Chapter 23 Tyler
The bed feels too damn small despite it being a regular queen size.
I don’t know if it has anything to do with the fact that I spent most of the night on a California king in Sageview Ridge Casino or the fact that I’m a spoiled asshole who got used to sleeping in an empty house on a hill in LA, and now even my parents’ place seems like it’s not big enough.
My head is off the pillow, and my feet dangle off the end like some wannabe grown-up.
My back complains at angles it's not used to, even though I’ve been sleeping on this bed for weeks now.
So this is what sneaking around gets me.
The punishment that makes no sense. One taste of what it’s like being with Naomi Medina again, and I’m all wrong.
I can still smell her on my skin, smell that sweet vanilla and hot desert and something distinctly her. Feel the heat of that tight body next to me, almost as if she’s here.
I reach out to grab my phone from the nightstand. Still no text. Typical. Naomi’s playing it cool while I’m stuck in my mind's hell, desperate, like a teenager.
She did say she didn’t want to get invested emotionally, but it’s obvious she’s lying. That woman can’t think with her brain. Everything she does comes from her heart, and I believe that’s one of the reasons I fell for her.
I stretch, pulling at the edges of my joints.
Every crack and pop of my bones brings her back—Naomi laughing, kissing, moaning.
Her dark hair spilling over us like ink.
Her breathless whispers telling me it’s never felt like this before.
Maybe the last one is my imagination. I can’t tell.
I was slightly buzzed on the beer and her presence, and it felt like heaven.
I don’t want to overthink it. Don't want to ruin it like I did last time. But as I stand up, fumbling for my jeans, it's hard to shake the memory of her pressed against me and wonder what she’s feeling now or if I’m even on her mind.
The smell of coffee pulls me toward the dining room. My mom's frying something that sizzles and fills the air with the comfort of old routines. Feels like I’m seventeen again, sneaking in late to steal some food from the fridge while praying no one hears the front door.
Only this time, I’m not so lucky.
"Morning, son," my dad says, looking over his newspaper with that half-amused, half-disapproving look only fathers can pull off. "Or afternoon, I guess."
I give him a nod, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. "Morning… Eh, afternoon."
"Late night?" His voice is casual, teasing, like he already knows the answer.
"Lost track of time." I grab a mug and pour myself a dose of caffeine. Then I lean against the counter, trying to play it cool.
"Funny how that happens." He chuckles. "We heard you come in around four. Thought maybe you were avoiding your old folks."
"Me?" I say with mock innocence. "Never." I’m too old to be doing this. Too old to care this much. But guilt prickles at me anyway, like I should know better.
I glance at my phone again, a quick, sneaky check for anything from Naomi. Still nothing. Just a stupid blank screen and the growing pit in my stomach.
Mom nudges me in the direction of the dining table and sets a plate in front of me, loaded with eggs and bacon. "Here you go. Got to keep your strength up if you're staying out all night."
"Thanks," I say, sinking into a chair. "You know, being back in town has me booked solid. The social demands are endless."
"Must be tough," Dad says with a wink.
I shove a forkful of eggs in my mouth and chew slowly.
The warmth, the normalcy—it’s comforting, but it also reminds me how out of place I feel here.
How out of place I feel everywhere. I need to focus.
Need to figure things out. Need to get back on track with my music.
For the first time in years, I’m able to write something that’s only mine, that doesn’t belong to anyone but me, that doesn’t have a deadline or a guideline.
But this push-and-pull relationship with Naomi has made me emotional, made me a wreck.
All I can think of is her, how she was last night.
How she might have changed her mind by now.
My phone rings, the sudden noise making me jump and nearly spill my coffee. My first thought, of course, is Naomi.
"Expecting someone?" my mom asks, her eyebrows raised at my reaction.
I shake my head. "Nope. Just surprised, I guess." I pick up the phone and see my manager’s name—the last person I want to talk to. "It’s Leif," I tell my parents, grabbing a slice of toast as I rise to my feet. "I should probably take this."
They both nod, but I can feel their eyes on me as I push back from the table and head for the patio.
The desert air hits me, warm and dry, and I pull the door shut behind me. "Hey, Leif. What’s up?"
"Ty!" Leif’s voice is loud, like he thinks he needs to shout all the way from LA. "How’s Sageview treating you?"
"Hot," I say, rubbing the back of my neck.
"Listen, I’m just checking in on that offer from the boys in Vortex."
I stay standing. My mind spins.
"They want you, man. We’re talking a full tour, big venues, the works. This is the kind of gig that puts you back on the map."
I let his words sink in, the weight of them pressing against everything I thought I had figured out.
"Ty? You there?"
"Hey, man, I’m already on the map," I say, trying to sound more enthusiastic than I feel. "It’s just…fast. I need some more time to think."
"More time?" Leif sounds incredulous. "They’re waiting for an answer, Ty. You can’t keep them on hold. I hear Andrews is next on their list."
"I thought he was taking time off?"
"It would suck to lose to that kid, if you know what I mean."
"I know, I know." I rake my hand through my hair. "I just—there’s a lot going on right now."
"Sure doesn’t sound like a lot going on," he quips. "You thinking about turning it down?"
"No," I say too quickly. "I’m just…figuring things out with the family."
"You need to get back in the game, Ty, before people forget your name. This is your shot. The boys aren’t going to wait forever."
"Just give me a couple more days."
There’s a long pause on the other end, like he’s deciding if he needs to be more insistent or let it go. "Okay," he says finally. "But don’t sit on this."
"I won’t. I’ll get back to you soon."
"Soon, Ty. Or we lose it."
"Yeah. Got it." I hang up, staring out at the palm trees lining the street. They sway a little in the wind, oblivious to the mess inside my head.
Slipping my phone into my pocket, I return into the house. My mom looks at me expectantly, and my dad folds down a corner of his paper.
"Work?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, sliding into my chair. "There’s a band that wants me to go on tour with them. Their lead guitarist is on sick leave."
"Isn’t that what you wanted?" Mom asks, setting her mug down, concern lining her face. "When we spoke on the phone last Christmas, you said you wanted to get back on the road."
"I thought so," I say, picking at the cooling bacon. Yes, despite the success of Dreamscape Diaries, I was missing the stage and the bus and the travel, but apparently, not enough to agree to this offer right away. "It’s just…complicated."
Dad’s eyes narrow a bit, like he’s seeing right through me. "Or maybe you’ve got other reasons to stick around."
"Maybe," I admit. "I’m still figuring it out."
"Sounds like something you should do before they give the job to someone else," he says, half joking but with that fatherly edge that tells me he means it. "Unless you don’t want it."
I nod, the tug between everything I want and everything I don’t know how to have stretching me thin.
They dive back into their breakfasts, chatting about plans for the day, leaving me to wrestle with the weight of the decision I have to make. My fork hovers over the plate as I check my phone once more, hoping for a sign. Anything to tell me I’m not about to screw this up again.
I remove the text draft again and again.
One word. Delete.
One more word. Erase.
Fuck it.
I’m going out.
When I arrive, the casino is a riot. Loud, crowded, and blissfully anonymous. I can hide here, drown in whiskey and slot machine symphonies. Better than staying home, wondering what to say to Naomi or if I should even say anything at all.
I hit the bar hard.
Drink like I’m chasing something I can’t catch.
People are everywhere—locals trying to forget, tourists hoping to strike it rich. I grab a seat at the end of the bar, the dark wood worn smooth by the restless hands of every sucker that’s come before me. I flag down the bartender, a guy with more piercings than I’ve got tats.
"Whiskey," I say. "Keep ’em coming."
The first sip goes down easy. Too easy. It warms the edges of my uncertainty, blurs the lines of the decision I can’t make. The music, the laughter, the clatter of coins spilling into trays—it’s all so loud, I can barely hear myself think. Good. I don’t want to think.
A woman to my right is yelling at the TV above the bar. The ball on the roulette wheel misses her number and she lets out a stream of words my mom wouldn’t approve of. I catch her eye and nod. "Tough break."
She laughs, takes a swig of her beer. "Story of my life."
I raise my glass in solidarity. "I’ll drink to that." The whiskey burns like I want it to.
"Tourists," the bartender says, shaking his head and pointing with his chin toward a group near the poker tables. They’re snapping pictures like they’ve never seen a card deck before. That is, until security shows up and tells them to stop. They scatter.
"Real high rollers," I say, downing another drink.
"Bet they spend more on souvenirs than chips."
"Bet you’re right," I agree. "At least they know what they’re doing here."
The bartender smirks and slides me another whiskey.
I drink like it's my last night on earth, trying to lose myself in the crowd and failing. There’s always that nagging voice, reminding me I’m second best. A substitute.
First in The Deviant, now with Vortex, and probably with Naomi too.
I can’t outrun it, no matter how hard I try.
"Always second best," I mutter, feeling the sting more than the booze.
The guy next to me, balding, wearing a Hawaiian shirt that screams mid-life crisis, chuckles like I’m talking to him. "Ain’t we all, buddy?"
I nod, not really seeing him. The room’s starting to tilt in ways that make it hard to focus. I’m too drunk to be subtle and not drunk enough to stop caring.
"Another," I say, but the bartender’s got that look—the one that says I’m cut off.
"Maybe you should call it a night, man."
I’m about to argue, to say I’ve got it under control, but the world’s got a different opinion. "Yeah. Maybe."
"Call someone?" he suggests like I’m fifteen again, and I feel that familiar tickle of embarrassment.
"Nah, thanks." I push away from the bar and stumble outside, the cool night air hitting me like a splash of ice water. I crash into a flower bed in the parking lot and settle of the edge of the brick garden wall. It’s quieter out here, but not by much.
The sounds still drift through the doors, muffled by distance and regret.
I take out my phone, scrolling through my contacts. Naomi’s name jumps out at me, taunting like she knows I won’t call. I close my eyes, my thumb hovering over it, then swipe to Leif instead.
It rings, each buzz stretching longer than the one before. I’m ready to hang up when his voice breaks in, too cheerful for what I’m about to say.
"Ty! You ready to give me the good news?"
"I need more time," I slur, my words slopping out messier than I’d planned.
"I said I'll give you a couple of days."
"No, I need more than a couple of days."
"Is that you or the whiskey talking?"
"Little of both." I try to laugh, but it comes out like a cough.
"Get your shit together, Ty. I can’t hold them off for months."
"Few more days. Promise." The desperation leaks through. I sound pathetic, even to myself.
Leif sighs, which tells me he’s about as fed up with me as I am with him. "Alright. But make a decision by the end of the week."
"I will," I insist. "Thanks, Leif."
He doesn’t answer. He simply hangs up.
I drop my head into my hands, feeling the weight of it all pressing down. If I screw this up, there’s no one to blame but myself. If I lose the gig, I lose my shot at doing what I love most. If I lose Naomi, I lose more than I did the first time. But if I can’t pull it together, I’ll lose both.
I close my eyes and try not to think.