Chase: A Secret Millionaire Romance Novel

by Violette Paradis

  “Ugh. Useless.”

  When it comes to complaining, Chuck is the king.

  I look out the window at the lush pine trees flashing by. The beautiful forest view is a stark contrast to the inside of the old beater of a van—an old ‘70s hand-me-down from Chuck’s grandfather. Decades worth of sweat, tears, and alcohol stain the ripped upholstery. There are probably several other disgusting liquid surprises rubbed into the material that I try not to think about. The hot stifling air makes me want to open a window but the rear windows no longer have that functionality. No air conditioning either. I’m left to breathe the dusty second-hand air coming in from the driver’s window. Before this all started, I thought touring would be glamorous. Now I know better.

  After an hour of watching trees flash by, I grab my pen and scribble some lyrics into my notebook. When I finish my thought, I pick up the white guitar on the seat next to me and I slide my fingertips over the strings. Picking a few notes, I find a melody.

  “Dammit, Amber!” Chuck turns and glares at me with his bleary, bloodshot eyes.

  “What?”

  “I never would’ve given you that piece-of-shit guitar if I knew you’d drive me insane like this.”

  “But we only have four songs on our demo,” I say. “We’re going to need more material if we plan on getting signed at the Rock Heart Festival at the end of the summer.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Just keep quiet, okay?”

  I laugh. “I can’t write music while being quiet. We’ve been on the road for seven hours a day and we play gigs almost every night! I spend most of my free time booking gigs and handling our social media because I know neither of you will do it. When else am I supposed to practice or write new music?”

  “Any other time?” He says this like it’s obvious. “Just not now when my head feels like it’s splitting apart.”

  “And whose fault is that?” I mumble.

  “What was that?” He sharpens his gaze.

  “Nothing.”

  At the beginning of the tour, Chuck was fine. Charming, even. Even though he’s only two years older than me, I saw him as the cool older guy. The mature musician. I was right out of high school when I met him for the first time. He and Bob were playing music on a street corner—Chuck with his white guitar and Bob on the drums. He was a rock god in my eyes. And when he flirted with me after a performance, I was completely smitten. Male attention wasn’t something I was used to. High school was a nightmare. I wasn’t a cool girl or a beauty queen. I was too pale, too messy, too alternative. So, as Chuck started flirting with me, I found my way into the band. I like the attention from Chuck, and I especially liked the attention I got onstage.

  At first, both Chuck and Bob liked having me as part of the band. I helped write new songs, I played guitar, and I sang. And they especially liked that I booked studio time and live gigs so they no longer had to busk. I helped tripled the band’s income. But lately, they’ve been restricting my involvement, and it’s no secret why.

  Everything changed a few weeks ago. After weeks of flirting, I finally hooked up with Chuck. Stupid. I knew hooking up with the guy in my band was a bad idea. The next evening, he cut my guitar solo from that night’s gig. And after the show, I found him hooking up with a groupie in the back of the van. They were doing it in the very spot that I’m forced to sit next to now.

  I’m angry at Chuck… but I’m even angrier at myself. Still, despite things being awkward as fuck between us, I’m loyal to the band above all. Dealing with Chuck is just an extra obstacle on my road to becoming a real rock star.

  Setting my guitar aside, I pull out my laptop and pull on my headphones.

  “Ugh, not that thing again,” Chuck whines. He’s still watching me through the sun visor’s mirror.

  “What? I’m using my headphones so you won’t have to hear me.”

  “We’re not playing that electronic shit,” he continues. “We’re a garage band, not a shitty electronic pop band.”

  It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “I’m aware of that, as you’ve told me eight hundred times already. But if you don’t want me to work on this then please let me practice my actual instrument. Our last gig was a disaster.”

  “No, it wasn’t!” There’s a defensive tone in his raspy voice. “We were good, right?”

  Chuck looks over at Bob, his loyal soldier, who pretends not to hear us so that he won’t get involved. It’s Bob’s specialty to avoid confrontation, especially when it’s between me and Chuck.

  “See?” I say. “Even your best buddy is too afraid to admit it. You need my help remembering half the lyrics. We’ll never get signed if a shitty performance like that gets on YouTube—”

  “Fuck YouTube,” Chuck says. “We don’t have time to practice.”

  I laugh. “You have time to party all night but you don’t have time to practice?”

  No response.

  “Bob?” I look at the man in the driver’s seat. “We should practice, right?”

  A pair of reflective aviators look up at me from the rear-view mirror. Bob shrugs. “I’ll go with whatever Chuck thinks.”

  “Of course you will,” I mumble as I slip deeper into my seat and sigh.

  Bob is Chuck’s oldest childhood friend, whereas I’m just a woman who talked her way into the band and mistakenly hooked up with Chuck. Anybody can see that I’m the odd one out. A man will always choose his buddy over an ex. A fling? I don’t even know what we are. A mistake. That’s what Chuck is. I take a deep breath of thick stifling air to prevent myself from bubbling over with anger.

  Chuck turns and faces me. He puts on his large sunglasses to hide the heavy bags under his bleary eyes. He holds his head up with one hand as if it’s too heavy to support itself.

  “Do you want to be in the band? Do you want your cut of the money?” The edge in his voice cuts through the air.

  “What money? You spent it all on your new guitar, remember? And what’s the point? You only know three chords anyway.”

  “That guitar is an investment for the band. It’s sad that you can’t recognize that.”

  I hate the way he talks to me. I’m annoyed that I was attracted to him at one point. He tricked me into thinking he actually cared about music. I blame his rebellious style and his wannabe rock star persona.

  “You know what else is an investment for the band?” I ask. “Practicing.”

  Neither Chuck nor Bob respond.

  I lean in between them. “For our last few gigs, all I did was strum a few chords. I didn’t even have a microphone to sing backup! Would you at least let me contribute just a little bit more?”

  “You do contribute.” Chuck downs the last of his coffee. “Seriously, Bob. Where the hell are we? I want that fucking energy drink.”

  “We must’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere,” Bob says in a quiet voice.

  “Well, that’s just great.” Chuck throws the empty coffee cup onto the passenger-side floor. “At least you’re a better drummer than you are a driver. Although that’s debatable.”

  Bob stays silent.

  “Are you seriously going to let him talk to you like that?” I ask.

  Bob doesn’t respond. He always takes Chuck’s abuse. I can only imagine it’s been this way since they were kids.

  “Here comes Yoko, trying to break us up.” Chuck slumps into his seat.

  “Do you even want me in the band?” I ask. “Or am I just a glorified manager?”

  “Of course, we want you in the band,” he says. “Producers love chicks in bands.”

  I roll my eyes. “Gee, thanks. That sure makes me feel special.”

  Chuck burps loudly, filling the van with the scent of this morning’s coffee and last night’s beer binge.

  “Gross.” I wave away the sour stench. “You know, if I didn’t care so much about this band I wouldn’t be here right now.”

  Chuck snorts. “Yeah, well you’re stuck with me now. You know why? Because you’ll never get a recording contr
act without us. Can we stop talking now? My head is killing me.” He bunches his sweater into a ball and places it between his head and the window. “Wake me up when you see a gas station.”

  While waiting for my synthesizer program to load, I tether my phone signal to my laptop so that I can check my email. I have two: one from the Boston venue confirming that night’s gig and another from someone called DreaX. After checking the first one to make sure everything is in order, I read the second one:

  Dear Amber Sweet, My friend and I LOVE the song you uploaded on your blog - ‘Bored’. We can’t stop listening to it! Are you releasing any more solo stuff? Or will you play it on tour with Dirty Laundry? Can’t wait to see you in New York!!!

  -DreaX

  Fan mail. I can’t believe it! I’ve never had fan mail—or fans—in my life and now I have two! Excitement buzzes through my fingers as I type back.

  DreaX, Thank you so much for your kind words! I’m glad you liked ‘Bored’ but it’s not a Dirty Laundry song, so we won’t be playing it on tour. I don’t have any more solo stuff at the moment…

  I stop to think about it. Posting that song wasn’t something I planned on doing. I wrote and recorded it the night I found Chuck with the other woman. After getting my own hotel room, I had a fit of creative energy which resulted in that song. I only uploaded it as an afterthought. It’s crazy that someone actually listened to it! Looking at the email, I delete what I’ve written. As I start again, I notice there’s no internet connection. I check my phone. No signal. Closing the internet browser, I put my headphones on and play around with the synthesizer program on my desktop. Time slips by as I build the bones of a new song.

  We drive long enough to put Chuck to sleep which gives Bob and me a well-needed break… at least until Chuck starts snoring. Turning up the sound on my headphones, I take a break and listen to the new album by my favorite artist, Henry Sinner. Time seems to fade as I watch trees flicker past. I’m about to drift to sleep when I see a small white speck deep in the forest. It’s the first sign of life I’ve seen in over two hours. Squinting my eyes, I spot a beautiful white house deep in the woods.

  Strange. Who would live all the way out here?

  A few minutes later we see a more welcome sign of life—a small gas station.

  “Rest stop!” Bob calls out as he pulls over, startling Chuck awake.

  “Finally.” Chuck sits up and rubs his greasy hair.

  Bob pulls up to the gas tank and gets out to start pumping gas. Climbing over the back seat, I hop outside. I pull a deep breath of fresh pine air into my lungs as I feel the summer sunshine warm on my skin. The contrast between the inside of the humid van and the fresh outdoors is staggering. Living in a cramped tour bus with two hygienically challenged men is not an experience I’d wish on my worst enemy. Flattening out the skirt of my black floral dress, I look around and take in the greenery of the trees, the blueness of the sky, and the sound of nature. The smell of pine is mixed with the strong smell of gasoline. The gas station itself looks like something out of a horror movie—everything is dusty and run down. Next to the small convenience store, there’s an old rusty pickup truck—it must be older than the van! And looking completely out of place next to the old truck is a beautiful matte black motorcycle.

  “Holy shit!” Chuck says as he spots the motorcycle. “This is a Chase motorcycle!”

  He runs up to the bike and takes a selfie of himself leaning back on it.

  “This must cost what, like twenty, thirty bones?”

  “Don’t know, don’t care.” I look away.

  Stretching my legs for the first time all day, I make my way toward the small gas station hoping for a modern-day unicorn: a clean bathroom. In our three weeks on the road visiting various gas stations, I have yet to experience such a luxury.

  “Babe, wait!” Chuck’s raspy voice croaks.

  Annoyed that I still respond to his cutesy pet name, I turn around. “Yes?”

  He staggers over to me, still holding his head as if it weighs fifty pounds. The faded tattoos on his arms are already getting sunburned. As he approaches, I can see the grease in his unwashed man-bun. Ugh. Greasy hair for a greasy guy.

  Reaching out, he wraps his tattoo-covered arms around me. His stale sweat fills my sinuses with a sour stench.

  “Oh, babe,” he says.

  Oh god. Here we go. What kind of bullshit is going to come out of his mouth this time?

  “It hurts when you say the things you say.” His coffee breath is nauseating.

  “What things?” I pull away from his bony embrace. “That we need to practice? That we need to focus on music and performing? On being professional?”

  “I need us to be decent to each other.” He grabs my hands in his. “I need Dirty Laundry to be the best band alive. Think of all the things we’ve dreamed about… Money, fame… umm… did I say money?”

  I pull away. “What about music?”

  “Are you going to be mad at me this whole time?” He sticks his hands into the pockets of his ripped skinny jeans. This is his attempt at looking like an innocent victim.

  “Mad?” I laugh. “First, you cheat on me, then you cut my solo. Now you have the audacity to tell me I can’t practice music? What’s next? I’m not allowed to speak?”

  “I cheated on you?” He laughs. “We aren’t even dating!”

  “You told me I was the only woman for you!”

  “Yeah… at that moment.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m allowed to be mad because I am mad.”

  “Can’t you just be civil for the band?”

  “Can’t you just keep your dick in your pants… for the band?”

  “For the band? Or for you? Like I said, we never put labels on anything.”

  I turn around.

  “Oh, come on.” He pulls me back. “It took weeks to get you to put out!”

  I shake my head. “You’re disgusting.”

  “That’s what you get for falling for a rock star.”

  “I didn’t fall for you.”

  He laughs. “Sure, whatever. You still want me. I see it in your eyes.”

  I look away.

  “Plus,” he adds, “you know I’ll be screwing around when we get famous, right? I mean, why else would I become a rock star?”

  “Is that all you care about? We’re supposed to be a band. Not a hookup service, or whatever this is.”

  “Ugh, my headache.” Both hands are massaging his temple now. A fly buzzes around his head like the garbage that he is. His limp hand pathetically swats it away. “You’re messing everything up, babe. Don’t you know how easy it’d be to replace you?”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  He doesn’t respond. The sharp hum of cicadas grows louder as heat bubbles inside me.

  “Where would you guys even be without me?” I ask. “I’ve done a lot of work for this band compared to you. In fact, you’re a detriment to the band. Most of your actions harm the band. You’re late to gigs, you forget the lyrics, and you have no respect for your band-mates. You’re the one who wouldn’t be missed.”

  Menace sharpens his eyes. “What are you trying to say?”

  “Do you still not get it? You’re holding us back! Do better. Be better.”

  He looks away with disinterest. A warm wind blows through, stirring up the dust and rustling the leaves on the surrounding trees. Tension builds as we stand in silence.

  “It shouldn’t be like this,” I say. “Think about what our dreams were a few months ago. Before me, you were barely getting gigs.”

  “What the hell do you what, Amber?”

  I tense my jaw. “I want respect from you.”

  He simply stares at me. “That’s it?”

  “And I want to be able to practice during these long road trips.”

  He scrunches his nose and looks away. “Fine.”

  “And I want you to listen to my new demos.” I know I’m pushing my luck but I can’t stomach being a part of this band if I
can’t get creative. The whole reason I joined Dirty Laundry was because Chuck promised me equal creative control. He promised that I could sing the lead vocals on at least half the tracks. And he promised me a record deal which would be waiting for us at the end of the summer. It seems like he promised me everything and the moon just to get in my pants.

  He winces. “You want me to listen to that horrible noise?”

  “Ugh, never mind.” I pull away.

  “Wait!” He grabs my hand. “Fine. I’ll listen to it. But only after my hangover is gone.”

  I smile. “Good. I knew we could come to an understanding.”

  “Sure. Whatever. I have to take a leak. Get me a few energy drinks and a six-pack of cold beer.”

  “Seriously? You can’t drink in the van!”

  “We’ll take rest stops. Now hurry up and don’t forget the energy drinks.”

  “Gee, can I get you anything else, your highness?”

  “Umm… yeah. Tortilla chips. Not cheese puffs. You know I hate that shit.” He stumbles toward the restroom.

  I shake my head in annoyance. So much for respecting each other. Only a few more hours until we’ll be in Boston and I can finally get some space—somewhere where Chuck won’t criticize my every move.

  Looking forward to the air conditioning, a sugar pick-me-up, and a brief break from Chuck, I head into the small convenience store. The bell rings as I walk in. Bob already has a small bag of snacks as he passes me on his way out.

  “Bob,” I say, stopping him. There’s an absent look in his eyes. “Why do you take his bullshit?”

  He shrugs before pulling away and heading outside, causing the bell to ring again.

  “Useless,” I mumble.

  The ancient-looking man sitting behind the counter looks up at me. I give him a quick smile, trying to play off that I wasn’t just having an embarrassing fight outside with the world’s biggest douchebag. Looking across the small store, I see a broad-shouldered man in a black t-shirt standing in the corner looking at the magazine stand. He lifts his head slightly but I can’t quite see his face.

  I make my way straight to the snacks.

  Ugh.

  I can’t wait to get to the city and eat real food. I’ve been living off beef jerky and nacho chips for the past four weeks. There’s gotta be a better life waiting for me at the end of all this.