Page 9 of What They Say

Chase set the impact down with a clatter and dragged a hand over his face. Everything about this was wrong, and he hated every moment of it, but Bear’s calm presence made the spiral feel a little less suffocating.

Bear clapped a massive hand on his back. “Now hand me that torque wrench and quit staring into space. This bike won’t finish itself.”

Chase managed a weak nod and picked up the tool again. The steady rhythm of work slowly pushed the worst of the panic back. Not gone. Not even close. But manageable.

For the first time since the ambulance doors had closed, he could breathe. Benny was going to be okay, the band would keep playing, and Chase would keep his best friend.

***

It was after midnight already, and Chase still couldn’t sleep. He was wired, mind circling around what happened with Benny and everything that led up to it.

He sat on the tailgate of his truck in Bear’s driveway, having opted to retain his guest room here over moving in with his dad and girlfriend. They’d bought a house and were in the process of setting everything up. Willa had tried to interest him in swapping locations to be closer to his dad and little brother, and he’d been able to play it off as wanting to give them a little privacy.

Now here he was, outside his friend’s house, unable to sleep because his stupid head kept replaying Benny’s collapse on loop. The way his fingers had slipped on the strings. The too-wide grin. The final, sickening thud as he hit the stage.

You knew. And you said nothing.

The guilt sat like a stone in his chest, heavy and sharp. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over Mason’s number. One call. That’s all it would’ve taken. But he hadn’t made it.

Chase rubbed a hand over his face, the memory of Bear’s words from earlier echoing in his head: You’re not responsible for his choices, kid. Not even close.

But it didn’t feel that way. Not tonight. Not with the shadows pushing in.

He stared at the dark garage, imagining he could still see the half-finished bike on the lift. Music had been his safe place. Now it felt tainted by what he hadn’t done.

Next time, he thought, the promise settling heavy in his gut. Next time, I’ll speak up before it gets anywhere close to bad.

Even if it might cost him everything.

***

A couple of nights later, Chase found himself back in Slate’s studio with Vic. Victor Montrose was a drummer Danny had arranged to bring in and replace Blake. With the timing of all the nasty things in the universe, he’d been in the crowd watching the show, until everything was derailed by Benny’s collapse. By that point, Vic had already traveled overnight to play with them.

There’d been so many things happening quickly in the period of time immediately after the ambulance had pulled away. Benita and Danny’s secret relationship revealed. Vic and Mitty standing firm on retaining the equipment, not allowing Benita to lay claim to anything that wasn’t hers. Then there was the fact that Benny was now in rehab, so Vic and Chase had fallen into the habit of late-night acoustic sessions—stripped-down versions of the band’s material, plus whatever new ideas happened to surface. He wanted to know when Benny would be back but wasn’t sure he wanted to ask the question.

What if it’s never? What if the band triggers his addiction?

Vic sat on a stool across from him, fingers moving lazily over the strings of an old acoustic. The room was quiet except for the soft strum of guitar and the occasional creak of the leather couch.

Chase played a simple progression he’d been messing with, something slower and more introspective than their usual sound. Vic listened for a few bars, then layered in a gentle countermelody that fit perfectly.

“You’ve been holding out on us,” Vic said with a small smile. “That’s got real heart.”

Chase shrugged, eyes on his fretboard. “Just something I’ve been working on. Doesn’t really fit the full band stuff yet.”

They played through it again, the notes filling the small space. After the last chord faded, Vic set his guitar aside and looked at Chase directly.

“You okay, man? You’ve seemed...somewhere else lately.”

Chase hesitated, fingers still resting on the strings. The question felt safe enough with Vic. The drummer had a steady way about him that didn’t demand anything.

“It’s my dad,” he admitted quietly. “Mason. I’ve been staying at Bear’s, trying to figure out where I fit in all this. The club, the band...everything. I told him, my dad, that I wanted to prospect a couple years ago. He laughed and told me to come back when I was eighteen. Made me feel like a kid who didn’t know what he was asking for.”

Vic nodded slowly, understanding flickering across his face. “That’s heavy. Sounds like he was trying to protect you, but it landed wrong.”

“Yeah.” Chase let out a slow breath. “Now I’m not even sure I want the patch. Music feels more like mine. But part of me still wants him to see me as...enough. Not just the kid he didn’t know about for more than ten years.”

Vic clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re already enough, Chase. The way you show up here, the way you play—that’s not nothing. Mason’ll see it eventually. Dads like that...they just take a little extra time.”