24. Nash
Chapter 24
Nash
T he walls of the studio were covered in platinum records and soundproof foam, trophies of another life I used to be proud of. I leaned back in the producer’s chair, my guitar balanced on my knee, watching the crew tweak the mix for a track that was already destined to be a hit.
Some weeks had passed since Dawn’s accident and the benefit concert, and Rebel Rose was buzzing. Our energy on stage was electric. Our new tracks were tearing through the charts, and every festival we played felt bigger than the last. People were as quick to forgive my erratics as they were to cancel me in the first place. A bunch of hypocrites.
Red Dirt Rendezvous had been the crown jewel. A field of faces lit up like fireflies, screaming out our lyrics back at us. Richard was delighted by it all, with money signs in his eyes at every show. By every measure, we were killing it.
But somewhere in the middle of it all, I’d stopped feeling the rush. After leaving Dawn that night, I tried. I honestly tried to move on, to go back to my old life, to enjoy the thrill of our music.
I gave myself one last year. A year to try, to give myself a chance to get back to it. Dawn’s words resonated in my mind constantly.
There were days when it felt like I was suffocating, caught in a life that had never really been mine. The fame, the fall, the endless pressure to fix what was broken—it had been a cage without a key. And Dawn? I’d seen it in her eyes—the same trapped feeling, like she was carrying a weight she never chose. It was like we’d both been stuck in prisons we hadn’t built and couldn’t escape.
Through it all, I lost the spark. I was forcing myself to go through every day for Easton only, to pay back the time I’d stolen by acting like a drunk piece of shit, digging our tombs at every show.
“Hey, Nash, you good?” Easton’s voice broke through my thoughts.
I blinked and looked over at him. He was sitting, ankle-over-knee on the couch, flipping through notes on his phone, his sharp eyes catching everything. He knew me too well to be fooled.
“Yeah,” I lied, forcing a grin. “Just tired.”
Easton raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. He went back to his phone, but I could feel his concern hanging in the air. It felt more and more like a prison sentence for me.
The silence stretched between us, but it wasn’t comfortable—not anymore. Easton might’ve gone back to scrolling through his notes, but I knew him too well, too. He was waiting, giving me space to fill the gap if I wanted to.
I didn’t.
“You sure?” he asked eventually, not looking up this time, his tone almost casual. Almost.
“Yeah,” I said again, more firmly, leaning back and pretending to focus on my guitar strings. “Just didn’t sleep well. Long day. You know how it is.”
“Uh-huh.” He swiped at his phone, but his tone made it clear he didn’t buy it.
I strummed a lazy chord, more to distract myself than anything else. “We’re good, East. The album’s going to kill it, and the shows are already packed. What more could we want?”
He finally looked up, setting his phone aside. “You tell me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, forcing a laugh and plucking another random string.
Easton leaned forward, uncrossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees. “It means you’re doing that thing you do, Nash. The one where you fake a smile so hard it looks like it’s hurting you.”
“Come on, man.” I shook my head, grinning like I could will him into believing it. “I’m fine. Seriously.”
“You don’t look fine.” His voice wasn’t harsh, but it didn’t leave room for bullshit either.
I shrugged, pretending to be fascinated by a nick in the wood of my guitar. “I’m just tired. That’s all. You know, the road, the press, the same old grind. It gets to everybody.”
Easton tilted his head, studying me like he was dissecting a song for its hidden meaning. “Funny, you didn’t look this tired when we were playing small gigs for fifty bucks and free beer, splitting your time between Rebel Rose and the ranch. You were happier then, weren’t you?”
“Don’t be dramatic,” I muttered, putting the guitar down and grabbing my beer bottle, scratching the label off of it.
“Maybe not dramatic enough,” he shot back.
“East, I said I’m fine. Drop it, okay?”
He stared at me for a moment longer, then sat back on the couch, his arms crossed. “Fine. But so that you know, I’m not stupid.”
“I never said you were.”
“You didn’t have to,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You just think I can’t see what’s right in front of me.”
I felt the weight of his words like a slap in the face, but I didn’t let it show. Couldn’t. Instead, I leaned back, plastering on the kind of smirk I used to rely on to get out of trouble. “Relax, East. I’m not falling apart. We’re living the dream, man. Everything’s exactly how it should be.”
He didn’t reply. He just shook his head like he wanted to say more but knew I wouldn’t hear it.
The truth was, I was falling apart. But saying it out loud felt like admitting defeat, and I’d done enough of that for one lifetime. So I stayed quiet, locked in the role I’d written for myself, pretending the lie was close enough to the truth to keep going.
After the session wrapped, we grabbed our leftover beer and sat out back behind the studio. The night was cool, and the hum of the city faded in the background as cars passed on the highway not far from us. I missed the calm and quiet of the ranch, where only the faint sounds of horses and the casual chatter of residents could be heard.
Easton tipped his bottle back, then looked at me, waiting. He always knew when I had something on my mind, and it seemed he just couldn’t drop it.
I took a long sip, stalling. It was time to tell him. “You ever feel like... something’s missing?”
Easton snorted, looking straight ahead. “Man, I’m always missing something. My phone, my keys, my dignity.” He added, trying to ease the heavy atmosphere.
I chuckled, but it faded quickly. I stared at the label on my bottle, peeling the edge with my thumb. “I mean up there. On stage. In the studio. It used to be everything, you know? Now, I get up there, and... it’s just white noise.”
Easton frowned, setting his bottle down. “That bad?”
“Yeah.” I leaned back, staring up at the dark sky, unable to see the stars because of the city lights. “Don’t get me wrong, the crowds are insane. The money’s better than ever. But it feels... hollow. Like I’m just going through the motions.”
Easton studied me for a long moment, his sharp edges softening. “This is about the ranch, isn’t it?”
I froze, the beer halfway to my lips. I didn’t say anything, which was answer enough.
“You were different out there,” he said quietly. “Lighter. Like you actually liked yourself for once.”
I barked out a laugh, but it came out bitter. “Didn’t realize I was so unbearable the rest of the time.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Easton shot back, his tone firm. “You found something there, man. I don’t know if it’s the place or the woman. But now you’re trying to pretend like it doesn’t matter.”
I set the bottle down, rubbing the back of my neck. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” I hesitated, searching for the words. Because if Dawn weren’t so consumed by her anxiety and responsibilities, and she asked me to stay with her, I would have dropped everything without blinking an eye. Because, in the span of eight weeks, she became worth more to me than anything else. “Because I need to stay here, East. I need to keep going with Rebel Rose and honour my promise to you.”
Easton leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, still not looking at me. “Your promise.” He snorted. “Nash, it kills me seeing you like this, man. You’ve been depressed and sulking for far longer than the bar fight a year ago, and you know it. Yes, maybe you can do your job and go on stage and play, but you can’t bullshit anyone into thinking you’re happy doing it. Yes, we did promise each other that we’d be in it together, that we’d stay in Rebel Rose no matter what. But we were nineteen, Nash, and now we’re almost thirty. Life goes on. It changes.”
His words hit harder than I wanted to admit. I looked away, the weight in my chest pressing down harder.
“You ever think about going back?” he asked, his voice softer now.
I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “Every damn day.”
The silence stretched between us, heavy with things neither of us knew how to say. Finally, Easton stood, pushing back his patio chair.
“You know what I think?” he said, his tone lighter. “I think you’ve got to figure out what you want, Nash. It’s not what the fans want, or the label, or even me. Just you.”
He clapped a hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “And I think you’ve already got your answer.”
He walked off, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the occasional klaxon from the traffic. I sat there for a long time, reassessing Easton’s words as I felt my heart break a little more.