It’s just the music.
After we say good night to the swarms of people and make our way offstage, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out, wiping sweat off my forehead.
Carter Vale’s name flashes across the screen.
Our agent.
I thumb the green button. “Carter. What’s up?”
“Chase.” His voice is crackling with excitement, not the usual cool, controlled tone he uses when he’s managing five things at once. “You sitting down?”
I glance around backstage at the peeling leather couches, half-downed beers, and haze of sweat and smoke hanging in the air. “Not exactly. We just finished the San Diego set.”
“Well, you should probably sit,” he says. “That guitar you’ve been using for ‘Night Song.’ The custom. The plasma ball one that lights up the entire goddamn stage.”
“Yeah?” I wipe my sweaty palm on my jeans.
“There’s a company based out of Nashville. Huge. They make high-end custom guitars for collectors, rock legends, hell, even museum installations. They were at the San Fran show two nights ago.”
I blink, my eyes catching with Annie’s across the room. “Okay…?”
“They want it.” There’s a sharp laugh in his voice, like even he can’t believe it. “Not just a one-off either. They want to buy the rights to the design. Reproduce it. Limited run, special line, your name attached.”
The room slants for a second. I hear the guys laughing in the corner, cracking beers, unwinding. But for me, everything zeros in on this moment.
“Jesus,” I manage to croak out. “How much are we talking?”
Carter chuckles, low and thrilled. “They’re starting the conversation at half a million. But I think I can negotiate.”
My hand tightens around the phone.
Half a million.
For a guitar I designed in my dark, shitty living room, half done and desperate, with my dog at my feet. For something I built out of insomnia and heartbreak and whatever stubborn pieces of me that refused to quit.
“Are you serious?” I rasp.
“Dead serious. I’m working on that number, but I’ll send over the details tonight. Check your email in a few hours.”
“Yeah. Okay. Yeah.” I’m in a daze, still blinking through the weight of it. “Thanks.”
“Congratulations, Chase. Hope you’re ready.”
I hang up, staring at the phone like he might call right back and tell me it was just a joke.
Holy shit.
My temples pound, my heart galloping between my ribs.
Annie watches me from the other side of the room, a towel draped over her shoulders, her lips parted like she’s about to ask if I’m okay.
I clear my throat, clinging to whatever breath I can conjure. “Hey…guys.”
Conversation falls away, and everyone turns to look at me.
“That was Carter.” Hesitating, I squeeze my eyes shut for half a beat to keep the room from spinning in and out of focus. “My guitar. A company wants it.”
Annie steps forward, setting down her bottled water. “What do you mean?”
