A guitar tattoo.
The neck of the instrument is wrapped in flowy sheets of musical notes, the body a vibrant shade of violet.
My chest tightens.
Tag has a guitar tattoo. Different placement, different size, different design.
But I know what kind of guy gets that tattoo.
My brother got his when he was nineteen, the night he swore music was the only thing that would ever keep him alive. He’s been scraping by ever since, working as a car detailer, playing gigs that barely cover anything outside of rent, and drowning in the same desperation I see in this man’s eyes now.
I’m familiar with that kind of struggle. I know what it looks like when someone is losing.
And I can’t help but think that in a different life, this could’ve been my brother.
“My name is Annalise,” I say slowly.
Our eyes lock for a moment in the rearview mirror before he returns his attention to the road. And then he practically wheezes out a lung when he lifts up and reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a tattered wallet.
He tosses it in my direction.
The wallet lands on the seat beside me, smeared with blood. Gingerly, I open it, squinting at the name on his driver’s license: Chase Rhodes.
“Why did you give me this?” I glance at the birthday and attempt to do math while still inebriated and going in and out of shock.
He’s twenty-four. Hardly a year older than Tag.
“Just in case,” he murmurs.
I blink up at him. “In case what?”
“That’s my current address. My dog is there. Toaster.”
I can’t stop blinking, trying to process what he’s saying.
“Look, if I don’t make it…I don’t have anybody else. I just need someone to make sure my dog is okay and finds a good home.” He falters, turning onto another street. “A better home.”
I’m horrified when my eyes start to mist.
My God. I’ve gone from petrified to pissed off to empathetic in a matter of five minutes.
And I have no idea how to respond to that.
I collapse back in the seat, watching blowing tree branches and snow whiz by. I’ve wanted a dog since I was four years old, but my mother is allergic. And Alex? He says a dog would be too much responsibility, given our hectic schedules at the restaurant. He’s not wrong.
Chewing on my cheek, I cross my arms and look into the mirror. “You really don’t have anybody?”
Chase’s jaw flexes, his gaze fixed on the road. “No. Not anymore.”
The words sit heavy in the space between us as a new song starts to play on the radio: “I Only Want To Be With You” by Dusty Springfield.
Something in my chest tugs, but I shove the feeling aside. I need to be smart about this. Strategic. My adrenaline’s still pumping, my blood swimming with booze, my mind sorting through the havoc of the last few minutes. I’m not about to let my guard down just because he has sad eyes and a dog named Toaster.
I don’t know anything about this man.
But I know what it’s like to make a bad decision that changes the course of your entire life.
“I’ll make sure your dog is okay.” I look down at my magenta-tipped toes peeking out through my heels. “Just in case.”
