddy. “Please?”
With a look of enchanted surprise, Annie steps over to the group and reaches for the marker, smile widening. “Um, thank you. So much. That means everything to me.”
“Are you two dating?” the third girl wonders.
I palm Annie by the neck and give a loving squeeze. “Yeah, she’s my girl.”
They all swoon.
We pose for selfies, sign a few more autographs, and the girls take off, squealing under their breath as they dart back across the street. When I turn to Annie, she’s close to tears.
“You okay?” My fingers trace the bow of her back in a featherlight slide. “You’re the one who looks starstruck.”
“I’m…” She swallows. “I wasn’t expecting that. I mean, I’m used to signing autographs after the shows, but it’s usually you and the guys with the hardcore fans.”
“Nah. That’s in your head. They go wild over you.”
She peers up at me, all light and sunny skies. Then she snatches my hand, links our fingers, and hauls me toward a nearby diner boasting happy hour specials.
We stroll in and take a seat in a two-person booth. Annie scans the menu, her tongue poking between her lips. “I want everything.”
“So order everything.” I lean back with a half smile, drumming my fingers on the table.
“Right.” She snickers.
“I’m serious. I can afford it now.”
Her lashes flutter as she blinks down at the selections. “I’ll just get a burger and fries.”
I stare at her, wondering what she’s thinking. My mind races with glimpses of the future, a tangle of unknowns. Are we going to move in together when we settle back home? Buy a house? What’s the next step?
The ink on my guitar deal hadn’t even dried before they started calling it a “revolution.” A game-changer. Custom orders stacked up like firewood, and every day since has felt like stomping through puddles of gasoline, waiting for the blaze to overtake me.
I have close to seven figures in my bank account, and that should feel like winning.
But it’s terrifying.
I’ve never laid roots or built any real life for myself. It’s been day to day, no brakes, wondering if the ground beneath my feet would hold another second.
Now I have a girlfriend. The most precious piece of me. Life going forward is more than just me, my dog, and a far-off dream.
It’s here. It’s happening.
And I have no fucking clue what to do.
Annie pulls out her phone and starts scrolling. “Did you see that picture I tagged you in?”
I whiz back to the present. “What picture?”
“Instagram.”
I hardly do social media.