I stand there, soaking in the chaos, trying not to hurl. Then I lean forward with a final send-off, growling into the mic, “Thank you, San Francisco!”
The audience erupts.
A woman in the front row reaches for me with both hands, propped up on her friend’s shoulders. “I love you, Chase!”
Smirking, I send her a wink, then gaze out at the sweaty, still-moving crowd. “You showed up. We bled for it. See you on the next battlefield.”
I toss the mic behind me, letting it crash to the floor as the lights black out.
Backstage is a blur of back-pats and bottled water, our crew buzzing with postshow adrenaline. My hearing’s fuzzy. My vision’s off. But I plaster on a grin, hair stuck to my face, clothes glued to places I didn’t even know about.
Someone suggests a drink.
Someone else is already pouring.
***
The rooftop bar is carved into the skyline like it owns the night.
Glass panels line the edge, offering a cinematic view of the city below. A gritty, endless sprawl. Amber lights hang from steel beams overhead, casting halos across plush couches and marble tables. The music is low, a steady pulse threading through the clink of highball glasses and the hush of conversations.
Our section is roped off with a velvet cord.
Bottle service.
VIP.
We were schlepped over to the hotel in a limo after a few postshow drinks. I’ve downed enough whiskey at this point that I hardly hear the howling in my head. My vision is speckled with tiny stars, my blood pumping with aftershocks and adrenaline.
Annie comes into focus beside me, all light and laughter as she splays across the ice-blue velvet couch.
A tight violet dress barely holds in her breasts. Tall black heels cling to her feet, the straps winding up her ankles. Her makeup still looks perfect despite the glaze of sweat on her skin, and her hair is a mess of purple, brown, and blond, still dusted with glitter from her hairspray.
She laughs at something Zach says, smacking him on the knee, and my gaze dips to the contact in a lazy slide.
“Dude, are you stoned?”
I blink a few times, searching for the voice. Tag materializes on my left, hunched forward on the couch with a beer between his hands. “What?” I mutter.
“You look cooked. Did Rock give you the good stuff?”
“No, I…”Fuck.I need to snap out of it. “Just whiskey.”
“Mm.” He brings the nozzle to his lips, taking a sip. “Well, you were fire out there tonight. Best you ever played.”
Felt like my brain was trying to eat itself, but hey—rock and roll. “Thanks. You too.”
He nods at his sister. “It’s getting to you, isn’t it?”
I falter, glancing at Annie. Her head tips back in laughter as Zach FaceTimes his daughter, Marie, who’s explaining how she shoved a slice of cheese into the DVD player because Elmo was hungry.
Clearing my throat, I pull away. “No. I’m good.”
Tag sighs, taking another swig. “She’ll come around. It’s that soft heart of hers. Doesn’t know when to let go and let die. But she sees you. Give her a little more time.”
His words eat at me, every syllable drenching me in acid. “Said I’m good.” I lean forward and reach for a glass of champagne, swallowing it in one go. “Plenty of fish in the sea.”
Around me, those fish blur into a sea of red lips and black dresses—blonds, brunettes, curves, legs, perfume. None of them her. None of them what I want.
