Giving Chase (Incendiary Ink #1)

3. Shouldn’t Be With Me – Eliza

Shouldn’t Be With Me

ELIZA

The Los Angeles skyline glitters beyond my office window, contrasting with the turmoil churning inside me. I've been staring at the same paragraph of the Hall of Fame induction guidelines for the past hour, the words blurring into meaningless shapes. What the hell was I thinking, agreeing to do this?

With a sigh, I push away from my desk and move to the small bar in the corner of my office. My hand hovers over the whiskey decanter – a relic from easier times – before settling on the sparkling water. As much as I’d like to soften the edges of my psyche right now, I have to keep my thoughts clear. Well, as clear as they can be with the vortex of emotions running through me anyway.

As I sip the cold drink, my eyes drift to the platinum records adorning my walls. Incendiary Ink's debut album. Their breakthrough third record. The farewell tour compilation. Each one is a testament to what we achieved together. Each one a reminder of what we lost.

What I’ve lost.

My phone buzzes, Justin's name flashing on the screen. I smile despite myself. My son, always checking in at the right moment.

"Hey, sweetheart," I answer, my voice softer than it's been all day.

"Mom, how are you holding up? Any regrets about saying yes to the induction speech?"

I pause, choosing my words carefully. "It's... complicated. But it's done now."

"Are you okay with this? Really?"

Am I? The question echoes in my mind, stirring up a whirlwind of emotions I've kept bottled up for five long years.

"I'm fine, Justin," I lie, my tone more clipped than I intended. "It's just a lot to prepare for."

"Mom," his voice softens, "I know there's history there. If you need to talk..."

"I appreciate that, honey, but I've got this under control." Even as I say the words, I know they're not true. But some burdens aren't meant for our children to bear.

After reassuring Justin and ending the call, I find myself drawn to the old filing cabinet in the corner of my office. With trembling hands, I pull open the bottom drawer and extract a worn leather journal.

I have boxes of mementos I’ve kept over my career, but it's been years since I've looked at this particular one. Years since I've allowed myself to revisit the memories contained within its pages. But now, with the weight of my decision pressing down on me, I feel compelled to confront the past.

I open the journal, and a photo slips out. It's from one of Incendiary Ink's early tours. There's Chase, young and vibrant, his arm slung casually around my shoulders. We're both laughing at something off-camera, caught in a moment of pure, unguarded joy.

My fingers trace the outlines of our faces, and I'm hit with a wave of nostalgia so strong it nearly knocks me off my feet. God, we were young. So full of hope and ambition. When did it all get so complicated?

As I flip through the pages, snippets of our shared history flash before my eyes. Late-night songwriting sessions. Heated arguments over creative directions. Stolen moments of tenderness in the back of tour buses and anonymous hotel rooms. The slow, painful unraveling of whatever it was we had.

And through it all, the music. Always the music.

I close the journal, feeling the weight of unresolved emotions and unanswered questions. Why didn't he ever reach out? Did I mean so little to him in the end? Five years of silence. Five years of wondering, of second-guessing every decision, every moment we shared.

The hurt I've been suppressing bubbles to the surface, sharp and raw. I thought... I don't know what I thought. That maybe once he got clean, he'd reach out. That our history meant something. But nothing. Radio silence.

My eyes fall on my desk phone, and I'm seized by a sudden, reckless impulse. Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm dialing a number I know by heart despite years of disuse. It rings once, twice, three times. Just as I'm about to lose my nerve, there's a click.

"Eliza?" Chase's voice, deeper and raspier than I remember, sends a shiver down my spine.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. "Chase. We need to talk about this induction ceremony."

There's a pause, pregnant with unspoken words and shared history. Then, "Yeah, I guess we do."

As I settle into my chair, my heart racing, I'm struck by a powerful sense of déjà vu. This nervousness, this electric anticipation tinged with fear – I've felt this before. Twenty years ago, in a dimly lit studio, when Chase and I crossed that line from professional to personal for the first time.

I remember how my hands shook as I reached for him, how my voice trembled when I whispered his name. The exhilaration and terror of stepping into unknown territory, of risking everything for a chance at something extraordinary.

Now, as I clear my throat to speak, I realize I'm standing on the edge of another precipice. The stakes are different, the terrain has changed, but that feeling – that mix of fear and hope and possibility – it's exactly the same.

"So," I begin, my voice steadier than I feel, "where should we start?"

As Chase begins to speak, I close my eyes and let myself be transported back to that night twenty years ago when everything changed. For better or worse, we're about to embark on another journey together. And just like then, I have no idea where it will lead us.

But this time, I'm older. Wiser. More guarded. This time, I tell myself, I won't let my heart get ahead of my head.

Even as I think it, though, a small voice in the back of my mind whispers a traitorous thought: Who am I kidding? When it comes to Chase Avery, my heart has always had a mind of its own.

May 15, 2004

The acrid smell of stale coffee and cigarettes hangs heavy in the air as I check my watch for the hundredth time. 2:37 AM. The studio's soundproofed walls can't quite muffle the muted thrum of the city outside, a constant reminder of the world beyond this cocoon of creativity and tension.

Joe, our sound engineer, hunches over the mixing board, his fingers dancing across faders and knobs with practiced precision. Beside him, Raphael, the producer Blackmore insisted on, nods along to a rhythm only he can hear. We've been at this for fourteen hours straight, but Chase had been adamant about nailing this track tonight.

I suppress a yawn, acutely aware of the mountain of paperwork waiting for me back at the office. Tour logistics, contract negotiations, press junkets – the never-ending demands of managing a band on the cusp of stardom. But right now, all of that fades into the background as I focus on the figure behind the glass.

Chase stands in the recording booth, headphones askew, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his brow under the harsh studio lights. He's been wrestling with this song for days, chasing a perfection that seems just out of reach. The rest of the band – Will and Mark –left hours ago, frustration etched on their faces. But Chase... Chase couldn't let it go.

"One more take," I hear myself say, my voice hoarse from overuse and too much caffeine. "Let's try it one more time."

Joe and Raphael exchange a look I pretend not to see. I know we're pushing it, know that fatigue can be the enemy of creativity. But there's something in Chase's eyes, a fire that tells me we're close to something special.

Chase nods, determination etched on his face. He adjusts his headphones, closes his eyes, and as the backing track starts, he begins to sing.

The opening notes wash over me, and just like that, all my exhaustion melts away. His voice fills the studio, raw and powerful and achingly vulnerable. It's a sound that's been haunting my dreams for the past two months, ever since that night at the Viper Room. But this... this is something else entirely.

I find myself holding my breath, afraid to move lest I break the spell. The lyrics paint a vivid picture of longing and missed connections, of two people orbiting each other but never quite touching. As I listen, I can't shake the feeling that he's singing about us.

Which is ridiculous, of course. We're colleagues. I'm his manager, for God's sake. Whatever tension exists between us is purely professional. It has to be. The industry is littered with cautionary tales of managers who crossed that line, who let their personal feelings cloud their judgment. I've worked too hard, climbed too high, to risk it all for... what? A fleeting attraction?

But as Chase's voice soars into the bridge, raw emotion bleeding through every word, I feel my carefully constructed walls beginning to crumble.

The song ends, the last note hanging in the air like a question. For a moment, none of us moves. Then Chase opens his eyes, meeting my gaze through the glass. The intensity I see there makes my heart skip a beat.

"How was that?" he asks over the talkback mic, a hint of vulnerability creeping into his voice.

I look to Joe and Raphael. Joe gives an approving nod, while Raphael leans back, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

"It was perfect, Chase," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "I think we've got it."

He grins, that boyish smile that never fails to make my stomach flip. "Great. Let's hear it back."

As Joe queues up the playback, Chase joins us in the control room. He stands close – too close – as we listen, his arm brushing against mine. I can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with sweat and coffee. It's intoxicating.

The song ends, and we stand in silence for a moment, all processing what we've just created.

"That's a wrap, folks," Joe announces, stretching. "Great session. I'll start the mixdown tomorrow... or I guess later today."

Raphael claps Chase on the back. "Kid, I think you just wrote yourself a hit. This could be the one that breaks you wide open."

As Joe and Raphael begin shutting down the equipment, trading technical jargon I only half understand, Chase turns to me. "Eliza," he says softly. "I think we've just made something special."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Because he's right – the song is incredible. But more than that, I'm acutely aware of how close we're standing, of the electricity crackling in the air between us.

"We make a good team," I manage to say, aiming for a light, professional tone.

Chase doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he glances at Joe and Raphael, then back to me. "Can we talk? Privately?"

My heart races as I nod, following Chase out of the control room and into the small kitchenette down the hall. As soon as the door closes behind us, the air seems to thicken with unspoken words and suppressed desires.

"Chase," I start, a warning and a question all at once.

"I know," he says, his voice low. "I know all the reasons why we shouldn't. The band, the label, our careers. But Eliza... tell me you don't feel this too."

And in that moment, all my carefully constructed walls come crumbling down. Because I do feel it. I've been feeling it since the moment we met, trying to ignore it, to push it aside in the name of professionalism. But here, in the dim light of the kitchenette, with Chase looking at me like I'm the only person in the world, I can't deny it any longer.

I lean in, or maybe he does – I'm not sure. All I know is that suddenly we're kissing, and it's like every cliché I've ever rolled my eyes at. Fireworks. Sparks. The world falling away until there's nothing but this moment, this feeling. An arm wraps around my waist, and he pulls me closer while his other hand slides to the back of my neck, deepening the kiss.

This is heaven. This is a connection I’ve never felt before. And it scares the shit out of me.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing heavily. Chase rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed.

"We probably shouldn't have done that," I say, even as every fiber of my being screams for more.

Chase chuckles softly. "Probably not," he agrees. Then he opens his eyes, meeting my gaze with a seriousness that takes my breath away. "But I don't regret it. Do you?"

I should say yes. I should step back, reestablish professional boundaries, pretend this never happened. It's the smart thing to do, the safe thing. I think about Justin, about the responsibility I have to him, about the example I should be setting. I think about the band, about the delicate balance of personalities and egos I navigate daily. I think about my career, about all the sacrifices I've made to get where I am.

But looking into Chase's eyes, feeling the warmth of his embrace, all those concerns seem distant, manageable.

"No," I whisper. "I don't regret it. At least, not yet."

Chase's answering smile is radiant. He leans in to kiss me again, and as I melt into his embrace, a small voice in the back of my mind whispers a dire warning: This is going to complicate everything .

But with Chase's arms around me and the echo of that song still playing in my mind, I can't bring myself to care. Whatever complications may come, in this moment, everything feels perfectly, wonderfully right.

It was a kiss. Just a kiss. Well, not just a kiss. The most amazing kiss I’ve ever had. But something tells me it’s the beginning of something unstoppable. Something dangerous. Something that feels amazing now but is going to destroy both of us later.

“I… should go,” I say, forcing myself to pull away from him. It almost physically hurts. “Justin will be up soon for school.”

His face falls, but he covers it quickly, his hands falling from my waist. I have to suppress a shudder at the chill from the loss of his warmth.

“Right,” he says, a crooked smile showcasing his dimple. “To be continued.”

My heart stutters at his words, and fear runs through me. Was this a giant mistake? Did I just ruin everything? Did I let my heart lead my head yet again? I should know better than to let this happen. What about my rules? Aren’t they there for a reason? What the fuck am I doing?

It was just a kiss.

As we leave the studio, the first hints of dawn streaking the sky, I can't shake the feeling that we've just set something monumental in motion. For better or worse, nothing will ever be the same again.