Chapter 47 Chase #2
My follower count is just shy of a mil, and my inbox is flooded with unread messages. Kenna combs through every now and then, posting strategically timed band-related photos with emoji-ridden captions, just to keep my presence alive. To keep the fans hungry. According to her, aesthetic matters.
Shaking my head, I grab my phone and open the app.
A smile lifts when I see the most recent picture glowing on her profile grid: the two of us sitting on a curb outside some no-name diner at midnight, a half-empty bag of fast food between us and a busted neon sign flickering overhead.
Her head’s tipped back in laughter, eyeliner smudged, while I’m looking at her like she’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.
The caption reads: Conquered LA. Busted a lung. Signed so many autographs I forgot how to spell my name. And this is still the best part of my night.
My heart does something ridiculous. Skips like a scratched vinyl, then drops to a rhythm I feel in my throat. I find her eyes across the table. “I fucking love you.”
Those blue eyes gloss over with a swell of tears. She chews her lip, sets her phone down. “I love you too. So much.”
Her nose scrunches with affection.
Then she reaches for a fry the moment they’re set in front of her, and I just watch. The way she licks the salt from her skin. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear like she doesn’t know I’d sell my soul to keep her this close.
She’s mine. She chose me.
So why am I still holding my phone like it might bite?
On a whim, I glance back down at the app and type his name before I can stop myself.
Alex Anderson.
The guy who had her for years before I ever even knew her name.
The newest post loads. He’s sitting on a sandy beach, the ocean sprawled out before him, the sunrise kissing the water just right.
The caption is vague. Some bullshit about healing.
But there it is: liked by theannaliseadams.
A shot of insecurity trickles through me.
I lock my phone and flip it over, pressing my palm to the screen, hoping that’ll smother the flicker in my chest.
Across the table, Annie is laughing at something Rock texted to the group chat.
I try to let it go. Try to remind myself that it’s just a like. Just a photo. Just a guy she doesn’t love anymore.
But my mouth is faster than my sense. “You still talk to him?”
Her laugh fades as she looks up. “What?”
“Alex,” I say, tone neutral. “Do you still keep in touch?”
She blinks, like I’ve caught her mid-step. “No. Why?”
“Just noticed you liked his latest post.”
She frowns, chewing the inside of her cheek. “Oh. Yeah. I was trying to be supportive.”
That should be enough. It is enough. Still, my voice dips with vulnerability. “So you’re still following him?”
Her frown deepens with confusion. “I guess,” she says quietly. “He was such a big part of my life for so long. And it felt kind of mean to dig the knife in deeper after everything, you know?”
I nod, every muscle cinched tight, doing my best to act like it doesn’t matter. Like it didn’t just throw a wrench in the peace I’ve been clawing toward all week.
She leans across the table, brow furrowed. “Chase, look at me,” she murmurs. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter. I love you.”
I believe her. But belief doesn’t quiet the ghosts. And it won’t stop the pounding in my skull that comes every time the stage lights fade.
So I make the same silent promise I’ve been making night after night: keep the pain hidden. Keep her safe when the darkness takes over.
Because I’d rather wreck myself in silence than risk her seeing me as someone she can’t trust to love her right.
When she turns back to her fries, I unlock my phone again, scrolling to distract myself and quiet the noise.
That’s when I see it.
Not on Annie’s feed. Not even from someone I follow. Just a headline buried beneath a few swipes of the explore page:
Local Vermont Gas Station Vandalized Following Viral Shooting Story
I click it before I can stop myself.
The article is short. Just a paragraph about broken windows and spray-painted walls. No one hurt. Just damage. A message from the public, blaming the man who pulled the trigger on me.
I stare at the screen, nausea curling slow in my gut.
Because that wasn’t supposed to happen.
The truth got out, and the world did what it always does—picked a villain and lit a match. But the man behind that counter wasn’t evil. Just scared. A cornered animal. A father trying to protect what little he had left.
And now he’s paying for it.
I lock my phone and slide it into my pocket, pushing aside the sting buzzing in my chest.
I need to make it right with them.
The check comes, and we leave most of the food behind, too caught up in each other to care. Outside, the night’s backdrop settles around us. Our steps fall in rhythm, the shuffle of boots on pavement and the hum of passing cars filling the comfortable silence.
The air’s cooled. The kind of LA night that tries to pretend it has seasons. A breeze tugs at the hem of her jacket as she slows near the curb.
Then she tugs my sleeve, pulling me off course. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
Taking my hand, she drags me over to a worn wooden bench tucked beneath a crooked streetlamp, a little ways from the restaurant. It overlooks a hill, half obscured by trees, the city glowing in patches beneath us. The moon is round and bright, the sky dusted with stars.
We sit.
“The moon is full tonight,” she whispers, pressing her temple to my shoulder.
I spare it a quick glance. “Yeah.”
My eyes close as I wrap an arm around her and let myself sink. The noise falls away. The fresh air fills my lungs, mingling with a trace of her. Warm, soft, feminine.
Mine.
God, the way I lived for these moments. Songwriting with her beneath a honey moon. Pouring our souls into lyrics and strings. Letting the night hold us when the world felt too loud.
Back when it was just us, a guitar, and whatever pain we hadn’t put into words yet.
I press a kiss to her hair, the weight of her against me grounding something that’s been slipping for days.
“You remember that night in Philly?” I murmur.
“You were barefoot and drenched, crouched under that willow tree after the show, scribbling lyrics before they slipped away. The paper was soaked through, ink bleeding all over your hands. You said the universe was trying to drown your muse.”
She chuckles. “It was.”
“You still got a song out of it.”
“My favorite one yet.”
New moon rising
Shadows on the run
I feel the world restart beneath a different sun
Smiling softly, I fix my eyes on the horizon. “Not the last though.”
I hold her tighter, letting the moonlight stretch over us. If there’s a quiet left in this life, I’ll find it here. In her, in the dark, in the music we haven’t written yet.
“We’re going to make it, right?”
Her question steals a breath. Frowning, I slowly turn, glancing down at her as her eyes peer up at me, wide and glassy. “The band?”
She smiles at me, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
She doesn’t reply.
“Yeah.” I pull her closer, hold her harder. “Yeah, Annie. Of course we’re gonna make it.”
Swallowing, she returns her head to my shoulder and grips my palm, squeezing tight.
I rub two fingers over my temple, grinding against the pressure, willing it to back off.
Just one more show.
One more set until we’re home.
One more promise I pray I can keep.