My vision cuts out. Static and black noise. I can’t fucking see.
Sound warps.
My eyes roll up.
Next thing I know, I’m plummeting face-first off the stage.
Chapter 50Chase
She’s lying in bed beside me, pressing a warm compress to my forehead. Her touch is butterfly-soft, voice melted velvet.
“I’m here,” she whispers.
I close my eyes, focusing on the brush of her knuckles across my cheek.
Complex migraine with vasovagal syncope.
That was my official diagnosis after a brief post-fall hospital visit. My vitals were good, blood pressure stable. By the time I got there, I was lucid, oriented, and answering all of their how-many-fingers-am-I-holding-up questions.
I played it cool. Cracked a few jokes. Blamed it on stress, too much whiskey, and a brutal tour schedule. I let them run their tests—everything but a scan.
Because if they find something, it stops being a maybe.
And if it’s real, if there’s something in my head waiting to take everything from me…
Then it’s over.
Her.
The music.
All of it.
And I’m not ready for that.
No one pushed for imaging once I was talking. No slurred speech, no long-lasting effects. Just a jaded rock star who took a nosedive into a sea of people.
Annie wanted more. I could see it in the way her eyes searched mine, like she was waiting for a punchline I never delivered.
But I shut it down.
Said I was fine.
Said it wasn’t that bad.
Said what I had to.
Now I’m here, two days later, lying in the dark beside her, the room still humming like the stage never emptied. She presses the compress to my head again, gentler this time, her fingers brushing my temple as she curls up beside me.
“A new listing came through,” I say, reaching for her hand. Our fingers intertwine. “Three bedrooms. Two bathrooms. There’s a screened-in sunroom off the kitchen, perfect for late-night writing. A big patio too. For when the moon is full.”
A little croak escapes her. “That sounds perfect.”
We’ve been scrolling the real estate apps for weeks, looking for a place to call our own after my contract on this rental is up at the end of June. In the meantime, she’s moved in with me while we navigate our upcoming tour schedules.
Toaster jumps up on the bed, plodding over my legs until he’s nestled on the opposite side of me. My free hand lands in his thick mane of fur, fingers skimming and scratching.
“My brave little Toaster…”
