Chapter 49 Chase
Chase
I feel good tonight. Better than I have in weeks.
Since starting on a new prescription, the pressure in my head has eased into a dull, manageable ache. It’s wild how much a little relief can shift your whole perspective on everything, from the day ahead, to the future you stopped letting yourself believe in.
It’s been a week since we toured Europe, and we’re back in Rutland for a spring break festival across town.
Home base.
Cops are everywhere, trying to keep the peace and the crowd in check, but the vibe is electric. People are camped out in lawn chairs and sprawled on colorful blankets, waving foamboard signs and homemade posters while they wait for us to take the stage.
We all gather in the pop-up tent that’s roped off and swarming with security. Familiar faces bleed through the chaos: Annie and Tag’s parents waving from behind the barricades, my old boss Solomon nodding like he always knew this would happen.
Zach’s daughter, Marie, is here, clinging to her mother’s side, wide-eyed and smiling, while a couple of his old bandmates hover nearby, proud and a little out of place.
Rock’s newest girlfriend—some LA metal chick with ink from neck to ankle and piercings I can’t count—dances like the set’s already started, her black hair whipping in time with nothing but the energy in the air.
Even Declan and Lillian, the wedding couple we played for before everything took off, showed up and are grinning ear to ear.
It’s loud. Wild. Unruly.
But for the first time in a long while, I can hear the magic through the madness.
I don’t have to fake it today.
Kenna limps over on a pair of crutches, after breaking her foot two days before we set off on our European tour. “I’m barely recovered from Tag dropping an amp on my foot, and now he expects me to run merch like it’s the Olympics.”
Tag winces. “You said you’d catch it.”
“I said I’d help. Not that I wanted to die under it.”
We all laugh.
Kenna shoots Tag the smallest smile, one she thinks we don’t see. Then she blows out a breath and trudges over to the merch table strewn with T-shirts, mugs, keychains, and a giant banner with a QR code that lets fans pre-order our debut album releasing in August.
Annie pops up from the chair, giving Kenna her seat. She flicks her half-smoked cigarette, smashing it into a pile of weeds with her shoe. “Why does playing a few miles from home feel like our biggest show yet?” she wonders, floating around, organizing until everything’s just right.
“Because of the stakes. Literally everyone you’ve ever met is in that crowd.” Kenna collapses into the chair and discards her crutches. “No pressure.”
“Oof.”
“You’ll kill it as always. I’m dying to hear the new song you whipped up.”
“It was a joint effort,” Annie says softly, her eyes lifting to me across the tent. “Chase and I wrote most of it overseas between shows.”
I send her a smile that grows into a white-toothed grin.
Real. Genuine.
She blinks at me. Processes the moment like it stole her breath.
Then she smiles back, beaming, glowing, and full of love.
Kenna whistles, glancing between us. “Jeez. Get a room.”
Annie’s eyes stay locked on mine. “We’ve had rooms in multiple countries. Some with ocean views.”
They snicker.
I’m pulled from the moment when Tag sidles up beside me, slapping me on the back. “You look better.”
Pivoting toward him, I shove my hands in my pockets. “I’m on some new meds for my migraines. Finally doing the trick.”
“Sweet. Love that for you.” He nods at his sister across the way, eyes going reflective. “Pretty sure you had Sis half convinced it was just jet lag. But I knew better.”
I frown a little. “Yeah?”
Tag shrugs, but it’s slower, less of his usual swagger. “I’ve worn that face. The one that says, ‘I’m fine, don’t look too close.’ You only pull it out when the ground’s falling out from under you.” He gives a small laugh. “Trust me, I had the deluxe version.”
I nod softly, the air heavier between us.
Then his grin reappears, just like that. He nudges me with his shoulder. “But hey, yours came with better hair and a prettier guitar. So, points to you.”
“Baby steps,” I murmur.
He claps me on the back again, this time hard enough to jolt my spine. “Well, try not to die onstage. I’ve got fifty bucks riding on you nailing that high note in ‘Monowi.’”
“Jesus.” I shake my head and breathe out a laugh. But before he spins away, I clear my throat. “Hey…how are you? Really?”
Tag glances at me, jaw ticking. His eyes flicker before he slaps on a smile. “Living the dream.”
“Yeah?” I study him, searching for the crack. The lie.
But a softness comes over him, loosening his shoulders as he exhales through his nose. His gaze drifts over to Kenna, just for a beat. For a fleeting second. “Yeah, man,” he says. “Yeah. I’m doing better. Think I’m finally good.”
We share a look, something steeped in history.
Resentment, regret, the kind of shit you only work through by bleeding on the same stage night after night. There was a time he wanted to knock my teeth in.
Now we’re rhythm and lead. Battle-scarred and still in tune.
He nods once, turning to go. But not without tossing a glance over his shoulder. “You screw up the bridge, I’m stealing your solo.”
I smirk. “You steal my solo, I’m cutting your reverb mid-set.”
He grins, flips me off, then disappears into the noise.
And somehow, that’s the closest we’ve ever come to saying we’re good.
Someone calls five minutes to stage.
I grab my guitar, sling the strap over my shoulder, and take one last look around.
My family. My girl. My second chance.
A small keychain swings from my belt loop. A wooden guitar, etched with a single word: Hallelujah.
The birthday gift Annie gave to me eight months ago.
I unclip it, let it rest in my palm. My thumb traces the worn edges, the flaking paint, the grooves carved by time and touch. It centers me. Anchors me.
A lifeline, small and mighty.
I give it a quick kiss, then reattach it to my belt.
The lights are waiting, but I already feel like I’m home.
As we take the stage, I glance around at the screaming, moving audience. The electric guitar is a welcome weight in my hands, the energy more therapy than drug.
I inhale a long breath.
The kind that fills your chest all the way.
The kind that actually sticks.
I glance at Annie standing beside me, her hands curled around the microphone like it’s a secondary lover. She looks calm, but I know better. I can see the pulse in her neck, the way her shoulders rise just a little too high with each breath.
Still, there’s fire in her eyes. Stage fire.
Our gazes lock for half a second, long enough to say, “We’re here. We made it. Let’s go.”
Tag strums a few warm-up chords behind us. Rock flips a drumstick. Kenna gives us a wave from the side of the stage, foot in a boot but smiling anyway.
I squeeze the neck of my guitar. Annie mouths the first line of the set under her breath, our newest song, written in crinkled notebooks and on hotel napkins as we bounced across Europe.
It’s called “No Maps.”
The lights dim.
The crowd roars.
And together, we step into the noise.
See the world and sing along
Shake hands with kings and vagabonds
Walk the roads where empires fell
Hear the stories books don’t tell
The lights hit, and it feels like stepping into the sun, the crowd below us a living thing.
Every chord hums through my bones, and for a moment, I forget.
Forget the pain, the pills, the quiet way Annie looks at me when she thinks I’m not watching.
Up here, it’s just sound and skin and sweat.
The buzz of the amp. The beat of the kick drum in my chest.
My fingers fly. My voice holds.
Sip the wine of stolen thrones
Trace the cracks in ancient stones
The lights streak across my vision, but I keep my eyes open. Every note I play hits like a muscle memory I don’t remember learning. The crowd is howling back at us, louder than the amp behind me.
But all I can focus on is the sweat trickling down my spine and the slight twitch in my left hand.
It’s starting again. Barely there.
But I feel it.
That shift. That edge.
The one that tells me something’s coming.
So we run
With blistered feet and borrowed time
Chasing stars we’ll never find
No maps, no prayers
Just broken chords and midnight stares
I glance at Annie. She’s fire and control. A goddess in denim and violet light.
Her voice hits that note in the third line, and the audience goes still, feeling it in their bones.
I strum through the chorus, blinking hard as my vision blurs for a second too long.
My fingers go numb for half a beat.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste blood.
Stay. Focus. Breathe.
Bleed with wars
And love gone wrong
A pressure blooms behind my left temple. Deep, sharp, alive.
It claws its way into my skull, twisting tighter with every cheer from the crowd.
My knees wobble. I fake a step back, mask it as part of the rhythm.
Annie looks at me. I miss the cue.
The chord slips under my fingers, wrong, jagged.
She knows.
She always knows.
And just as the next line echoes out across the crowd, the migraine punches through.
White-hot and splitting.
I blink once.
Then everything starts to tilt.
Art is living
We are the song
My vision cuts out. Static and black noise. I can’t fucking see.
Sound warps.
My eyes roll up.
Next thing I know, I’m plummeting face-first off the stage.