8. Chase
“Bad news, baby-band. The album is a disaster.”
Trevor’s voice, on speaker, came through the landline they had dragged out to the center of the coffee table at Zak’s apartment. The band had crowded around it on the couch and on the floor, hoping for good news. Instead, their new boss was chewing them out. Thoroughly.
The call had come exactly forty minutes after Trevor received a copy of their LP. Which was interesting, because the album was fifty-six minutes long.
“Wow.” Alex shoveled a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Tell us how you really feel.”
But over the distance and muffle of food, Trevor didn’t hear that comment. He was still droning on about how badly Saint of Spades had fucked up.
“I can’t tell if you’re actually trying to make music here or if you’re trying to be controversial for the hell of it.” Trevor sounded like he’d given himself a hernia by the time he finished.
Zak rested her cheek against the table and spoke into the phone. “We’re not the first rock band you’ve signed, right? ‘Cause ‘controversial for the hell of it’ is kind of the MO.”
“Yeah, and that’s why it’s on its way out. Quicker, if the five of you have anything to say about it. I mean, I’ve never seen anything like this in my life. I hope the songs from the show will be enough to sell this thing, but it’s all garbage. Thematically, it doesn’t make sense.
“You’ve got a Latin-metal hybrid song, the most derivative glam pieces I’ve seen in a decade—by the way, people aren’t into that shit anymore—and some wannabe grunge that is also not in right now. And what’s with the five-minute-long instrumental guitar outro tacked on like an afterthought? The lyrics are going to get you banned by every suburban household and commercial setting in America, and the music itself is going to alienate mainstream listeners.”
“What makes you think we’re writing music for suburban households, commercial settings, or mainstream listeners?” Zak asked.
You’re amazing. Chase kept the thought to himself, but outwardly, gave her a fist-bump.
“If you aren’t writing for any of them, you’re writing for your own ego.” Something slammed in the background on Trevor’s end. “I know you all think the rebellious thing is fun, I get it. But you know what’s more fun? Money. And you’d better hope I get my money’s worth, or your legacy will be one weird, shitty album everybody forgets about five minutes after it’s released. We’re flying you out next week for a conference. Talk then.”
The line went dead. Money exchanged hands from Edge to Alex, Dallas to Edge, Chase to Dallas, and everyone to Zak.
Edge stored his earnings in the front pocket of his jeans. “That went well, huh?”
“For me.” Zak held up her stack of twenties. “I’m a hundred dollars richer.”
“And I’m down twice that.” Chase gave his empty wallet one last glance before putting it away.
They had all placed bets on which songs Trevor would have a problem with, and Zak had bet all. He had bet none.
“I can’t tell if you were trying to make an actual bet or if you just needed a charitable donation for your tax write-off,” Edge told him.
Alex fanned himself with his earnings. “No, don’t crush Chase’s spirits. There’s still profit to be made off of them.”
“Poor rookie hasn’t been around long enough to know how it goes,” Dallas said. “We don’t normally make the best first impression, but hell if we aren’t memorable.”
The four of them clinked the necks of their glass soda bottles together in a crooked pyramid.
“I don’t think you guys made too bad of a first impression,” Chase said. Though he was pretty sure Zak’s first words to him were, “Why are you talking to me?”, and Dallas wasn’t fully conscious or fully clothed when they first met.
Zak called him out. “By ‘you guys,’ you mean Edge and Alex, I assume?”
“We are the nice ones,” Alex said.
Edge smirked. “I thought you said you were trying to swindle him?”
Chase pressed play on the CD player and their album restarted from Track 1. Saint of Spades, in their polished glory, just as they would hit the stores in a fast forty-five days. They had listened to all eleven tracks once already, but it was going to take a lot more than that for him to get sick of it.
It struck him as strange, now especially, how much focus everyone else placed on his voice. That was the last thing he heard.
At the base, he heard Alex’s bottomless well of energy in the drumbeat. Dallas’s fun, catchy riffs were layered on top. He had never noticed before becoming a musician, but now he also heard the bass, fusing with both guitar parts to give fullness to the music. And at the forefront of everything, Zak’s words. At times, eloquent and meaningful. At times, raunchy and vulgar. It was her he heard intertwined with every song. It was the lyrical storytelling she did through her guitar at the center of it all.
“I thought you were just being cynical,” Chase told her. “I might be biased, but I don’t see how anyone could hate this. And I think you already know, because you don’t seem too bothered, but in case you didn’t—you’re a musical genius, Zak Parker.”
On principle alone, he didn’t realistically think Trevor would love every song on an album the label had fought for, and lost, creative control over. But Chase thought the album wasflawless, and he felt as entitled to that opinion as any other rock fan who hadn’t written the songs on it.
Zak shrugged as she took a drink. “I know how this goes. I’ll still freak out about album sales and worry about becoming a failure, but people who work in music get it wrong all the time. Abbey Road was famously dragged as ‘nothing special.’ Black Sabbath was called‘bullshit.’ A Cream knock-off, even, which feels sacrilegious to repeat. Critics called High Voltage ‘annoying.’ And there were journalists who used to say Elvis Presley couldn’t sing.”
“I’ll be that guy, I don’t care,” Dallas interjected. “Abbey Road is nothing special. It’s fucking boring, like every Beatles album.”
“For the love of god, never say that during an interview.” Edge winced. “Career suicide.”
“It’s true, though.” Dallas waved his empty soda bottle like a baton as he spoke. “People are just gay for ‘Here Comes the Sun’ even though it sounds like the lyrics were ripped out of a children’s book. Hippies freak me the fuck out, man.”
“I’m not super into acid music myself, but if ‘nothing special’ sells that many copies then sign me up.” Zak snatched the bottle out of his hand and went to get them all refills. “Point is, we’re in good company. Label executives see different as a risk, but those differences are also what makes bands iconic.”
“And, if Trevor’s right,” Dallas said, “if we’re the greatest failure rock music has ever seen, at least we’ll finally be the greatest at something.”
“Chase won two pro hockey championships,” Zak called out.
“Ah, right.” Dallas nodded. “Sometimes I forget you’re not just another loser like us.”
Oddly, it was one of the best compliments Chase had ever received.
There were at least two people on Earth who would hate Saint of Spades’ first album more than Trevor Simon: Richard and Holly Payton, who exclusively listened to Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, and more Johnny Cash.
While there was no need for Chase to involve his parents in this career milestone when they had shown no support for—or interest in—the band, he and Lydia were already heading over for their monthly family dinner. It couldn’t hurt to show up with something to reroute the conversation from his mom’s overly detailed reviews of pesticides and fertilizers, or his dad’s dry tangents on sports statistics.
The album was as good a conversation starter as any. At least, until Zak showed up at his door with a bottle of whiskey clenched in her fist and Snickerdoodle tugging at the end of a leash.
The dog broke free and gave Chase her usual overexcited greeting before galloping down the hall to Lydia’s room to find the lady who spoiled her rotten whenever they were away for work.
“Hey, good. You’re here,” Zak said. “I thought I was going to be late.”
Being late wouldn’t have surprised him. She was always late if it didn’t involve a gig. What surprised him was that she was there at all.
“Uh, no. You’re not late. You’re—damn.”
Chase rubbed the back of his neck, momentarily forgetting what he was going to say as he got distracted by her leg poking out of the side slit of a simple black dress.
Her hair was tied low in a bun, neat and refined if not for the shorter pieces that poked out around her face. Not only was she here, but she put in extra effort for his pain-in-the-ass parents, who probably wouldn’t see past the tattoos, the chipped black nail polish, and the sarcastic gleam in her eyes.
At least he would get to enjoy all that effort. A little too much.
“Just damn.” He reached for Zak’s waist and pulled her close, breathing in the dizzying spicy vanilla scent of her perfume. His lips brushed her jaw.
“Careful. You’re going to get lipstick all over you.”
“I like red.”
Chase liked it better on her, but he’d take it printed on his face, the collar of his shirt. His cock. If Zak thought he was going to be a good influence on her punctuality, she was so mistaken.
He plucked the whiskey bottle out of her hand and set it on the floor, intertwining their fingers as he kissed her against the door with no regard for time, lipstick prints, or the fact that he didn’t live alone.
Until Lydia slammed the door to her room shut.
Chase pulled away and rubbed the red smudges from the edges of Zak’s mouth.
“Hey! What a surprise, I didn’t think you were coming.” Lydia gave Chase a smirk on the side.
Right. That’s what he had been about to say.
“Why not?” Zak tilted her head at Chase. “You invited me.”
“You responded with, ‘That sounds like an awful time.’”
Lydia chuckled.
“It does,” Zak maintained, looking genuinely perplexed. “So why would I make you go through it alone?”
Damn.
There were moments it hit him as hard as taking an elbow on the ice rink—how into her he was.
“Does anyone else know how sweet you are?”
Her nose crinkled at the word “sweet,” as though it was a synonym for “repulsive.” “No. And don’t tell anyone. I don’t need people asking me for favors or crying on my shoulder or any of that shit.”
Lydia sauntered over, holding out a paper towel for Chase to wipe his lipstick-stained face. “This is going to be the best. Dinner. Ever. I’ve got a blackmail folder full of embarrassing brother stories I’ve never gotten to crack open.”
“Yeah, yeah. You can get started in the car. Let’s go.”
Lydia happily climbed in the back for the first time in Chase’s eight years of having a license, leaving Zak with the shotgun seat and free reign to destroy his concentration by placing her hand on his thigh while she patiently answered all of Lydia’s music-related questions.
Chase’s sister was a pop fan through and through. If it wasn’t made for dancing, it wasn’t made for her. And yet, she’d listened through Missing Link front to back at least three times since Chase had burned her a copy. At first, he wrote it off as her being supportive. Now, it was starting to seem like she was Zak’s number-two fan. Right after himself, of course.
He’d hardly had a chance to get a word in by the time he pulled into the driveway of his parents’ house, which was probably for the best. Surely, Zak must have appreciated the distraction from the fact that she was about to be stuck somewhere shedidn’t want to be.
Chase hadn’t held it against her when he assumed she turned down the dinner invite. Bringing her into his “happy” childhood home was uncomfortable for him, too, knowing what she went through behind closed doors while he was safe and loved by two people who happened to be a little extra judgmental and overbearing.
While he wanted nothing more than to have her there, it felt like a selfish ask when he was the one benefiting from her strength.
Zak was his perspective. One look at her, and every other pressure in the world melted away.
He had always thought not giving a fuck was the key to discarding other people’s opinions, but it turned out happiness was the key to not giving a fuck. It was a real emotion, not only a charade. It was the most impenetrable shield in existence.
Chase just hoped he could do a good enough job shielding Zak, too, as his mother answered the door and her eyes blew wide at the sight of her third, unexpected visitor.
“Mom, you remember Zak, right? From the band?”
Holly smiled a fraction of a second too late to be sincere. “Of course. From the band.”
“We’re sort of—” Chase checked on Zak with a glance, realizing he hadn’t thought to ask what he should call her. He might not care about labeling their relationship, but that didn’t mean anyone else would understand.
“Seeing each other,” Zak finished the sentence. “Sorry to show up unannounced, we had a bit of a misunderstanding. I brought this, though.” She held up the bottle of bourbon. “I think people normally bring wine to these things, but I don’t know much about wine. I used to bea bartender though, so I know this stuff is fu—fantastic.”
Chase discretely tossed Zak an OK sign with his hand to compliment her save.
“Wonderful, I’m sure Richard will appreciate this.” His mom accepted the bottle and led them all inside. She brought another cocktail glass down from the cabinet and started pouring drinks. “So, Zak. Where did you bartend?”
“Salt Surf,” she said. “Hated that job. I worked at a few other places, too, but they’re all the same. They all kind of suck.”
Holly didn’t seem particularly thrilled, but to her credit, she could probably overlook anything Zak said after the confirmation that Chase brought a girlfriend home to meet them.
She handed Zak the first sidecar. “Is that where the two of you met?”
Translation: Has my son been frequenting a risqué sports bar to pick up women?
“We went to school together, Mom,” he reminded her, even though Zak had mentioned as much when she’d introduced herself the first time.
“Oh? Would we have met your parents, then, at any of the events?”
Zak patted her chest as she coughed. “Uh, no.”
His mother’s composure slipped. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend or—”
“You’re fine.” Zak smiled. “My parents aren’t dead or anything. My dad walked out when I was little and my mom is a bi—a big—uh, fan of crack?”
Chase made a mental note to ask her later why calling her mother a crack addict was any tamer than calling her a bitch.
“Oh, my.”
This was the closest thing Chase could imagine to an interaction between a human and an alien lifeform. He knew he needed to mediate, but it was like being hired to translate Vietnamese to Arabic while only knowing how to speak English.
“Zak is very independent. And super smart.” Maybe if Chase kept throwing out compliments, his mother would buy one of them. “She taught herself the guitar when she was a kid.”
“That’s nice. And it’s lovely to finally have the chance to get to know you,” his mom rebounded. “Chase never brings girls home to us.”
“He never brings them home to me either, thankfully,” Zak said.
The laugh Lydia had been holding back for minutes finally turned into an audible snort behind her cupped hand, which tipped Chase over the edge, too.
For Holly, the joke didn’t land.
Zak took a heaping swig of the cocktail, dabbed her lips with the back of her hand, and gave her second-best shot at breaking the awkwardness. “Damn, you’re a better bartender than me, Mrs. Payton. That’s for sure.”
Holly huffed an appreciative sound and passed out the rest of the drinks, pausing as she handed Chase his to run her fingers through his hair. “When are you going to get a haircut? You’re starting to look—”
“Like a real rock star? I think you pull it off. It’s almost the same length as mine.” Lydia played with the curled ends of her own blonde locks, brushing her collarbones. “I always wondered what it would be like to have an identical sister instead of a fraternal brother.”
“Really?” Chase said. “‘Cause I always wondered what it would be like to be an only child.”
She shoved his shoulder.
“I love the hair,” Zak said.
And with those four words, all he could think about were her fingers sifting through it as he went down on her, turning into fists when he kissed her just right. It was enough to make him never want another haircut again.
“And who is this?” Richard asked when he finally made it downstairs.
“Chase’s girlfriend,” his mom said in the same tone she used to tell her children, “Remember your manners,” or “What do we say when someone says thank you?”
“Zak,” she supplied, reaching out for a handshake. “We’ve met.”
“In New York. The young lady with the band,” Richard remembered. He shook her hand, examining the ink on her arm as if it were an infectious disease. “I didn’t know you two were dating.”
“We weren’t then,” she said.
“But now you are.”
“Sounds like you’re all caught up.”
Richard stared.
Zak stared back. Smiling.
“Have a sidecar, dear.”
Holly handed Richard a cocktail as he continued to power through the judgment creeping into his tone and gaze. “Zak is an interesting name.”
“So is Richard,” she returned.
“Every name is interesting if you think about it,” Chase’s mother interjected, missing the sarcasm. “So much history behind them all.”
His father plowed through to the next question. “What do you do in this little band?”
Zak managed to keep the smile on her face. “I play guitar.”
“She writes all the songs, too, Dad,” Chase added. “She’s selling herself short.”
Richard made an unimpressed sound that spurred another awkward pause. Everyone, for once, was on the same wavelength as they collectively took a sip of their cocktails.
His father went back to examining Zak like she was part of a cabinet of curiosities. “Not sure I’ve ever seen a girl your age with so many of those things. What do they mean?”
“The tattoos?” Zak took an inventory of her arms. “If you’re anything like my friends’ parents, they mean I’m unemployable and an easy lay. But I’m pretty sure only one of those things is true.”
Chase couldn’t breathe.
Lydia was in hysterics.
Their parents, on the other hand, were not amused.
Chase grabbed the disc he had brought off the counter and waved it in the air, hoping it would provide enough of a diversion. “Uh, hey! We just finished our first album. I brought it over if you guys wanna hear it.”
“We would love to, right Richard?” His mom motioned vigorously with both hands. Desperate for relief from this conversation, most likely. “Dinner will be a little while. I’m waiting on the potato souffle.”
They stood by quietly until Richard got back from the garage with the portable stereo, popped I Walk the Line out of the top—surprise, surprise—and held up Missing Link in all its unsleeved glory. Title penned on top in Sharpie marker.
“What’s going to go on the cover?” his dad asked, straining to sound conversational.
“I was thinking a grim reaper holding a hockey stick instead of a scythe,” Chase joked, but as usual, family dinner was where all humor went to die.
“Chase…”
“We haven’t decided on anything yet. I was kidding,” he reassured his mom before she could further scold him. “Anyway, here it is.”
Chase was surprised his parents wanted to hear the album in the first place when they’d never made it to a show or watched an episode of Amped. But then he remembered the newest addition to family dinner. Zak was here. A guest, his girlfriend, and Holly would never intentionally insult her company like that. No matter how much of a trainwreck the night had been so far.
This was the woman who’d insisted they all stay over an extra hour and a half at Aunt Debbie’s house to ooh and aah over a blurry photo slideshow from her meditation retreat in Bali. Who once choked down two slices of pumpkin pie the year his grandmother had accidentally swapped cinnamon for poultry seasoning.
With that in mind, he primed himself for them to fake-enjoy the album when he pressed play, if only for Zak’s benefit.
Music poured through the speakers. The first song was the same one radio stations had been playing, only smoother and more refined. Chase scrutinized his parents’ faces for a reaction, any reaction, but Richard and Holly sat straight-faced as they listened to the guitar intro. Then his voice.
His dad’s eyebrows shot up, his forehead wrinkling. “That’s you?”
“Well… yeah,” Chase said, at a loss for words.
Lydia beamed. “I told you he was good.”
His mom waved a dish rag for them to stop talking and turned the volume up. And that was the exact moment he knew they meant it. Maybe it wasn’t their kind of music, maybe they didn’t get it. But they wanted to hear him.
As the song came to a close, Chase went to press pause and his father stopped him.
“I thought you said we have time before dinner?” he asked his wife.
“We do.”
Chase could have sworn his father, who hadn’t smiled at him in years, almost did. “Then how about we keep listening.”
“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I asked if you wanted to hang out at my place after.” Chase opened the fridge and pulled out three sodas. “I kind of meant with me. Alone.”
Of course, that plan went out the window the second they stopped at Blockbuster on the way back from his parents’, and Lydia inserted herself into the movie selection process. Though he pretty much always wanted Zak to himself, it had been a while since he and Lydia spent quality time together and there were even fewer opportunities for her to get to know Zak. They were all constantly busy with work.
“You’re really good at that!” Lydia said, ignoring him as she looked down at Zak’s freshly painted nails. “I get nail polish all over the place when I’m doing my dominant hand.”
“Guitar fingers.” She held them up to the light and wiggled them around to admire the silver glitter. “I don’t see how this is impressive to you though. Don’t you run marathons and do math for a living?”
“Math wasn’t bad when I was getting my degree. Consolidations tore me a new one though.”
“I don’t even know what consolidation means.”
“It’s when you combine the assets of a parent company and all of its subsidiaries.”
Zak nodded at Lydia as though she had sprouted a third eyeball. “Sure. That clears it up.”
Chase plopped down on the couch behind the two of them. Not that anyone noticed apart from Snickerdoodle, who hopped on top of his stomach and wiggled uncontrollably at the prospect of capturing a weak-willed human to rub her belly. But who could say no to puppy eyes?
“Point is, anyone can learn how to run or do math. Not anyone can learn to be creative.”
“I beg to differ on both counts. I know at least one guy who couldn’t pick up running or math.”
“You can say Dallas’s name, you know. It was a stupid, drunken makeout. It wasn’t a big deal. I didn’t even fuck him. Well, I might have. If you guys hadn’t interrupted. But that’s probably for the best anyway, so it’s whatever.”
Zak bit down on her lip. “Oh, so we’re talking about that now?”
“I figured I needed to clear the air. Chase acts like saying his name is going to summon a demon. As we already established, I can put two and two together.”
“I didn’t know what happened,” Chase said. “If I have to work with the guy, I don’t want to know what happened.”
Zak nodded along. Then, apparently, couldn’t help herself. “So how was it?”
Lydia looked up and shrugged. “Pretty hot, not gonna lie. Short guys always bring their A-game. No offense, dude. I’m sure you treat Zak right.” She lifted her brows at Zak. “Right?”
Zak did not help his case by belly-laughing in response.
“Oh my god,” Chase groaned. “Can we be done talking about this?”
Lydia turned around and held up the soda he’d brought her. “Can you?” She made a show of blowing on her nails. “They’re wet.”
He tried, and failed, not to encourage her by smiling as he opened her can, then Zak’s, then his own. “Anything else I can do for you two?”
“Since you’re offering—”
He wasn’t. He was trying to be sarcastic.
“—can you grab the clay mask out of my bathroom for us? And some hair ties? Oh! And my sweater? I’m cold. Maybe a blanket, too.”
Which he did. Just so he could walk back into the living room and see the two people he cared about most in the world smiling and laughing and not paying attention to the movie they’d rented whatsoever.
“Hope we didn’t ruin your plans,” Zak told him later that night as they sat on his bed.
“No one ruined anything. I had a great time tonight.”
Sure, he could hardly get a word in, but he didn’t need to. Zak and Lydia together were far more entertaining than any film or Uno match.
Zak looked down at the floor, at the clothes they’d discarded earlier, and he recognized the same dilemma play out on her face like it always did before she got dressed and left.
He had never wanted the night to end. Not since the very first. But it got harder every time to watch her leave.
“Just stay.”
But her lips were moving at the same time as his. As she was saying, “Do you mind if I stay?”
Then they were speaking over each other again. Her “Okay,” mingled with his “Please.”
“Yes. Stay, please,” he repeated.
“Okay.”
His nerves caught up to his hands as he went to his dresser and grabbed a T-shirt for her. He half expected her to change her mind and be gone by the time he turned around, but she was there. Smiling at him as she shuffled toward him on her knees. He handed her the shirt, and she pulled it over her head before falling back on his bed. Sprawled-out, like a long-held fantasy come to life.
He flicked off the lights and lay beside her, reaching into the loose sleeve of the shirt to draw swirls on her shoulder. Just to remind himself this was real. She was real. Really curled against his chest, her hair caught in his stubble and the entire back of her body molded to the front of his.
“I invited your sister to our next poker night,” Zak said quietly into the darkness. Like this was a slumber party and they were trying not to get caught staying up late.
“She’s a sore loser, fair warning.”
“I kinda figured that out when she threatened to evict you for playing a wild card tonight.”
Chase’s chuckle got caught in his throat as she wiggled closer. He held her tight, mind drifting back to his first poker night and all the tension between them. In some ways, it didn’t feel any different. The heat was only hotter. The unspoken words were only stronger.
He wondered what he could say to make her blush next time. What he could do to make her avert her eyes and look down at her cards instead of watching him…
And it occurred to him, “I think I have an idea for our album cover.”
She turned in his arms. “I like that you’re calling it ‘our’ album now.”
Her lips being so close to his were going to make him lose his train of thought, but he couldn’t help it. He kissed her. The time when he hadn’t been able to touch her at all was still too fresh in his memory.
Her hands ran up his chest to sift through the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. She seemed like she was mumbling something, but maybe it was just her lips brushing against his as soft noises escaped the back of her throat.
He wanted to drink them all in. Wanted her again and again, and all the fucking time.
“As much as I love this, I think it might be a little inappropriate for an album cover,” she said finally, but feeling her smile against his lips was not making it any easier to concentrate.
He inched away until coherent thoughts formed. “I was thinking about your cards. Do you remember which artist Link got them from?”
“I think her contact info is on the Joker.” Zak traced the inside of his bicep with the back of her nail. “And I like that idea. A lot.”
“Mm. Glad.” He cupped her face in both hands. “Now can we get back to my other idea?”
“I’d love to,” she whispered.
But all his intoxicated brain heard was, I love you.