CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Johanna
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Johanna
“APEROL SPRITZ” — THE KID LAROI
Six Years Ago
Idon’t ride with the band to the gig.
Instead, I’m sitting in an Uber outside the venue, willing myself to get out of this stranger’s car and go inside.
“Miss?” the driver asks as if reading my mind. “This is the right address, isn’t it?”
I blink like I’ve just surfaced from being underwater.
“Um—yes,” I say, clearing my throat and gathering my things.
This poor guy is waiting patiently for me to get out of his car, the engine still running. The only thing holding this moment in place is me.
“Do you want me to wait?” he asks politely.
My eyes flick to the venue. To the door. To the very real possibility of staying in this car, turning around, and pretending I was never here.
“No, thank you,” I say after a beat, finally opening the door. “That’s okay.”
He nods, and I rise from the back seat before I can change my mind. The night air hits—warm, thick, and filled with the smell of asphalt and cigarettes. Music leaks faintly from inside, but it’s not Catastrophically Charismatic.
They’re not nearly as good.
The heels of my suede booties tap against the sidewalk, and I’m suddenly hyper-aware before I even get inside that I’m likely overdressed for this event—even in the most casual thing I own.
As I approach the door, it swings open and people tumble out of it. They smell of cheap beer and cigarettes, laughing loudly and stumbling towards their cars.
This is stupid, reckless, and exactly what I swore I wouldn’t do.
Maybe there’s still time to—
The door swings open again, and I step inside before I lose my nerve. The room buzzes with energy. Dim lights. Sticky floors. A small crowd gathered by the stage.
“Johanna!” Tony calls from the bar.
He barrels towards me like I’ve just walked into my very own surprise party.
“You came!” He grins, already waving down the bartender. “I told them you would.”
I wonder which one of them doubted I’d be here.
“I didn’t really fully commit to anything,” I mutter, but despite myself, I’m smiling.
“Sure you didn’t,” he says, sliding onto the barstool beside me and giving me a once-over to notice how my dark wash jeans and lacy corset top fit. “You look very… non-sweaty dive bar appropriate.”
“I’m aware,” I sigh. “I took Grayson a little too seriously when he said this was a step up from your usual venue.”
He laughs as the bartender approaches us.
“What can I get for you?”
“Vodka Red Bull,” Tony says immediately, then gestures to me.
“Definitely not what he’s having,” I reply. “Do you have any decent wine in this place?”
The bartender raises a brow and glances around at the neon beer signs and disgusting floors.
“Does it look like we have wine here?” he asks. “I’ll also need to see some ID, little lady.”
Little lady.
Fuck you, too.
I hold his stare for a beat before pulling my fake ID from my purse and sliding it across the bar. I’m only a few months away from turning twenty-one and I’ve always looked older for my age, so he only looks at it for half a second before sliding it back.
“What’ll it be?”
“Tito’s and soda, then,” I say evenly. “With two limes.”
He nods and moves off.
Tony leans into my shoulder, smirking. “God, you’re so—”
“Don’t,” I cut him off smoothly. “Or you’ll end up as sorry as this bartender will be if he tries calling me little lady again.”
Tony bursts out laughing again.
“Terrifying,” he says proudly. “Absolutely terrifying.”
Our drinks arrive without any more comments from the bartender. We clink our plastic cups together and I take a long sip while Tony downs his in one swift movement before ordering another. He’s mid-sip of his second round when the lights flicker overhead, signaling the next act is about to go on.
A low cheer ripples through the room.
“Oh, shit—that’s us,” Tony says, downing the rest of his drink like it’s a shot again and sliding off his stool. “Don’t you go anywhere.”
“As if I’d survive trying to fight my way out of this crowd,” I call over the noise around me.
He flashes one of his classic, chaotic grins. “Good. Stay right there. I know someone who’s going to be looking for you.”
My face reddens as the house lights dim further and Tony backs away towards the stage entrance. He points at me one last time before disappearing behind the barricade.
“You better cheer,” he mouths dramatically.
I roll my eyes, but lift my glass in mock salute before he’s gone. If I’m going to stand in a bar full of strangers and pretend I’m not here for one very specific reason—I might as well look like I belong.
The music pumping through the speakers cuts abruptly, and there’s a beat of silence.
Then—the crowd starts clapping. Sharp whistling echoes through the room. Someone even yells out Grayson’s name like he’s famous now. The guys move into their places on stage as the stagehands scramble off.
Suddenly, the stage lights flare to life as Eric steps forward and the opening chords to their first song rip out of the guitar.
It’s louder than I expect it to be.
Sharper.
More confident.
The spotlight hits Tony, twirling a drumstick in his hand like he owns the place before giving a wicked smirk to the crowd and settling behind his kit. The energy shifts instantly as soon as he hits the first beat.
I know everyone else in this room is waiting for Grayson to emerge, but the next person to step fully into the light is the only one I care about.
Brandon.
The whole room stills.
He’s already casually strumming his bass, grounded low against his hips, very much in the moment with Eric and Tony. Unlike his band of brothers, he’s not showy. Not dramatic. Just steady and controlled—entirely himself.
He looks up, giving the room a quick scan. No one else would have noticed, but I know he’s looking for me—as if Tony had told him exactly where to find me. Our eyes connect, right at my place at the bar as I sip my vodka soda and flick my straw with my tongue.
It’s brief. Just the slightest connection. There’s no nod, no smile, no true acknowledgement—just as he promised—but I see it.
I see him.
I see the flicker of relief settling in his shoulders once he confirms I’m really here.
Finally, Grayson moves into the spotlight and steps up to the mic, oblivious as ever to the undercurrent of tension running beneath his band.
He grabs the mic and belts out the first line, and the crowd roars as if they’ve played this venue a million times before.
As if the crowd’s been waiting for them all night.
I pause, letting it sink in.
Every show I’ve been to before this one, they’ve drawn very little attention. Polite applause at best.
Tonight is… different.
Tonight, the crowd is invested in their performance and not just the happy hour specials of the venue.
Something resembling pride swells in my heart for my brother as I watch him command the stage.
My fingers curl around the ring hanging from my necklace—my father’s wedding band. I haven’t worn it in awhile, but tonight felt like the perfect occasion.
He would’ve loved this moment.
My eyes drift back to Brandon—in part because it hurts a bit too much to watch Grayson look so much like our father, in part because my eyes are always drifting to him. As much as this is about Grayson, I’m not just here for my brother.
The first song bleeds into the second without pause.
Grayson doesn’t give the crowd a single second to breathe before launching into something even more intense. The crowd presses closer to the stage and shouts the lyrics right along with him—even though most of them probably only know the chorus.
Tony pounds through the setlist like his life depends on it and the floor might fall out beneath him if he goes any harder.
Eric moves across the stage with ease, hyping up the crowd and feeding off their energy.
Brandon lives completely in the moment while keeping his focus entirely on what’s happening onstage.
He doesn’t look at me again.
Not during the third song.
Not during the fourth.
Instead, he’s completely locked in with Eric—shoulders squared, fingers steady against the strings of his bass. He’s not searching the crowd anymore. Not giving anything away.
Exactly like he promised.
The fourth song ends, and the crowd erupts. Sweat glistens under the stage lights as the guys revel in their moment—the moment of realization that they’re not just a group of kids with instruments and a dream anymore.
They’re something real.
Out of breath, Grayson steps back up to the mic with a cocky grin looking like he’s just conquered the world.
“Alright, we’ve got one more for you guys tonight,” he says, using his shirt to wipe sweat off his brow. “Something new.”
My pulse stutters.
“Apparently there’s more than one songwriter in Catastrophically Charismatic,” he adds. “Normally we only play my songs—but our bassist, Brandon, actually wrote something pretty sick.” He turns towards Brandon and gives him an encouraging clap on the shoulder. “No pressure, man.”
I’m nearly melting in my seat.
No fucking pressure.
I wrap my fingers tighter around the railing of the bar as the lights dim. The room waits, and my heartbeat kicks into overdrive.
This isn’t just another song.
This is the only one that matters.