Giving Chase (Incendiary Ink #1)

2. Play The Game Tonight – Chase

Play The Game Tonight

CHASE

The relentless California sun pierces through the gaps in my blackout curtains, a stark reminder that another day has begun. I groan, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, my body a map of aches from yesterday's brutal workout. At forty-five, staying in shape for potential comeback tours is a full-time job in itself. Not that we’re planning a comeback at the moment, but it’s something we talk about occasionally. Better safe than sorry.

My feet hit the cool hardwood floor, and I instinctively reach for the bottle on my nightstand. Water, not whiskey. Old habits die hard, but new ones save lives.

As I pad to the kitchen, the house is quiet save for the distant crash of waves against the Malibu shore. The silence used to be deafening, a void I'd fill with parties, groupies, anything to drown out the thoughts in my head. Now, it's a comfort. A reminder of how far I've come.

My eyes drift to the wall above the fireplace where my platinum records hang, a timeline of Incendiary Ink's rise to fame. Next to them sits a simpler but infinitely more precious award: my five-year sobriety chip. I pick it up, its weight familiar in my palm. Five years. 1,826 days of fighting, of choosing life over oblivion. All because one woman refused to give up on me.

Eliza.

The coffee maker gurgles to life, filling the kitchen with the rich aroma of freshly ground beans. It's a small luxury but one I savor. In my former life, mornings were for nursing hangovers and popping pills. Now, it's protein shakes and coffee, fuel for songwriting sessions and meetings with my therapist.

I carry my mug out to the deck, the sea breeze tousling my salt-and-pepper hair. The view still takes my breath away – endless blue ocean meeting cloudless sky. It's the kind of vista I used to dream about when we were crammed in a van, playing any dive bar that would have us. Back when Eliza was just our manager, not the woman who would shape the course of my life in ways I'm still understanding.

My phone buzzes, and Will's name flashes on the screen. I smile, remembering our late-night call about the Hall of Fame induction. It still feels surreal, like a dream I'm afraid to wake up from.

"Morning, Will," I answer, voice still rough with sleep.

"Dude, have you seen the news?" Will's voice crackles with a mixture of excitement and anxiety that immediately sets me on edge.

"What news?"

"It's everywhere. Eliza was officially announced as our inductee for the Hall of Fame ceremony."

The world tilts on its axis. Eliza . The name alone sends a tidal wave of memories crashing over me. Stolen kisses in studio booths. Screaming matches in hotel rooms. Her steady hand on my back as I retched into toilet bowls in cities I can't even remember.

Eliza Kerr. The woman who saw something in us – in me – when we were nothing but a bunch of kids with more attitude than talent. The one who fought tooth and nail for our success, who weathered every storm with us. The person I called at 3 AM when the demons got too loud, knowing she'd always answer.

The woman I loved but could never commit to, no matter how much I wanted to.

"Chase? You still there?" Will's voice cuts through the fog of memories.

"Yeah, I'm here," I manage, my throat suddenly dry. "That's... that's good, right? It's what we wanted."

"You sure you're okay with this? I mean, it was your idea, but if you're having second thoughts..."

I close my eyes, and I'm instantly transported back to that night. The last time I saw her. It wasn't at our farewell tour like I'd told the guys. No, it was worse. Much worse.

I'd shown up at her place, higher than the notes I could no longer hit, a whirlwind of paranoia and misplaced anger. The look in her eyes – not fear, but a bone-deep weariness – haunts me still. I'd spewed venom, accusing her of things that made no sense even in my drug-addled mind.

And yet, the next morning, there she was. Calm and composed, but with a sadness in her eyes that cut through even my chemical haze. "Chase," she'd said, her voice gentle but firm, "it's time. You need help. Real help. And I can't be the one to give it to you anymore."

That was the moment I knew. The moment I realized how much I'd hurt her, how much I'd taken her for granted. It was also the moment I knew I loved her more than anything in this world. And that I didn't deserve her.

"No," I say finally, coming back to the present. "No, it has to be Eliza. There's no one else who knows us – knows me – like she does."

"If you're sure," Will says, skepticism clear in his voice.

"I'm sure." And I am. Because despite everything, despite the years and the hurt and the regrets, there's a part of me that never stopped hoping for a reason to see her again. To make things right.

After I hang up, I sit on the deck for a long time, watching the waves crash against the shore. The Hall of Fame. Eliza. It's like the universe is conspiring to bring my past crashing into my present.

I consider reaching out to her. My thumb hovers over her contact in my phone – I've never had the heart to delete it. But what would I say? 'Hey, long time no see. Thanks for agreeing to induct us into the Hall of Fame. Sorry for being a colossal asshole and breaking your heart. Oh, and thanks for saving my life. Want to grab coffee?'

Yeah, that'll go over well.

Instead, I do what I've always done when emotions get too big to handle. I grab my guitar – the same beat-up acoustic Eliza gifted me for my 30th birthday. As my fingers find the familiar chords, a melody starts to form. It's bittersweet and a little raw, like an old wound that's never quite healed.

For the first time in years, I let myself really remember Eliza. The way her eyes shined when she laughed at my bad jokes. How she'd absentmindedly twirl her hair when deep in thought, poring over contracts. The fierce glint in her eye when she went to bat for us with record execs. The gentle way she'd tend to me after I'd pushed myself too hard, on stage or off.

I think about how far I've come since those days. The battles I've fought, the demons I've faced. I'm not that reckless rockstar anymore, drowning my feelings in booze and drugs. I'm sober now, thanks to her. But seeing Eliza again? That might be the biggest test of my strength yet.

As the sun climbs higher in the sky, I write a song about second chances and the ones that got away. About love and regrets. About the long, hard road to redemption and the hope that maybe, just maybe, it's not too late to make things right.

I write a song about Eliza and the man I've become because of her, and in spite of her.

And as the final notes fade away, carried off by the ocean breeze, I realize something. I'm terrified of seeing her again, of facing our past. But I'm even more terrified of letting this chance slip away.

This time, I'm not going to run. This time, I'm going to face the music.

Because Eliza Kerr didn't just save my career all those years ago. She saved my life. And it's about damn time I thanked her for it.

I pick up my phone again, this time with purpose. I don't call Eliza – I'm not quite there yet. Instead, I dial my therapist’s number. If I'm going to do this, if I'm going to face Eliza and all the emotions that come with her, I need to be prepared. I need to be strong.

As the phone rings, I look at my reflection in the window. The man staring back at me isn't perfect. He's scarred, he's flawed, but he's trying. He's sober. He's alive.

And for the first time in a long time, he's ready to stop running from his past and start fighting for his future.

"Hey, Dr. Hendricks? It's Chase. I think I'm going to need an extra session this week. Something big is coming up, and I need to be ready."

As I talk to my therapist, I feel a sense of calm settle over me. Whatever happens with Eliza, whatever comes next, I know one thing for sure: I'm not the same man I was five years ago. And maybe, just maybe, that's enough to start making things right.

March 11, 2004

The Blackmore Records lobby reeks of ambition and expensive perfume. I shift in the stylish but uncomfortable leather chair, its cool surface a stark contrast to the sweat beading on my lower back. My borrowed dress shirt itches, a constant reminder that I don't belong in this world of polished marble and abstract art.

To my left, Will's leg bounces like he's auditioning for a new drummer position. Mark sits unnaturally still on my right, his usual energy coiled tight, ready to snap.

"If you don't stop that," I mutter to Will, "I'm going to throw up on your shoes."

Will's leg freezes mid-bounce. "Shit, sorry," he whispers back. "I feel like I'm about to jump out of my skin."

Mark leans in, his breath smelling of the mints he's been chomping on since we arrived. "Remember the plan. United front. No matter what they offer, we discuss it privately first. Got it?"

We nod, a trio of terrified soldiers preparing for battle. The thing is, I'm not sure if we're fighting against Blackmore or our own self-doubt.

A sharp click-click-click of heels against marble slices through the tension. My head snaps up, and suddenly, there she is. Eliza Kerr, larger than life and twice as daunting.

Christ on a cracker.

If I thought she was stunning in the dim light of the Viper Room, she's absolutely devastating in broad daylight. Her charcoal outfit is all clean lines and subtle curves, projecting an aura of power that makes my mouth go dry. Her platinum hair is pulled back, revealing a face that could launch a thousand ships – or sink them with a single raised eyebrow.

But it's her eyes that hold me captive. Steel grey, sharp as a blade, and focused entirely on us. I feel laid bare, like she can see every dream, every fear, every half-formed lyric scribbled on bar napkins at 2 AM.

"Gentlemen," she says, her voice a low, rich timbre that settles somewhere deep in my chest. "Thank you for coming. Follow me, please."

As we trail after her, I can't help but notice every head turn as she passes. She's like a shark cutting through water, sleek, dangerous, and impossible to ignore. I'm both terrified and exhilarated by the thought of working with her.

The conference room is bigger than our entire practice space, with views of the LA skyline that remind me just how high the stakes are. Eliza gestures for us to sit, taking her place at the head of the table like a queen holding court.

"So," she begins, folding her hands in front of her. "Incendiary Ink. Let's talk about your future."

What follows is the most intense hour of my life. Eliza doesn't just ask questions; she dissects our answers, challenging every assumption, pushing us to think bigger, dream harder. She's not interested in what we think she wants to hear. She wants the truth, raw and unfiltered.

I find myself leaning forward, drawn into a verbal sparring match that's equal parts thrilling and terrifying. There's a glint in her eye when I push back against one of her points, a quirk of her lips when I make a particularly passionate argument about our sound. It's intoxicating.

Finally, she leans back, a chess master who's seen all the moves. "Alright, here's what Blackmore can offer you."

The deal she outlines is beyond our wildest dreams. Creative control, marketing budgets that make my head spin, and tour support that could put us in venues we've only dreamed of playing. It's more than we ever dared hope for, and I can feel the excitement building in the room.

As Eliza finishes laying out the offer, I glance at Will and Mark. Their faces mirror what I'm feeling - pure, unadulterated shock. We're stunned into silence, the magnitude of what's being offered rendering us momentarily speechless.

But Eliza misreads our silence. I watch as a flicker of uncertainty crosses her face, quickly replaced by determination. She leans forward, her eyes intense.

"I can see you're not convinced," she says, her voice taking on an edge of... is that desperation? No, that's not quite it. It's more like fierce determination. "So let me sweeten the deal."

We exchange confused glances. Sweeten the deal? How could it possibly get better than this?

Eliza takes a deep breath, and I can almost see the wheels turning in her head. She's making a decision right here, right now.

"I'll personally manage your band."

The words hang in the air, adding another layer of shock to our already overwhelmed minds. Did she just say what I think she said?

"You... what?" Will manages to croak out, his voice barely above a whisper.

Eliza nods, seeming to gain confidence as she speaks. "You heard me. I'll be your manager. Direct access to me, 24/7. My full attention, my connections, my expertise - all at your disposal."

Mark's brow furrows. "But... you're the head of A&R. Can you even do that?"

"I can, and I will," Eliza says firmly. "If that's what it takes to sign Incendiary Ink to Blackmore, then that's what I'll do." She stands up, smoothing down her jacket. "I'll give you some time to discuss this. Take all the time you need."

As soon as the door closes behind her, we explode into a frenzy of whispered exclamations.

"Holy shit," Will hisses, eyes wide. "Did that just happen?"

Mark shakes his head in disbelief. "She wants to manage us personally. The head of A&R. This is insane."

I'm still trying to wrap my head around it all. "Guys, do you realize what this means? She's not just offering us a contract. She's investing herself in us. Personally."

"But why?" Will asks. "Why would she go to such lengths?"

I think about how Eliza's eyes lit up when she heard our demo, and the passion in her voice as she talked about our potential. "Because she believes in us. Really believes in us."

Mark nods slowly. "This could be huge for us. Her connections, her experience... it could fast-track us in ways we've only dreamed of."

"But it's also a risk," Will points out. "What if it doesn't work out? What if we're not what she thinks we are?"

I lean back, running a hand through my hair. "Guys, think about it. She's putting her reputation on the line for us. This isn't just a business decision for her. This is personal."

We fall silent for a moment, the weight of the opportunity before us sinking in.

"So," Mark says finally. "What do we do?"

I look at each of them in turn, seeing the same mix of excitement and apprehension I'm feeling reflected in their eyes. "Sony and Universal were there last night too, and we haven’t heard shit from them, right? I say we take the leap. This is our shot. Let's grab it with both hands."

Will grins, his earlier nervousness morphing into determination. "Hell yeah. Let's do this."

Mark nods, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Incendiary Ink, managed by Eliza Kerr. Has a nice ring to it."

When Eliza returns, we try to play it cool, but I'm pretty sure the grins splitting our faces give us away.

"We accept," I tell her, standing to shake her hand. "All of it. The deal, the management offer. We're in."

The smile that breaks across Eliza's face is radiant, a stark contrast to her usually composed demeanor. It's a smile that lights up her entire face, reaches her eyes, and does funny things to my insides.

"Well then," she says, her hand warm in mine. "Gentlemen, welcome to Blackmore Records. Let's make history."

As we shake hands, sealing the deal that will change our lives forever, I'm hit with the overwhelming feeling that this is just the beginning. Eliza Kerr has stormed into our lives like a force of nature, and I have a feeling nothing will ever be the same again.