Zach pales. “Shit.” He spins. “I’ve got Narcan. Two rooms down.”
He takes off running.
Chase keeps going, rhythm brutal, unrelenting. My ears ring with the thud of his hands hitting Tag’s chest. A sound I’ll never forget.
Moments later, Zach busts back in, fumbling through his backpack. “Hold him,” he barks, ripping the cap off the nasal spray. “Lift his head.”
Chase obeys. Zach presses the nozzle into Tag’s nostril and delivers the dose.
“C’mon,” Zach mutters. “You’re all good, buddy. Come on. You’re good.”
Time crawls.
The room spins.
I hold my breath until I’m blue.
Then Tag jerks violently, coughing, a wheezy gasp forcing its way into his lungs. His whole body seizes, a violent inhale crashing through him like he’s clawing his way out of death.
He chokes, eyes flying open, unseeing.
Limbs twitching.
Muscles locking, then loosening in jerky waves.
“Shit, there it is,” Chase breathes, exhaling hard as he backs off and presses forward on his knees. “Fuck, man.”
Tag’s eyes flutter. His lips tremble. He tries to sit up, but his body doesn’t cooperate.
“Tag!” I sob, rushing toward him and collapsing beside the bed, squeezing his hand. “God, Tag. I’m here. I’m here.”
Sirens wail in the distance.
Kenna cries out, landing beside me.
Chase releases a ragged breath, barely holding it together, while Zach slumps against the wall and stares up at the ceiling.
Tag is alive.
He’salive.
But the fear—that hollow, bottomless kind—has already made a home in me.
Chapter 47Chase
It’s wild how fast everything can change.
One minute, we’re watching Tag fight for his life on a hotel bed. The next, we’re signing big-money contracts, packing out venues we used to dream about, and answering calls from managers who wouldn’t have given us a second glance when we were nothing but a garage band.
The West Coast run turned into a sprint we couldn’t slow down. Interview requests, sponsorships, festival invitations, photoshoots. Every day, something new lands in our laps, and the stakes get bigger.
Gear cases slam shut around us, the heavy thud echoing off the warehouse walls. Dust floats in the pale light filtering through cracked windows.
“Somebody kill me now,” Kenna groans, dropping onto a battered leather couch that probably came with the building. “I’m too pretty to die stacking amps.”
I kneel by the pedalboards, coiling cables I can barely see straight. The pressure in my head is drilling deep, making the room swim if I move too fast.
“You good?” Tag claps me on the back as he passes with an armful of mic stands.
