Giving Chase (Incendiary Ink #1)

6. Bad Guy – Chase

Bad Guy

CHASE

The valet takes my keys with a nod of recognition. I wonder if he's an Incendiary Ink fan or if he just knows me as another washed-up rocker trying to relive his glory days. Either way, I force a smile and head into the restaurant, the scent of expensive perfume and seared meat hitting me as I enter.

La Boucle is exactly the kind of place Eliza would choose. Upscale without being pretentious, quiet enough for conversation but busy enough to provide a buffer of anonymity. As I follow the ma?tre d', my heart pounds so loudly I'm sure everyone can hear it.

And then I see her.

Eliza is sitting at a corner table, her back to the wall – always aware of her surroundings, always in control. She's studying the menu, a strand of platinum blonde hair falling across her face. The sight of her hits me like a physical blow, and suddenly I'm transported back in time.

Eliza, laughing at something I said during a late-night recording session.

Eliza, fierce and protective, arguing with label execs on our behalf.

Eliza, her eyes filled with disappointment and pain the last time I saw her.

Guilt washes over me, so intense it makes me stumble. The ma?tre d' gives me a concerned look, but I wave him off. I can't do this. I can't face her, can't confront the hurt I caused, the mess I made of everything.

I start to turn, ready to bolt, when Eliza looks up. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, the world stops spinning.

She's even more beautiful than I remembered. The years have been kind to her, adding a sophistication to her features that takes my breath away. But it's the vulnerability in her eyes, quickly masked, that roots me to the spot.

I've hurt her. God, I've hurt her so much. And yet here she is, willing to meet me, to give me another chance I don't deserve.

The least I can do is face her.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to walk to the table. Eliza stands as I approach, and for an awkward moment, we both hesitate. Then, surprising us both, she steps forward and embraces me.

The hug is stiff, formal, nothing like the warm embraces we used to share. But feeling her in my arms again, smelling the familiar scent of her perfumes makes my head spin. It’s never just one perfume. It’s a mix of Chanel and something else. Something uniquely Eliza. I hold onto her a moment too long, savoring her scent and the contact I've been deprived of for five years.

Eliza pulls away first, a flicker of discomfort crossing her face. I immediately drop my arms, cursing myself for overstepping.

"Chase," she says, her voice steady but with an undercurrent I can't quite place. "You look well."

I manage a weak smile, trying to ignore the lingering warmth where her body pressed against mine. "Thanks. You look... amazing, Eliza. As always."

We sit, the tension between us palpable. I reach for the water glass, needing something to do with my hands. "Thanks for agreeing to meet me," I say, hating how formal I sound. "I know it can't be easy."

Eliza's expression softens slightly. "No, it's not. But it's necessary. We have a lot to discuss about the induction ceremony."

Right. The ceremony. The ostensible reason for this meeting. Not the years of history between us, not the unresolved feelings, not the apologies I owe her.

"Of course," I nod, reaching for the menu. "Should we order first?"

As we peruse the options, I steal glances at Eliza over the top of my menu. She's the picture of composure, but I can see the tension in the set of her shoulders, the way she grips the menu just a little too tightly. A memory flashes through my mind – Eliza, biting her lower lip in that same way as she read through our first record contract, determined to understand every clause.

I want to tell her how sorry I am. For everything. For the drugs, the erratic behavior, the cruel words I flung at her in the depths of my addiction. For not reaching out these past five years, for being too much of a coward to face what I'd done.

But the words stick in my throat. How do you apologize for destroying the best thing in your life? For hurting the person most important to you?

The waiter arrives to take our order, providing a momentary reprieve from the tension. As he walks away, Eliza fixes me with a look that used to mean she was about to lay down the law.

"Alright, Chase," she says, her tone all business. "Let's talk about the ceremony. The Hall of Fame has some specific requirements we need to go over."

I nod, grateful for the structure, the pretense of professionalism. But as Eliza starts outlining the details, I find myself studying her face, remembering all the times I've seen it: flushed with passion, creased with worry, soft with affection.

And I realize something that shakes me to my core: I'm still in love with her. After all this time, after everything that's happened, I'm still hopelessly, irrevocably in love with Eliza Kerr.

The guilt threatens to overwhelm me again, but this time I push it down. I owe it to Eliza – and to myself – to be present for this conversation. To start making amends, even if it's just in small ways.

So, I lean in, forcing myself to focus on her words. "Okay," I say, meeting her gaze steadily for the first time. "Tell me what we need to do."

As Eliza continues talking, her voice washing over me like a familiar song, I make a silent promise to myself. I'm going to get through this dinner. I'm going to be professional and respectful. And somehow, someway, I'm going to find a way to make things right with the woman I never stopped loving.

It's the least I can do. For her, for us, for the memory of what we once were.

The waiter returns with our drinks, and as I raise my glass of sparkling water – a silent testament to my sobriety – I catch Eliza's eye. For a moment, just a fleeting second, I see a softness there, a hint of the connection we once shared.

It's not much. But it's enough to give me hope.

February 14, 2005 (Later that night)

The roar of the crowd still echoes in my ears as I stumble into my hotel room, a half-empty bottle of Jack in one hand and a giggling blonde in the other. I can't remember her name – Katie? Kristy? – but it doesn't matter. She's not the one I want to be with tonight.

"That was an amazing show," she purrs, pressing herself against me. Her perfume is too sweet, cloying, nothing like Eliza's sophisticated scent.

Eliza . The thought of her sends a fresh wave of anger and hurt through me. I take another swig from the bottle, welcoming the burn in my throat.

"You wanna know a secret?" I slur, pulling the blonde closer. "It's Valentine's Day, and the woman I lo— the woman I want doesn't want me."

She pouts, running a finger down my chest. "Aw, poor baby. I want you."

I laugh, a harsh, bitter sound. "Yeah? Then prove it."

I crash my lips against hers, the kiss sloppy and desperate. It's all wrong – her lips are too soft, her hair too straight, she tastes like strawberry lip gloss instead of Eliza's preferred mint – but I don't care. I just need to feel something, anything, other than this ache in my chest.

We stumble towards the bed, hands grasping, clothes being shed. I'm vaguely aware that this is a bad idea, that I'm making a mistake, but the alcohol and the hurt cloud my judgment.

Just as I'm about to push the blonde onto the bed, there's a knock at the door.

"Ignore it," I mutter, trailing kisses down her neck.

But then I hear it. Eliza's voice, muffled through the door but unmistakable.

"Chase? Are you in there? I... I wanted to talk about earlier."

Fuck.

I freeze, my blood turning to ice. For a moment, I consider not answering, pretending I'm not here. But I know Eliza. She won't give up that easily.

"Just a second!" I call out, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears.

I turn to the blonde – Kristy, I suddenly remember – who's looking confused and annoyed. "You need to hide," I hiss, gesturing towards the bathroom.

"Are you kidding me?" she huffs, but complies when she sees the panic in my eyes.

I scramble to pull on my jeans and t-shirt, running a hand through my disheveled hair in a futile attempt to look presentable. Taking a deep breath, I open the door.

Eliza stands there, looking breathtakingly beautiful and incredibly vulnerable. My heart clenches at the sight of her.

"Hey," I say, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. "What's up?"

Eliza's eyes narrow, taking in my disheveled appearance, the open bottle on the nightstand, the lingering scent of perfume in the air. I see the moment suspicion dawns in her eyes, but before she can say anything, a loud sneeze echoes from the bathroom.

Eliza's face falls, hurt and disappointment clouding her beautiful features. "I see you're busy," she says, her voice cold and laced with pain. "I'll talk to you in the morning."

"Eliza, wait—" I reach for her, but she steps back. This is all fucking wrong.

"Don't," she says, and the pain in her voice cuts through my drunken haze. "Just... don't, Chase. I can't believe I actually thought..." She trails off, shaking her head.

"It's not what you think," I plead, knowing how pathetic I sound.

"Really?" Eliza's laugh is bitter, and I can see her walls going back up – taller this time. "Because I think it's exactly what it looks like. You're drunk, and you've got some groupie hidden in your bathroom. The day you sent me flowers and tried to..." She stops, composing herself. "You know what? It doesn't matter. We're done here."

She turns and walks away, her heels clicking on the hotel's marble floor. I want to go after her, to explain, to beg for forgiveness, but I'm rooted to the spot. And I know any argument I give will be pointless and fall on deaf ears. I’ve just ruined any possibilities between us.

"Is she gone?" Kristy emerges from the bathroom, looking annoyed. "Can we get back to what we were doing?"

I look at her, feeling suddenly sober and incredibly tired. "You should go," I say quietly.

"Are you serious?" she scoffs. "You're choosing her? She doesn't even want you."

Her words hit too close to home. "Just fucking go," I repeat, more forcefully this time.

After Kristy leaves, slamming the door behind her, I sink to the floor, my back against the bed. I reach for the bottle of Jack, and take a long swig, trying to numb the pain etching its way jaggedly through my soul.

I pull out my phone, staring at Eliza's number. I should call her, try to explain. But what would I say? That I was hurt and drunk and stupid? That I didn't mean it? That I'm sorry?

Sorry doesn't begin to fucking cover it.

I throw the phone across the room in frustration, hearing it clatter against the wall. As I bury my face in my hands, the full weight of what just happened crashes down on me.

Eliza came to talk. She wanted to discuss things, maybe even change her mind about us. And I ruined it. I ruined everything.

The irony isn't lost on me. This morning, I sent her flowers and chocolates, wanting to show her how I felt. And now, not even twelve hours later, I've probably destroyed any chance we ever had.

Some Valentine's Day this turned out to be.

As I sit there in the dark, the taste of whiskey and regret bitter on my tongue, I wonder if Eliza will ever forgive me. If I'll ever forgive myself.

Somehow, I doubt it.