Page 79 of Life After You

Chace stares. “Wait… what about Logan?”

Trey scoffs. “Nah, everyone knows Logan doesn’t even use the internet.”

Chace crosses his arms. “Hold up. You were using our accounts?”

Trey shrugs. “Yeah, man. Got into it with some r/BurntAshesBashers. Then I ended up in r/Fanfiction, and—listen, people keep writing me as a bottom, and I am not. Then some idiot picked a fight about your hair routine, and somehow, we spiraled into Alfredo sauce recipes, and bro… it got dark.”

I have no fucking clue what they’re talking about. And I don’t care. I’ve got more important things to do—like cleaning up.

“Whatever,” I say, shaking my head. “Mac’s coming.”

A beat of silence. Then, Sam lets out a sharp whistle, and Trey slams his hand on the table.

“Fuck yeah!”

Chace grins. “’Bout damn time. Feels right, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I admit, the truth settling deep in my chest. “It does.”

Out in the lounge, a few crew members are lounging around, beers in hand. Someone cracks open another can, and the tension that’s been sitting on all our shoulders finally melts away.

Mac’s coming back. She belongs here—with us.

A new twinge hits, though… all these fuckers with their beers and snacks.

“Alright, boys,” Trey says, rubbing his hands together. “We celebrating or what?”

“Cards,” Chace declares, already reaching for the deck. “Loser buys the next round.”

“Trey, trash bags. Chace, deal me in,” I say, dragging my chair closer as Sam sets up a makeshift table out front.

The night settles into a comfortable rhythm—trash talk, laughter, the clink of bottles. It feels good. It feels normal.

“You better not be stacking that deck, Chace.” Sam warns, narrowing his eyes.

Chace smirks. “Would I do that?”

“Yes.” We all say in unison.

The game kicks off, and so does the shit talking. Trey’s convinced he’s some poker prodigy, but he’s got tells so obvious it’s painful. Sam plays like a shark—calm, unreadable. Chace bluffs like a damn con artist. I just enjoy the game.

Halfway through, Trey groans, tossing his cards down. “This game is rigged.”

“Or you suck.” I counter, grinning as I rake in the pile of winnings. Before Trey can flip me off, the sound of heels clicking against the floor interrupts us.

Groupies. There’s always a few hanging around after shows, looking for an invite, looking for something. I don’t pay them much mind, but Trey? He lights up like a damn Christmas tree.

“Unless you’re here to help clean, you gotta skedaddle. It’s PG-13 in here tonight,” Trey announces, shuffling the deck of cards.

“Aren’t all you rockstars looking for a good time?” one of the girls asks. She’s tall, leggy, and wearing a band tee a few sizes too small.

“Nope, not us,” Trey says without missing a beat. “We’re actually a progressive Christian rock band, and you’ve caught us just in time for our prayer circle.”

She eyes Trey with amusement, while the other two women just look confused—pretty much how we feel most days when he opens his mouth.

“Did Phil send you back?” Chace asks, his face unreadable as he checks the round. Sam, feeling confident, raises the pot.

“He did,” the blonde answers. “Picked us out from the agency earlier.”

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