Just under three hours roll by in a fairy-tale fog. I’m on the outside looking in, the night too good to be true. But it is true. It’s real, and it’s happening.
We finish the set.
Chase slings his guitar aside and grabs me without hesitation. Suddenly, I’m weightless—lifted, spun, my legs kicking back as he whirls me in dizzying circles, like we’ve just sprinted across the finish line of a never-ending marathon. Sweat clings to my skin. My hair whips around me. I’m laughing so hard it hurts, my arms tightening around his neck, anchoring me.
We did it.
When he sets me down, I don’t have time to recover as Tag rushes over and pulls me into a bone-crushing hug. He inches me backward, grips me by the shoulders, bending to meet my eyes, his face the proudest I’ve ever seen it. “You killed it, sis. You absolutely fuckingkilledit.”
I’m crying. I’m laughing. I’m free.
The guys hug while hands clap together, hair is ruffled, and backs are smacked.
Everything is glorious.
We’re ambushed the second we step off the stage, champagne glasses pressed into our hands. Lillian and Declan make the rounds, engulfing us with praise. Tears stream down Lillian’s cheeks, the pinnacle of the night and too much bubbly making her weep.
I’ve hardly caught my breath when a mid-thirties man waltzes over to us in a crisp suit, his hair a mess of dirty-blond curls.
“Name’s Crowley,” he introduces. “Second cousin to the bride.”
He shakes our hands. Chase hovers to my right, Tag on my left.
“I own a music venue out in New York called The Soundproof,” he continues, straightening out his tie. “Bit of a hike, I know. But if you can swing the drive, I’d love to get you guys on the schedule sometime.”
I blanch.
New York.
That’shuge.
It’s less than a five-hour commute. Hardly anything given the enormous opportunity dangling in front of us.
Tag’s eyes bulge. “The Soundproof.” He nearly chokes. “Shit. That place is iconic.”
“It’s been a labor of love, no doubt.”
“That’s where Misfire got their big break. Arlo Knox became an overnight legend.”
Crowley chuckles, bows his head. “Arlo is something else. Quite the presence.”
I hold my breath, my eyes ping-ponging between the two men on either side of me.
My smile wilts.
There’s just one problem.
“We, um…don’t really have a full band yet.” I bite my lip, disappointment rolling through me. “Dan and Aaron were just filling in for us as a favor. They already have a band.”
“Mm, I see.” Crowley’s face falls. “Well, if anything changes, take my card. Give me a call.”
I take the business card he hands me. Light and weightless, yet brimming with serendipity.
Crowley looks directly at Chase. “Having been in this business for over a decade, I have a keen eye for talent. The raw, gritty stuff you can’t manufacture. The Arlos of the world,” he drawls, expression turning earnest. “I see a lot of up-and-comers breeze through my doors, but only one percent of them stick. And that’s probably a generous estimate.”
I study Chase, the way he swallows, stiffens, his eyes glazing over.
“Take what you want from that,” the man adds, a smile cresting. He smacks Chase on the shoulder, then sends me and Tag a quick glance. “Congrats on the show.”
