Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Cole · Now
Still Breathing – Green Day
The chaotic crash of cymbals greets me when I step into the basement studio.
“’Sup fucker!” Saint shouts, throwing an arm over my shoulder.
I shove him off and he tumbles into the leather couch. “Someone want to tell me I was dragged out of bed at the arse crack of dawn?”
“Don’t look at me.” Saint drapes his legs over the arm of the sofa.
Carter shakes his head, never lifting his sticks as he tickles the snare.
I turn to Axel and hike a brow.
He’s slouched against the wall, ink-sleeved arms folded over his chest. A black beanie is pulled low on his forehead, stubble dots his sharp jaw, and he smirks. “I’m going stir crazy around here. Wanna do something fun?”
Carter scoffs. “I’d say. I don’t think I can handle seeing you in another dress. Once was enough to give me nightmares for life.”
“Hey, I love your little darlings,” Axel says, sun-kissed cheeks rounding as his grin widens.
“If they want me to throw on a princess dress and have tea parties while Daddy is busy, I’m going to do it.
” He wiggles ring adorned fingers, pink, sparkling nails catching under the lights.
“Plus the ladies love a man who wears nail polish.”
“Not your dad.” Carter grunts.
I snort. “You’re hosting tea parties with the girls?”
“Stir. Fucking. Crazy, dude.” Axel says, turning back to me. He softens chocolate brown eyes, blinking like a fucking puppy begging for scraps. “Do this one thing for me. Please.”
I tug at the chain hanging around my neck. “What did you have in mind?”
“Secret set.” He grins.
“Do bands even do those anymore?” Saint asks, head rolling as a white-powder-filled bag dangles from his fingertips. “I think the last one I went to was Taking Back Sunday and that was in twenty seventeen.”
“Yeah. Ash was at one last week. It’s where I got the idea,” Axel says.
No one speaks. Axel watches, eyes darting over us before he lands back on me. “What else have we got going on right now?”
Sweet fuck all. I’m no closer to laying a single lyric than I was when I rolled up home. And as long as it stays that way, Reckless Abandon lives in stasis.
“Come on,” Axel says.
He pushes off the wall, snatches up a Squier Affinity, and hooks the strap over his shoulder.
Plucking a string, he nods to Carter who kicks the bass drum. “You can’t say you haven’t missed this. No stadium. No set list. Just us, a couple fans, and our favourite tracks. It’s been years since we've been able to kick back like this.”
Saint jumps up. He sniffs, wiping his long black sleeve under his nose before he snatches up his custom 1947 Gibson. Plugging it into the amp, he cranks the volume and strums the opening lick of our first single, Jaded.
He looks at me, shoulders taut as his fingers dance across the strings. But I see it, the quick flicker of light across dull eyes. Carter settles into the drums, lips tilted ever-so-slightly. And Axel beams.
I pluck my phone from my pocket.
The screen is empty. I haven’t heard a peep from Hendrix since she called on Friday. Not that I’ve gone out of my way to contact her either.
Turns out, I haven’t a fucking clue what I’m doing.
If I thought ten years could pass and things wouldn't be weird, I was wrong.
I roll the drawstring of my hoodie between my fingers and my gaze darts to the lone microphone in the centre of the room. Maybe new songs aren’t coming. Maybe they were never meant to.
We created a legacy with our sound all those years ago—one that will outlive us all.
Maybe that can be enough.
Ball cap slung low on my forehead, hood pulled tight, and my inked hands hidden in my pockets, I do a pretty good job of pretending I’m not one of the rock stars everyone came to see. I shove through the crowd.
Pretty sure Tommy’s gonna be freaking out in the mock-up green room we set up in the back of the club we rented for tonight.
I was supposed to be here an hour ago but I got caught up in the heaving Sunday traffic. It doesn’t help that I left late, since I wasn’t planning to show at all.
Axel went out of his way to get this set up in less than a week, posting cryptic clues on the band's social accounts. He promised a chill set, a couple beers, and no more than five hundred fans crawling into the space.
He either forgot we’re sitting at the top of the rock industry right now, or more likely—he lied.
This place is only fit for a couple thousand, and I’m pretty sure we’re pushing that capacity.
I sneak through a thick black door in the corner of the room.
The racket dulls as it clicks shut, and I tip my head against the wood. I rub my thumb and forefinger over the beaded bracelet in my pocket as I catch my breath.
Peace is short-lived when another door shoves open and Tommy pokes his head around the frame.
He clicks his fingers. “Fucking finally. Get a move on, kid.”
“I’m coming,” I say. “Everything set up?”
He nods. “Just waiting on you.”
Isn’t everyone, always?
I follow him into a large, open room. A couple of tables lean against the far wall, laden with food and drink. The blended scent of weed and tobacco wafts through the warm air.
Music plays in the background, low and grounding as our techs run around, instruments and equipment in their hands.
Carter sits on one of the couches, hunched over his phone, Saint smokes a joint in the corner, and Axel bounces on the balls of his feet, beer bottle hanging lax in his fingertips.
I snatch up a bottle of water and twist the cap as my stomach rolls.
I haven’t felt like this before a show in forever. Not since around the time we went on our first arena tour. But something’s different today.
Flicking my gaze over the room, I catch sight of a woman leaning against the wall.
Colour me shocked.
Wearing light wash jeans, a white tank, and pale pink cardigan, she stands out like a sore thumb in the sea of black. She twists her white gold ring, the diamond catching the light as her brown eyes dance over the room.
I can’t remember the last Theo rocked up to watch us play. Between our old label focusing on international tours and her being tied up teaching ballet, she hasn’t made it to many shows in recent years.
I press my back against the wall and nudge her shoulder. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Saint practically begged.” She tucks long, icy blonde hair behind one ear and peers up at me with a cheeky grin. “And you know I’m a sucker for that man on his knees.”
I choke on my water. “Too much information, woman.”
“So you don’t want to hear what he did wh—”
I clamp a hand over her mouth.
Her fair cheeks pinken as she giggles.
“Why are you manhandling my wife, dude?” Saint shouts over the music.
He saunters over, drops his joint to the floor and stubs it beneath the heel of his Vans before snagging Theo’s wrist. He hauls her into him and slams his lips against hers, claiming her with a searing kiss.
Her hands curl into his leather jacket as he dips her low.
I rub my chest as he peels back, muttering something in her ear that has her beaming up at him.
Tommy jumps onto a table and claps his hands, shouting, “Go time.”
Pushing off the wall, I tug the black beaded bracelet from my pocket and slip it onto my wrist, before dragging my hoodie over my head. I toss it onto one of the couches, followed by my cap.
My black shirt clings tight to inked skin, the chain hanging on my waistband drops, and I rake a hand through my hair, mussing it up.
I roll my shoulders back and crane my neck left to right before following the guys out.
Carter steps up behind the drum set, sticks crossed above his head, and the waiting audience goes wild.
I turn to Saint—with no setlist planned, he’s running this whole thing.
Guitar strapped to his chest, pick in his hand held high in the air, he tilts his head as he looks at me, before his eyes dip to my wrist.
Then, the cheeky fucker winks and brings his arm down, leading into Chasing Lows.
The crowd hushes a beat as the unheard melody settles around them and my chest hammers.
This is the first song Hendrix and I wrote together.
It’s raw and unpolished. I don’t know how Saint got his hands on the music—Hendrix was the one who kept all the tracks and lyrics that didn’t make it onto Reckless Abandon’s first albums.
Maybe she shared it with him during one of their guitar jams back in school.
My stomach swims as I white-knuckle the mic.
Electricity sparks in my veins when I open my mouth.
The crowd explodes in a frenzy. My chest thumps, my blood heating as I realise that maybe I’m not so done with this after all.