But the image of him lying on that hotel bed, lips blue, still haunts me. Or the sound of Annie crying herself hoarse outside the hospital room, curled in the fetal position across my lap. Or the sight of Zach’s trembling hands when the EMT finally nodded and said Tag was going to be okay.
Tag jokes now, but I know he’s still carrying it. We all are.
And it scares the hell out of me. Because if death can slip that quietly into his pocket, it could just as easily find its way into mine.
Into any of ours.
“There’s my rock star.”
I pivot, watching as Annie skips toward me, a mod-dress vision in smoky eyeshadow. There’s a cigarette between her fingers, the embers stark against the dusk. “Hey,” I say.
She’s smoking again. It seemed like she’d ditched the habit somewhere between breaking up with Alex and our East Coast tour. But ever since Tag’s brush with death, she’s been lighting up like it’s the only way to keep from unraveling.
She doesn’t talk about that night, but I see it in the way her hands shake when she thinks no one is watching, her gaze full of shadows, or in how she drags each inhale like it’s tethered to something heavier than nicotine.
“It’s been a long day,” she murmurs as she steps into my space. Her free hand finds the hem of my shirt, tugging me closer.
“Long week.” I press a kiss to her temple. She smells like smoke and hotel shampoo and something distinctly her.
Annie leans in, cigarette dangling from her fingers. “Want to grab a bite to eat?”
I nod, glancing around the jam-packed room.
The label booked us a warehouse rehearsal space on the east side. Concrete floors, busted couches, a fridge that sounds like it’s trying to self-eliminate. Perfect for a last-minute pop-up show that’s somehow already sold out.
“Come on.” She stomps out her cigarette and takes me by the hand.
The sun is setting over Los Angeles like a crackling fire hearth. Low and golden, casting everything in a haze of heat and exhaust. Out here on the east side, it’s all warehouses and taco trucks, graffiti-tagged alleys, and that constant hum of something just barely holding itself together.
We don’t make it ten steps before a trio of girls spot us from across the parking lot. One lets out a squeal that cuts through the noise like feedback off a mic.
“Oh my God, that’s them!”
They descend fast—smiles wide, phones out, already filming as if documenting history.
“Chase Rhodes! Can we get a picture? Please? My sister will die.”
Someone shoves a napkin and a Sharpie at me.
Annie steps back as the women swarm.
“We’ll be at your show tomorrow. We have killer seats.” The blond smacks her gum. “Will you guys play ‘New Moon Rising’?”
“Yeah, it’s on the setlist.” I pop the cap between my teeth and scribble my name on a Starbucks napkin. “Thanks for coming to the show. You local?”
“Denver,” they all say at once.
Annie hangs to the side, head bowed. I wave her over. “Annalise.”
She smiles nervously. “They’re here for you. I’m—”
“Are you shitting me?” a brunette perks up, the purple streaks in her hair all too familiar. “You’re my idol. I’m low-key obsessed with you.”
“Hardly low-key,” the blond adds.
“She’s right. High-key as hell. I need a selfie stat.” Her grin is leagues above giddy. “Please?”
With a look of enchanted surprise, Annie steps over to the group and reaches for the marker, smile widening. “Um, thank you. So much. That means everything to me.”
