Page 143 of Chasing Lyric
Dad reaches out, grabbing my arm. “I know. It’s just a shame to let her shine where no one can hear.”
My chest swells. “Lyri doesn’t need to shine for anyone but herself. She grew up seeing what that life can bring you. She doesn’t need it. She doesn’t want it.”
He dips his head. “And I get that now. I’m sorry, son. I’m sorry I came after her the way I did. I should have run it by you first.”
Warmth fills my chest, finally hearing him acknowledge his mistake. “Thank you.”
“I just want to get to know the woman who moved into my son’s home. The woman who has single-handedly changed you.”
“Then come on in, Dad. Come and meet Lyric. She’s a florist. She’s an animal lover. She’s the kindest, most caring, slightly eccentric woman of my dreams, and I’m deeply and madly in love with her.”
Epilogue
LYRIC
One Year Later
Petey bolts through the living room like a rocket with no destination, his nails skidding across the hardwood as he zigzags between legs and heels, yipping with wild-eyed excitement. He’s completely overwhelmed, tail wagging so fast it’s a blur, caught somewhere between defending his territory and welcoming everyone with manic glee.
A group of Chase’s industry friends cluster near the bar cart, suits crisp and conversation dull. At the same time, my circle occupies the oversized sectional, wine glasses in hand, already laughing about something I can’t quite hear over the chaos.
It’s a strange blend of worlds colliding. Music royalty brushing shoulders with polished executives. Tattoos and tension mix with tailored blazers and old money manners. The room hums with a kind of unease, low and crackling beneath the small talk and clinks of glass. I hover between both sides of the room, pretending I’m relaxed, but inside I’m wound tighter than a pipe band’s snare drum.
Rory stands beside me at the kitchen island, rhythmically slicing chives with the kind of precision that makes me wonder if she’s using the chopping as therapy. I’m arranging the hors d’oeuvres, though really I’m just moving things around to keep my hands busy, too aware of the way the conversations twist and curl in different tones depending on who’s speaking.
Thenhewalks in.
I don’t know his name, but I’ve heard Chase mention him once or twice in passing—a producer or engineer, possibly both. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t simply enter a room, he claimsit without trying. Hair dark and slightly tousled, jaw shadowed with rough stubble, eyes sharp beneath a furrowed brow. Everything about him says danger and disinterest. His jeans are faded, the knees creased from real wear, and his black tee clings to a frame built for hard work, not desk jobs. A weathered leather jacket hangs off his shoulders, worn at the seams in a way that feels earned.
I notice him heading toward the back of the kitchen, right where Polly’s extravagant new cage takes up half the wall space. The parrot lets out a soft squawk, flapping his wings once in acknowledgment as the man draws closer, tilting his head in curiosity.
There’s no greeting. No polite smile. Just a slow step forward, measured and quiet, like the bird is some enigma he’s trying to solve.
I glance at Rory without turning my head fully, just enough to see her pause mid-chop. Her gaze sharpens, knife still hovering over the cutting board.
“Well…” she murmurs, her voice low with amusement, “… this should be interesting.”
The corner of my mouth lifts, but I keep my focus on the man. He leans in a little, arms crossed now, studying Polly as if he’s expecting the bird to crack a code. Polly responds by cocking his head and letting out a throaty“Rawrr,”which earns the tiniest smirk from the stranger, barely there, but enough to know he’s interested in what my bird can do.
The hum of the party fades into the background for a moment. All I can hear is Polly’s claws clicking against the perch, Rory’s slow, deliberate chopping, and my own breath as I try not to stare too hard.
He hasn’t even said a word, and already I know this guy’s going to shake something loose in this house before the night’s over.
And honestly?
I look forward to seeing how it unfolds.
“And what’s your name, little guy?” the man asks, voice gravel-thick with a teasing edge.
Here it comes.
Polly fluffs his feathers dramatically, swaying like he’s warming up for a performance.“Rawrr… fuck off, fuck off!”
I whip around, gripping the knife mid-chop and waving it toward the bird with zero effect. “Polly, for the love of God, behave.”
The guy doesn’t flinch. He simply smirks, a slow, knowing tilt of his mouth that makes him look like he’s seen worse, and probably been worse. “He’s got quite the vocabulary.”
My eyes widen, part mortified, part impressed that he’s still standing there. “Oh, you have no idea.”
