“Yep.” I shoot him a nod, swiping the sleeve of my hoodie across my sweat-glazed forehead. “Just beat.”
We’re back in LA for two days, rehearsing for a surprise pop-up show that our agent thinks will “keep the hype train rolling” and hopefully land us a label deal. After barreling up and down the coast, living out of buses, hotels, and gas stations, we’re already planning the next lap.
Bigger venues. Bigger crowds. Bigger expectations.
And if Carter has his way, we’ll be locked in a studio by February, cranking out an indie album at record speed. He even floated a European tour for spring, dangling sold-out venues in front of us like a prize we weren’t allowed to blink at.
For the first time, it isn’t about fighting to survive.
It’s about keeping up.
Tag eyes me with a trace of suspicion, as if he’s not buying what I’m selling.
But who the hell am I to complain about a headache when he literally came back from the dead two weeks ago?
The Narcan saved his life. Thank fuck for Zach, who’d packed it without fanfare or explanation. It wasn’t until after the paramedics left that he finally told us why.
His old bandmate back in Castleton had been using, trying to take the edge off late-night gigs and early-morning shifts.
Zach found him slumped over in a rehearsal space, gray and barely breathing.
He didn’t have Narcan then.
Turns out the Xanax Tag took wasn’t just Xanax. The single pill, bought off a random groupie to help him sleep, was laced with fentanyl.
Enough to kill him.
Almost did.
Setting aside the mic stands, Tag pulls off his beanie and saunters toward me. “You’re a terrible fuckin’ liar,” he says.
My eyes narrow. “Pot, meet kettle.”
“You think I’m not good?” He huffs a derisive laugh. “I’m fantastic. Better than ever.”
“Mm.”
“Death has a way of making you feel invincible.” He flashes a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Like you’ve already burned through your worst day, so what’s left to be afraid of?”
Wish I could say the same.
Death feels decidedly different for me.
It’s gripping a bathroom sink somewhere backstage, head pounding, vision tilting sideways, wondering how much longer I can ride this without crashing. It’s heaving my guts out in a gas station toilet, clinging to the porcelain like it’s my only salvation.
It’s losing myself in my girl, the animal taking over as I try so goddamn hard to cherish her while her pretty face goes in and out of focus.
My muscles tighten. I study him—his messy hair, faded band tee, the edge in his smile that wasn’t there before. “Is that why you’ve been acting like a rock star cliché lately?” I probe.
Tag shrugs. Sniffs. “Might be. Or maybe I’m just finally living like I’ve got nothing to prove.”
“Bullshit,” I say, softer now. “You’re still trying to outrun that night.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Just tugs the beanie back on and looks past me. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Guess you don’t walk away from something like that without a few ghosts in your closet.”
Then he turns, heading back to the sea of gear like he didn’t just admit something he’ll never say again.
My shoulders loosen. Relief floods in because he’s here. Breathing. Moving. Cursing under his breath about tangled cords.
