Giving Chase (Incendiary Ink #1)

10. Chains （The Tower） – Chase

Chains (The Tower)

CHASE

The leather couch creaks as I shift uncomfortably, my fingers drumming an erratic beat on my knee. Dr. Hendricks watches me with that patient, knowing look I've come to both appreciate and dread over the past five years.

"So, Chase," he begins, his voice calm and steady, "how did the rehearsal go?"

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance and probably missing by a mile. "Fine. Good. The guys are in top form. We're gonna kill it at the ceremony."

Dr. Hendricks nods, but I can tell he's not buying my act. "And Eliza? How was it seeing her again?"

The question hits me like a sucker punch, even though I knew it was coming. I've been dreading it since I walked in here.

"It was... fine," I manage, wincing at how unconvincing I sound.

"Chase," Dr. Hendricks says gently, "we've talked about this. Honesty, remember? Even when it's difficult. Especially when it's difficult."

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Okay, fine. It was... intense. Seeing her there, hearing us play Whispered Truths ... It brought up a lot of stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

I close my eyes, remembering the way Eliza looked as we played. The emotions that flickered across her face, the way her eyes never left mine during the chorus.

"Everything," I admit quietly. "All the feelings I thought I'd dealt with. All the regrets, the what-ifs. It's like... it's like no time has passed at all."

Dr. Hendricks leans forward slightly. "Chase, have you considered that perhaps these feelings were never truly dormant?"

The question catches me off guard, but as I think about it, I realize he's right. "I guess... I guess they've always been there, just under the surface. I've just gotten good at ignoring them."

"And now?"

"Now?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Now I don't know if I can ignore them anymore. But I'm scared, doc. What if... what if feeling this way puts my sobriety at risk?"

Dr. Hendricks considers this for a moment. "Chase, recovery isn't about not feeling. It's about learning to feel without turning to destructive behaviors. But let's talk about why these feelings scare you so much."

I swallow hard, knowing where this is going. "Because of what I did. How I hurt her."

"Can you tell me about that? About the last time you saw Eliza before rehab?"

My chest tightens at the thought. "Do we have to go there?"

"I think we do," Dr. Hendricks says gently. "Sometimes we need to confront our past to move forward."

I take a deep breath, forcing myself back to that day. The memories come flooding back, vivid and painful.

"I was... I was a mess. Coming off a three-day bender. I showed up at her place, ranting about some perceived slight. God, I don't even remember what I was angry about. But I remember the look on her face. Disappointment. Sadness. Fear."

I pause, the shame of that day washing over me anew.

"I said... horrible things. Accused her of holding me back, of trying to control me. I told her she was the reason the band was falling apart. That she... that she meant nothing to me."

My voice breaks on the last words. Dr. Hendricks hands me a tissue, and I realize I'm crying.

"The worst part," I continue, "is that she just stood there and took it. She'd always been there for me, through everything. And that's how I repaid her."

"Thank you for sharing that, Chase," Dr. Hendricks says after a moment. "That couldn't have been easy. Now, looking back, what do you think about your actions that day?"

I laugh bitterly. "I think I was a selfish, destructive asshole who hurt the one person who always had my back."

Dr. Hendricks nods. "And have you ever apologized to Eliza for this specific incident?"

The question makes me shift uncomfortably, the leather couch squeaking beneath me. I can feel a bead of sweat forming on my brow. "I've apologized to her in general terms. You know, for everything that happened, for how I acted during that time. But for that specific day? No, I... I haven't."

"Why do you think that is, Chase?"

I let out a long breath, my gaze drifting to the abstract painting on the wall, its swirls of blue and gray suddenly fascinating. "I guess... I've been afraid to bring it up. To remind her of how awful I was. And maybe... maybe I've been afraid to really face it myself."

Dr. Hendricks leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "Chase, there's a difference between a general apology and taking specific accountability for our actions. Why do you think it might be important to address specific incidents?"

The question hangs in the air, heavy with responsibility I’m not sure I want to take on. I can feel my heart rate picking up. "Because... because it shows I remember. That I understand the real impact of what I did, not just in some vague, general sense."

"Exactly," Dr. Hendricks nods approvingly. "And what do you think it might mean to Eliza to hear you acknowledge specific moments?"

I close my eyes, imagining Eliza's face, the hurt I've seen there too many times. "It would show her that I really understand what I put her through. That I'm not just sorry in some abstract way, but that I get how my actions affected her."

"That's very insightful, Chase. Now, let's talk about accountability. How is that different from just apologizing?"

I run a hand through my hair, thinking. "Accountability is... it's owning what I did. Not making excuses or blaming it on the drugs or alcohol. It's saying 'I did this, and I understand how it hurt you.'"

"And why have you avoided this level of accountability until now?"

The question hits me like a punch to the gut. I can feel my throat tightening. "Because I'm ashamed," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "Because facing the specifics of what I did, really looking at it... it's painful. And I guess I've been a coward about it."

Dr. Hendricks' expression softens. "It takes courage to admit that, Chase. Now, the question is, what are you going to do about it?"

I take a deep breath, feeling a mix of fear and determination. "I need to talk to her. Really talk to her. About that day, about everything. No more hiding behind general apologies or vague acknowledgments."

"That sounds like a good plan. But before you do that, I want you to do something. Write a letter to Eliza. Don't send it, just write it. Be specific. Address the incidents you've avoided talking about. Express your regret, your understanding of how your actions affected her, and your commitment to genuine accountability. Can you do that?"

I nod, feeling a strange mix of dread and relief. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do that."

As I leave the office and slide into my car, I sit for a moment, letting out a long breath. The idea of confronting my past mistakes in such specific detail, of laying bare my regrets to Eliza, terrifies me. But for the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm on the right path.

I start the engine, my mind already composing the opening lines of a letter that will force me to face the worst parts of my past. It won't be easy, but maybe, just maybe, this will be the first step towards truly making things right with Eliza.

September 15, 2010

The neon lights of the Las Vegas strip paint my hotel room in an eerie glow, a kaleidoscope of colors that does nothing to settle my nerves. I pace back and forth, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet with each step. The bass from the casino below thrums through the floor, a constant reminder of the show we just finished and the one looming tomorrow.

My eyes keep darting to the mini-bar. The little bottles glint in the low light, promising a temporary respite from the chaos in my head. I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. But God, I want to.

Vegas. It had to be fucking Vegas. Every street, every gaudy casino is a reminder of that night two years ago. The night I made the stupidest decision of my life, stumbling drunk into a chapel with a woman whose name I could barely remember. The marriage lasted all of three months, but the guilt... that's stuck around a lot longer.

A knock at the door breaks through my spiraling thoughts. I open it to find Eliza standing there, a six-pack of beer in one hand and a knowing smile on her face. My heart does a familiar flip in my chest.

"Thought you could use some company," she says, brushing past me into the room. The scent of her perfume lingers, and it instantly transports me back to late-night recording sessions and stolen moments on tour buses.

I can't help but smile as I close the door, grateful for the distraction from my darker thoughts. "You're a mind reader, Kerr."

She sets the beer on the desk and turns to face me, her steel-grey eyes searching my face. Her gaze flicks to the untouched mini-bar, then back to me. There's no judgment in her eyes, just understanding. "Rough night?"

I shrug, trying to play it cool even as relief washes over me at her presence. "Just the usual tour jitters. Nothing I can't handle."

Eliza raises an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. "Right. That's why you look like you're about to crawl out of your skin. Vegas bringing up some memories?"

I wince. Of course she'd know. Eliza always knows. "Yeah, you could say that."

She hands me a beer, her fingers brushing mine in a way that sends a jolt through my system. We've been doing this dance for years now, maintaining a professional relationship that's always on the edge of something more. Ever since our respective marriages imploded, there's been this unspoken thing between us, a tension that never quite goes away.

I take a long swig of beer, grateful for the familiar burn. It's not the hard stuff from the mini-bar, but it takes the edge off. "It's just... being back here, you know? Everywhere I look, I'm reminded of that night. Of how spectacularly I fucked up."

Eliza's expression softens. She moves to sit on the edge of the bed, patting the space next to her. I hesitate for a moment before joining her, acutely aware of how close we are, of the heat radiating from her body.

"Chase," she says softly, "we all make mistakes. What matters is what we do after."

Her words wash over me, a balm to my frayed nerves. This is why I've always been drawn to Eliza. She sees me, really sees me, in a way no one else does. Not the rockstar, not the screw-up, just... me.

"I just... I don't want to let anyone down," I admit, staring at the bottle in my hands. "The band, the fans... you."

Eliza's hand comes to rest on my arm, her touch sending sparks across my skin. "The only person you need to worry about letting down is yourself. And from where I'm sitting, you're doing a pretty damn good job of being Chase Avery."

I look up, meeting her gaze. The air between us feels charged, heavy with unspoken words and suppressed desire. For a moment, I let myself remember all the times we've been here before – the almost-kisses, the lingering touches, the moments where we came so close to crossing that line.

"Eliza," I breathe, her name a prayer on my lips.

She leans in, just slightly, her eyes never leaving mine. "Chase..."

And then we're kissing, and it's like coming home and jumping off a cliff all at once. Her lips are soft against mine, tasting of beer and promises we can never quite make. My hands find her waist, pulling her closer as she threads her fingers through my hair.

For a few blissful moments, the world narrows to just this: the softness of Eliza's skin, the quiet sounds she makes as I trail kisses down her neck, the way her body fits perfectly against mine. It's familiar and new all at once, years of pent-up longing pouring out in every touch.

But reality crashes back in all too soon. We break apart, both breathing heavily. Eliza's cheeks are flushed, her hair mussed, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to pull her back in.

"We shouldn't," she says, but there's no conviction in her voice.

"I know," I reply, even as my body screams at me to disagree.

We sit there for a moment, the silence heavy between us. I can see the conflict in Eliza's eyes, the same war between want and responsibility that I'm fighting.

Finally, Eliza stands, smoothing down her clothes. "This doesn't have to mean anything," she says, not quite meeting my eyes. "No strings, right? Just... comfort between friends."

I nod, ignoring the ache in my chest. "Right. No strings."

As she leaves, closing the door softly behind her, I fall back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. No strings , we say, but I can feel them wrapping around my heart, binding me to her in ways I can't even begin to understand.

The room feels colder without her, emptier. I reach for my guitar, needing to channel this whirlwind of emotions into something tangible. As I start to play, a melody forms – bittersweet and yearning, just like us.

I know this can't last. That someday, the tightrope we're walking will snap. But for now, I'll take what I can get. Because a moment with Eliza, strings or no strings, is better than a lifetime without her.

Even if it's slowly breaking my heart.

As the notes of the new song fill the room, I can't help but wonder: how long can we keep pretending that what's between us is anything less than everything?