Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Lionel was determined to meet with Jay one-on-one to discuss the “possible tour hiatus.” Jay had a sinking feeling it wasn’t about the band’s future; it was about getting him back in line. Lionel always had a trap set somewhere.
To ensure cooperation, the label sent a Rolls-Royce.
It was a power move, emphasized by the heated leather seats and a built-in fridge packed with condensation-slick sodas and sparkling waters.
The gesture was loud: This is what you’re walking away from, dickhead.
Jay shut the fridge and wondered how much the damn thing cost to operate.
As they drove, he texted Mira, promising to catch her show after.
The agency was close to the bar, so he’d dressed to blend in.
Getting recognized came with the job, but the scrutiny around Ari had made it impossible to move around freely.
Since his tattoos and blue hair always gave him away, he had opted to cover his arms with a flannel shirt and tucked his hair into a beanie.
In Nashville, everyone was looking for a star. Tonight, Jay wanted to be a shadow.
The quiet of the car made it hard not to think about Ava. She’d rushed to end the call the second things got too honest. She told him they didn’t need to talk about their past—that she was over it—but he knew better. Her voice still had a specific tremor when she was lying.
Maybe reaching out was a mistake. Maybe he was trying to haunt her because he didn’t know how to be alone.
Annoyed with himself, Jay tried to focus on the view outside instead of the thoughts inside.
Nashville buzzed with Friday-night energy.
The Gulch teemed with people, and as they turned onto Korean Veterans Boulevard, traffic crawled toward the amphitheater.
He let the familiar sights settle him, reminding himself this was just another meeting.
Except the car didn’t turn toward the office.
It veered onto 1st Avenue, pulling into the roundabout at Riverfront Park fifteen minutes later.
“Uh…Caina is actually up on 4th,” Jay noted, leaning forward.
The driver didn’t turn around, only shrugged. “Lionel’s at Acme. Said there’d be guys to escort you.”
Acme Feed & Seed used to be just that: an old feed shop for farmers.
Now, its red brick facade stood as a multi-story bar at the end of Broadway, the epicenter of everything that had turned Nashville into a destination.
The entire street was a neon-lit carnival of honky-tonks and bars, packed shoulder-to-shoulder between cowboy boot stores and stages where half the country stars had once played for tips.
Broadway was closed to traffic most nights because of tourists flooding the asphalt. Tonight was no different.
Two men in black suits and earpieces approached the vehicle, opening the door and ushering Jay out, as promised.
He’d had security details before, but Lionel tended to hire the kind who made him feel like a package being delivered.
Without a word, they guided him across the road to Acme’s exit door, bypassing the line snaking along the building where a bouncer checked IDs.
Inside, the air was thick with bodies. A country act had the crowd swaying to a Dolly Parton cover, the harmonies tight. Any other night, Jay might’ve stopped to listen, might’ve even enjoyed it. Tonight, though, the music felt like noise.
The suits pushed through the crowd with the authority of people who didn’t ask permission, Jay in tow. When they reached the elevator, a guy in a polo splashed his Bud Light in protest as they waved him off.
They deposited him at the rooftop entrance and disappeared without a word. Jay straightened his flannel. The chaos of the floors below reduced to a dull thrum beneath his feet.
Luke was leaning against the railing, an Old Fashioned in hand, watching Nissan Stadium’s lights scatter across the Cumberland.
“How are you feeling today?” he called out, not bothering to turn as he drained the rest of his drink. “Any better?”
Jay’s boots dragged as he joined him. “I thought I was meeting Lionel.”
“He got held up. Asked me to meet you instead.” Luke gestured to a waiter, who approached with two Old Fashioneds already on a tray. Luke handed one to Jay.
Jay took it on instinct, the weight of the glass heavy and familiar. The scent of orange peel and expensive bourbon was a punch to the gut of pure, liquid nostalgia.
“You know I don’t drink anymore.”
“Dude, come on.” Luke stayed at the railing, eyes back on the river. “You’ve been wound so tight since rehab. Like, I get it, but...it’s been a year. One drink’s not gonna kill you.”
Jay swirled the liquid around in the glass, watching the globe of ice roll. “Why’d Lionel want to meet here?”
Luke shrugged. “Last meeting got pretty heated. Figured neutral ground, nice view, whatever.” He took a sip. “Can see Bridgestone from here too. Remember when we actually had a good show there? That one two years ago, not the shitshow last week.”
Jay’s chest tightened. “Yeah.”
“You crowd-surfed during the encore and almost didn’t make it back to the stage.” Luke grinned. “Security was losing their shit, and you were just laughing the whole time. That was peak Wicked Smile, man. The energy was insane.”
Jay remembered. He’d also been drunk off his ass that night.
“And Berlin? That festival last summer before—” Luke stopped himself. “We killed it. Thirty thousand people screaming our songs back at us. You were on fire.”
“I was also drinking a fifth of vodka a day.”
Luke waved it off. “But you were present, you know? You were in it. Now it’s like...” He trailed off, taking another drink. “I don’t know. You’re just somewhere else all the time.”
“I’m trying to be better.”
“I know, I know.” Luke turned to lean his back against the railing, facing Jay now.
“And look, I’ll be honest. After the accident, after everything that happened a few years ago.
..we knew it was bad. We—” He stopped, his jaw working.
“You kept getting back up. Every time. So we told ourselves you were fine. That you had it handled.”
“That’s not the same as being fine.”
“No. It’s not.” Luke studied his glass. “I think we just didn’t want to be the ones to say it out loud. Like saying it made it real.”
The bourbon caught the light as Jay turned the glass in his hand, refusing to look at Luke. He understood that logic better than he wanted to. He’d used it on himself for years.
“Look, man.” Luke’s voice shifted back into practical territory.
“I know this thing with Ari is fucked. Like, really fucked. But we just came off a break because of your rehab. If we pause again...” He sighed.
“It looks bad, you know? Like we can’t get our shit together.
The crew’s been off payroll for months. The European leg—those venues are never gonna book us again if we bail. ”
“So what, we replace Ari like he’s a broken amp?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” Luke said gently. “I’m saying we honor what he’d want. You think Ari would want us to stop? To throw away everything we built?”
Jay stared at the wood beneath his boots.
“Remember recording the second album?” Luke continued. “Ari played for sixteen hours straight that one day because he wanted to nail those fills. He didn’t quit. None of us quit. That’s who we are.”
“Were.”
“What?”
“That’s who we were,” Jay corrected, looking up to meet Luke’s gaze.
Luke stared back for a long moment before sighing. “We can get back to that. The shows, the rush, the feeling like we could take over the world. You gotta...” He gestured at the glass in Jay’s hand. “Stop being so hard on yourself. Let loose a little.”
“I could let loose back then because I was numb. That’s why it felt easier.”
“Yeah, but—” Luke shuffled on his feet, his frustration finally breaking through. “Was that really so terrible? We were having the time of our lives. Now you’re just...”
Jay frowned. “Just what?”
“Just not you anymore. I miss the old Jay. The fun one. The one who’d do a keg stand two hours before a morning magazine shoot because someone dared you to.”
Jay raised the glass slowly, almost on instinct. He got it halfway to his lips before he caught himself and brought it back down.
“That guy almost died, Luke.”
The words landed. Luke went stiff, his eyes darting around—anywhere but at Jay.
“I know you miss him,” Jay said. “I miss him too. But I can’t go back to being him.
I don’t even know how to be me without all of it yet.
I’m still figuring that out.” He turned back to the railing, gripping it with one hand and looking down at the street below.
“I don’t know how to be Jay Wyler when I’m sober. That’s the whole problem.”
When Luke spoke again, his voice was stripped of the sales pitch. “I don’t know what the band looks like without that guy either.” He paused, turning back to the river. “But I’d rather figure it out than lose you too.”
Jay looked at Luke, and for a second, it was just two people who’d spent the better part of a decade building an empire together.
Freshman year of high school felt like another lifetime.
Another planet. Dumb kids with cheap guitars and no real plan…
and they somehow ended up on a rooftop in Nashville with the city spread out below them like they’d earned it.
“I jumped the gun,” Jay admitted quietly. “Quitting like that.”
Luke glanced at him. He didn’t say anything, but Jay caught the small exhale of relief.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Jay continued, still looking at the street below. “I—I couldn’t sit in that room anymore. Couldn’t listen to them talk about Ari like he’s dead.”
“Yeah.” Luke nodded. “I don’t like replacing him either.”
“You agreed with Riley and Lionel though.”
“I know. But I’m always going to put the band first. I thought we all were that way.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the Cumberland glittering in the distance.
“Give me a couple of days,” Jay said finally. “I need to think. I don’t want to do this without Ari, but I also didn’t need to…storm out of there like that.”
“Lionel wants everyone in the office tomorrow. Just so you know.”
“I asked for days. Not hours.”
“That’s Lionel, dude. You know how he is.
” Luke pulled his phone from his pocket, checking his notifications.
“Just...try to chill tonight, okay? You’ve been carrying all this shit.
It’s killing you.” He clapped Jay on the shoulder and began walking toward the elevator.
“I gotta head out though. Meeting my fiancée for dinner.”
“Now?” Jay frowned. “I thought we were—”
“You’ve got the whole rooftop to yourself. Lionel already paid for it.” Luke gestured around. “Take some time. Think about what you want and what the band needs. Think about what Ari would want. Just...don’t overthink it, you know? Sometimes the answer’s simpler than we make it.”
“I seriously came all this way for a pep talk?”
Luke paused at the elevator, hitting the button. He almost said something—Jay could see it cross his face—but whatever it was, he let it go. “What else is there to say?”
With a casual wave, Luke disappeared into the elevator, followed by one of the suits.
Jay flopped onto a couch, still holding the Old Fashioned and spilling a drop on his jeans. The smell was a siren song.
He swirled the liquid again as he weighed his options.
Stay or go. Finish the tour or walk away. Both things felt equally impossible.
Staring up at the sky, he thought about those first rehearsals—how the four of them crammed into Riley’s garage, playing the same three chords until the neighbors complained.
He remembered the look on Luke’s face the first night they played an original song all the way through.
Pure, uncomplicated joy—the kind that had gotten harder and harder to find over the years.
Quitting had felt righteous in the moment, the only way to flip a table without actually flipping a table.
But righteous and right weren’t always the same thing, and sitting here alone with the bourbon he wasn’t drinking and the city he’d helped put on the map, Jay wasn’t sure he knew the difference anymore.
He didn’t want to go back to what they’d been. But he wasn’t sure he knew how to build what came next.
Performing used to be where he lost himself.
He’d scream lyrics until his throat felt like it would bleed, moving around the stage until his legs cramped.
It used to make him feel alive, but lately it was more like wearing someone else’s skin.
He didn’t know if that was sobriety or grief or both, and he didn’t know how to find out without Ari to ask.
He thought of Mira then. She’d texted him her setlist that morning with approximately forty-seven exclamation points.
Classic Mira, putting her whole heart into everything while her brothers fell apart around her.
And here he was, fulfilling the prophecy by sitting on a rooftop feeling sorry for himself instead of heading to her gig.
He reached for his phone.
Four missed calls from Mira. The last one twelve minutes ago.
Then a text, sent just minutes before:
Samira: 911. Come to Gil’s now.