Giving Chase (Incendiary Ink #1)

13. Better Days – Eliza

Better Days

ELIZA

The late afternoon sun beats down on us as I heave another box out of the moving truck. Justin's newly renovated house looms before me, a testament to my son's success and independence. A success that, I can't help but think, came in spite of his tumultuous upbringing.

"Easy there, Liz," a gravelly voice calls out. "Don't strain yourself. We wouldn't want the big-shot record exec to throw her back out."

I turn to see Jimmy sauntering towards me, a smirk playing on his lips. James Montague, my ex-husband and Justin's father, still carries himself with the swagger of the rockstar he always thought he'd be. The years haven't been particularly kind – his once-chiseled features are now weathered, lined with the evidence of hard living. But there's still a glimmer of that charm that once swept me off my feet.

"I can manage just fine, Jimmy," I retort, hefting the box higher. "Some of us actually stayed in shape past thirty."

Justin appears between us, his eyes darting nervously from me to his father. "Mom, Dad, please. Can we not do this today?"

Guilt washes over me. This is Justin's day, and here we are, falling into old patterns. "You're right, honey. I'm sorry."

Jimmy has the grace to look abashed. "Yeah, sorry, kid. Old habits, you know?"

We make our way into the house, depositing boxes in their designated rooms. As we work, I can't help but notice the way Jimmy's hands shake slightly as he sets down a stack of books. The telltale signs of a life lived hard and fast.

"So, Eliza," Jimmy says as we take a water break in the kitchen, "heard your boys are getting inducted into the Hall of Fame. Must be nice, having a success story under your belt."

There's an edge to his words that I choose to ignore. "They've worked hard for it. They deserve the recognition."

Jimmy snorts. "Yeah, I bet. Especially that lead singer of theirs. What's his name again? Chase?"

I stiffen involuntarily at the mention of Chase's name. Jimmy, ever observant despite his faults, doesn't miss it.

"Hit a nerve, did I?" he prods. "You always did have a soft spot for the pretty boy rockers."

"Dad," Justin interjects, his voice sharp. "That's enough."

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to relax. "Chase and the whole band have been incredible to work with. Their success is their own."

As I say it, I can't help but think of Chase – his dedication, his talent, the way he's grown not just as an artist but as a person. The contrast between him and Jimmy is stark, a before-and-after of two very different paths in the music industry.

Jimmy must see something in my expression because his next words are uncharacteristically soft. "You did good with them, Liz. Always knew you had it in you to be something special in this business."

The compliment, rare as it is, catches me off guard. "Thanks, Jimmy," I manage, a lump forming in my throat.

Justin looks between us, a mix of surprise and hope on his face. It's moments like these that remind me why I've tried to maintain a civil relationship with Jimmy all these years – for our son's sake.

As the day wears on, the bickering resurfaces occasionally, but there's less heat behind it. We order pizza for dinner, and as we sit on boxes in Justin's half-furnished living room, I find myself reflecting on the journey that brought us here.

Jimmy, for all his faults, did try in his own way. He might not have been the father Justin deserved, but he was the one who showed up, even if it was sporadically. And watching them now, sharing a laugh over some old family story, I feel a complicated mix of emotions – regret for what could have been, gratitude for what is, and a strange sort of peace with how things turned out.

As I'm leaving for the night, Justin pulls me into a tight hug. "Thanks, Mom. For everything."

I hold him close, marveling at the man he's become. "Always, sweetheart. I'm so proud of you."

Jimmy, hovering awkwardly nearby, clears his throat. "You did good with him too, Liz. He's a great kid."

"We did okay," I concede, offering Jimmy a small smile.

Driving home, I find my thoughts drifting to Chase, to the upcoming induction ceremony. I think about the man he is now compared to the young rocker I first met. I think about Jimmy, about the paths not taken and the choices that shape a life.

My phone buzzes with a text from Chase.

CHASE: How's the moving day going? Need any help?

I smile, warmth spreading through me at his thoughtfulness.

ME: All done. Thanks for offering. See you at rehearsal tomorrow?

His reply is almost instant.

CHASE: Wouldn't miss it. Goodnight, Eliza.

As I pull into my driveway, I'm struck by a realization. Life rarely turns out the way we expect. Jimmy and I crashed and burned, but we created Justin. Chase and I... well, that story is still being written.

And for the first time in a long time, I find myself looking forward to the next chapter.

September 15, 2017

The setting sun paints Chase's Malibu home in hues of gold and orange as I pull into the driveway. My hands tremble as I turn off the engine, the weight of the impending conversation sitting like lead in my stomach. The folder on the passenger seat seems to mock me – filled with corporate jargon that can't begin to encompass what this decision really means.

I've rehearsed this a thousand times, but now, staring at the front door, all my carefully prepared words evaporate. How do you tell someone who's been the cornerstone of your career, your life, for over a decade that you're stepping away?

Before I can knock, the door swings open. Chase stands there, backlit by the warm glow of his home, a broad smile on his face that makes my heart fracture just a little more.

"Eliza!" he exclaims, genuine joy in his voice. "I wasn't expecting you. Come in, come in."

I follow him into the living room, trying to ignore how at home I feel here. The air is thick with the scent of coffee and that distinctive Chase smell – a mix of sandalwood and something uniquely him. Guitars are propped against walls, notebooks filled with his messy scrawl litter every surface. It's organized chaos, just like the man himself.

"Can I get you something to drink?" he asks, already heading towards the kitchen. "I've got that pinot noir you like."

The casual intimacy of knowing my favorite wine hits me hard. "No, I'm fine," I manage, my voice strained. "Chase, we need to talk."

He turns, his brow furrowing at my tone. "Okay... that sounds ominous. What's up?"

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. "I've been offered a promotion. Vice President of Blackmore Records."

For a moment, his face lights up, pride and excitement shining in his eyes. "Eliza, that's amazing! Congratulations! We should celebrate, I'll open that champagne we've been saving-"

"Chase," I interrupt, each word feeling like glass in my throat. "There's more."

He stops, the bottle halfway out of the wine fridge. I watch as understanding dawns on his face, followed quickly by hurt, then a flash of anger he tries to mask.

"They want you to stop managing us," he says flatly. It's not a question.

I nod, unable to form the words. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken history.

Chase sets the bottle down with deliberate care. When he looks at me again, his eyes are guarded. "So, after everything, you're just... walking away?"

"It's not like that," I argue, even as a voice in my head whispers that maybe it is. "This is a huge opportunity, Chase. For me, for the label... it could mean big things for the band too."

He laughs, but it's a harsh sound, nothing like the warm chuckle I've grown to love. "Right. Because some new manager is going to understand us, understand our vision, the way you do. The way you always have."

I feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. "Chase, please. Try to understand. This isn't easy for me either."

"Then don't do it," he says, his voice suddenly soft, pleading. He steps closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne – the same one he wore the night we first kissed. "We need you, Eliza. I need you."

For a moment, I waver. The pull between us, the connection we've always had, it's strong enough to make me consider throwing it all away. But then I think of all the late nights, the sacrifices, the years I've poured into getting to this point.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, the words tasting bitter. "I have to do this. For me."

Something shutters in Chase's eyes, and he steps back as if I've physically struck him. "Right. For you. Well, congratulations on the promotion, Ms. Kerr. I'm sure you'll do great things."

The formality stings more than outright anger would have. "Chase..."

"You know," he interrupts, his voice low and intense, "I always thought that when it came down to it, you'd choose us. Choose me. Like I would have chosen you. Every time."

His words hit me like a physical blow. "It's not about choosing, Chase. It's about growth. Change."

"Change," he repeats, the word dripping with sarcasm. "Is that what we're calling it now? Because from where I'm standing, it looks a lot like running away."

Anger flares in me, hot and sudden. "That's not fair. I've given everything to this band, to you, for years. I've put my life on hold, my relationships-"

"Our relationship, you mean?" Chase cuts in, his eyes flashing. "The one we've been dancing around for over a decade? The one you've always kept at arm's length because it wasn't 'professional'?"

I flinch, the truth of his words cutting deep. "That's... that's not what this is about."

"Isn't it?" he challenges. "Because it seems to me that every time we get close to something real, you find a way to put more distance between us. And now this."

Tears are flowing freely now, and I make no effort to stop them. "Chase, please. This is my career, my future. Can't you understand that?"

For a moment, the anger seems to drain out of him, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. "I understand that you're making a choice, Eliza. I just wish, for once, that choice had been me."

The finality in his voice terrifies me. "This doesn't have to be the end," I say, hating how desperate I sound. "I'll still be involved with the label, we'll still see each other-"

"It won't be the same," he says quietly. "You know it won't."

And I do know. With crushing certainty, I realize that this moment, this decision, is changing everything between us.

"I should go," I murmur, unable to bear the weight of his gaze any longer.

Chase nods, turning away. "Yeah, you should. I'm sure you have a lot to prepare for in your new role."

I make my way to the door on unsteady legs, feeling as though I'm leaving a part of myself behind. As I reach for the handle, Chase speaks again, his voice so low I almost miss it.

"I hope it's worth it, Eliza. I really do."

The drive home is a blur, tears clouding my vision. I've achieved what I've always dreamed of, taken a huge step forward in my career. So why does it feel like I've lost something irreplaceable?

As I pull into my driveway, my phone buzzes with a text from Chase.

CHASE: When are you telling the rest of the band?

I stare at the message, feeling the finality of it all crashing down on me. This is really happening. I'm really stepping away. Am I doing the right thing?

With shaking fingers, I type out a reply.

ME: Tomorrow. Band meeting at 2.

His response is immediate and cuts me to the core.

CHASE: I'll be there. Strictly professional from now on, right? Isn't that what you've always wanted?

I don't respond. Can't respond. Instead, I let the tears fall freely, mourning for what feels like the end of something beautiful, even if it never fully belonged to me.

Tomorrow, I'll put on my professional face. I'll break the news to the band, weather their reactions, start the process of handing over the reins. I'll step into my new role with confidence and determination.

But tonight, I allow myself to grieve for the chapter of my life that's closing. For the relationship with Chase that, despite our best efforts to keep it professional, was always so much more.

And as I fall into a fitful sleep, Chase's words echo in my mind: "Strictly professional." If only it were that simple. If only it ever had been.