Giving Chase (Incendiary Ink #1)

15. I Am the Fire – Eliza

I Am the Fire

ELIZA

I've just wrapped up a grueling meeting with our legal team about a 360 deal dispute with Lila Rose, our latest pop sensation. It's the kind of day-to-day work I've been neglecting in favor of Hall of Fame preparations, and the pile of tasks on my desk seems to grow exponentially.

As I settle into my ergonomic chair, my eyes drift to the framed multi-platinum plaque on my wall - Incendiary Ink's Phoenix Rising album. Chase's intense gaze stares back at me from the cover art, and I feel a familiar ache in my chest. I haven't been to rehearsals in over two weeks, telling myself it's because I'm swamped with work, but deep down, I know it's more than that. Every time I see Chase, every time I hear him sing, it gets harder to maintain this careful distance I've cultivated.

My intercom buzzes, jolting me from my reverie. "Ms. Kerr? Your 2 o'clock is here. Megan Clark from Music Insider."

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. "Send her in, please."

Megan Clark breezes in, all sleek professionalism and barely concealed ambition. Her eyes dart around my office, no doubt taking in the evidence of my success - the awards, the platinum records, the photos with industry bigwigs.

"Ms. Kerr, thank you so much for making time for us," she says, her recorder already in hand. "We're thrilled to get your perspective on Incendiary Ink's induction into the Hall of Fame."

I paste on my best media smile. "Of course. It's an exciting time for the band and for Blackmore Records."

The interview starts off predictably enough. Questions about the band's journey, their impact on the industry, my role in their success. I answer on autopilot, years of media training kicking in.

"Incendiary Ink's sound evolved significantly over the years," Megan observes. "How much of that was organic growth versus label direction?"

I lean forward slightly, engaging. "It was always a collaborative process. Our job at Blackmore was to provide the resources and support for the band to explore their artistic vision. Their evolution was driven by their experiences, their growth as musicians. We just helped create the environment for that growth to happen."

Megan nods, scribbling a note. "And what about the challenges? Incendiary Ink has had their share of controversies over the years."

I choose my words carefully. "Every band faces challenges. What set Incendiary Ink apart was their resilience, their ability to channel those challenges into their music. It's part of what makes their induction so meaningful - it's a recognition not just of their success, but of their journey."

But then, Megan's smile turns slightly predatory. "Speaking of journeys, there's been a lot of speculation over the years about your personal journey with Chase Avery. Care to comment on that?"

I feel my smile freeze for a fraction of a second before I recover. "Chase and I have a long-standing professional relationship. I've been Incendiary Ink's manager since the beginning of their career."

Megan nods, but I can see she's not satisfied. "Of course. But there have been rumors of a more... intimate connection. Especially given some of Chase's more emotional acceptance speeches over the years. The Grammy incident in 2015 comes to mind."

The memory of that impulsive kiss flashes through my mind, and I have to work to keep my expression neutral. "I think it's natural for there to be a close bond between a band and their manager, especially over such a long and successful career. Emotions can run high in moments of triumph. But I can assure you, my relationship with Chase - and with all the members of Incendiary Ink - is strictly professional."

"And yet," Megan presses, leaning forward, "sources close to the band have hinted at tensions when you considered stepping down as their manager a few years ago. Some have suggested it was more than just a professional disagreement."

I feel a flicker of anger, quickly suppressed. Who's been talking? Will? Mark? "I'm not sure what sources you're referring to, but I can tell you that any discussions about my role with the band have always been centered around what's best for their career and for Blackmore Records. The music industry is constantly evolving, and so are the roles within it."

Megan seems to sense she's pushed as far as she can. She wraps up the interview with a few more questions about the upcoming ceremony, but I can see the wheels turning behind her eyes. I know this won't be the last I hear of these rumors.

After she leaves, I sink back into my chair, suddenly drained. I thought I'd gotten better at deflecting these questions over the years, but something about this interview has left me unsettled. Is it because the ceremony is so close? Or because I've been avoiding the rehearsals, avoiding Chase?

I pull out my phone, scrolling through my recent messages. There's one from Chase from a few days ago.

CHASE: Missed you at rehearsal again. Everything okay? The guys are starting to think you've abandoned us. ;)

I hadn't replied. Didn't know how to without revealing too much.

As I stare at the message, Megan's words echo in my mind. Have I really been that transparent all these years? Can everyone see right through my professional facade to the complicated tangle of feelings I have for Chase?

More importantly, what am I going to do about it?

The induction ceremony is less than a month away, and with it, the prospect of standing on that stage with Chase, in front of the whole world. The thought sends a shiver down my spine - equal parts excitement and terror.

I start to type out a reply to Chase, then delete it. Then start again. Finally, I settle on:

ME: Sorry I've been MIA. Label stuff's been crazy. Dinner this week to catch up on ceremony details?

It's not much, but it's a step. As I hit send, I can't help but wonder: how much longer can we keep dancing around this thing between us? And what happens when the music finally stops?

I guess I'll find out soon enough. For now, I have a label to run and a ceremony to prepare for. Personal feelings will have to wait. They always have. As much as I fucking hate it, I almost feel numb to it now. Almost.

But as I turn back to my computer, Chase's face on that album cover catches my eye again. And I wonder, not for the first time, if I'm making the biggest mistake of my life by continuing to push him away.

October 5, 2017

The throbbing bass from Chase's Malibu home vibrates through my steering wheel as I pull into the driveway. The house blazes with light, every window alive with movement and shadows. This isn't the intimate gathering I'd expected when Will mentioned a "party." This is something else entirely.

I sit for a moment, my knuckles white on the wheel. I should have come sooner. Should have talked to him right after the promotion announcement. But I'd been caught up in the whirlwind of new responsibilities, of proving to the board that I could handle both roles. And if I'm honest with myself, I'd been avoiding this conversation.

The front door stands wide open, music and voices spilling into the night. The moment I step inside, my senses are assaulted. The sickly-sweet smell of marijuana mingles with something sharper, more chemical. Cocaine. I'd recognize that smell anywhere after fifteen years in the industry. My stomach churns.

The house is packed with the kind of crowd I've spent years protecting Chase from. Dead-eyed models with hollow cheeks and twitching hands. Wannabe producers with predatory smiles. Parasites in designer clothes, all trying to get a piece of him.

Chase's beautiful Steinway grand piano, usually gleaming, is now littered with empty bottles and cigarette burns. Sheet music lies scattered across the floor, trampled and stained. This isn't a party. It's a cry for help.

I push through the crowd, years of navigating industry events helping me sidestep wandering hands and sloshing drinks. That's when I see him.

Chase stands in the center of his living room, holding court like some fallen angel. A bottle of Jack dangles from his fingers, and his eyes... God, his eyes. They're glassy, unfocused, nothing like the intense green gaze that's haunted my dreams for years. His shirt is unbuttoned wrong, his hair wild, and there's a smudge of something white around his nostril.

A leggy blonde hangs off his arm, whispering in his ear, but I can tell he's not really listening. He's performing, playing the role of debauched rockstar, but there's something desperate in his movements, something broken in his laugh.

His gaze finally lands on me, and for a moment, I see my Chase - vulnerable, brilliant, beautiful Chase. Then his eyes harden.

"Well, well, well," he slurs, stumbling in my direction. "Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence. The big shot VP herself."

I reach for him instinctively as he sways, my hands finding his waist to steady him. He's lost weight. When did that happen?

"Chase, we need to talk. Privately."

He laughs, but it's all wrong - bitter and hollow. "Oh, now you want to talk? After weeks of radio silence?"

I glance around, acutely aware of the vultures circling, phones ready to capture any drama. "Please, Chase. Not here."

Something in my voice must get through to him because he nods, leading me upstairs to his studio. The room that was once his sanctuary is in chaos. Empty bottles everywhere. Cigarette butts crushed into handwritten lyrics. His prized guitar collection gathering dust.

As soon as the door closes, he rounds on me. "What are you doing here, Eliza? Come to check up on me? Make sure I'm not tarnishing the Blackmore brand?"

"I'm here because I'm worried about you," I say softly, fighting the urge to reach out and wipe that white smudge from his nose. "We all are. You've missed every writing session, you're not returning calls..."

"Worried?" he scoffs. "That's rich. You didn't seem too worried when you were accepting that promotion, ready to leave us behind."

I flinch at the accusation. "That's not fair, Chase. I fought to keep managing the band. I never wanted to leave you."

"Leave the band, you mean," he corrects, his eyes boring into mine. "But you've been leaving me for years, haven't you? Always keeping me at arm's length, never letting me in completely."

His words hit too close to home, and I feel tears pricking at my eyes. "Chase, please. You're high, you're drunk. You're not thinking clearly."

"No," he says, suddenly eerily calm. "I'm thinking clearly for the first time in years. You've been playing with my heart, Eliza. Stringing me along. And I'm done."

The pain in his voice cuts through me, igniting something deep inside. All the carefully maintained walls, all the professional distance I've tried to keep - it crumbles in an instant.

"I love you, damnit," I burst out, the words exploding from somewhere deep inside me.

Chase freezes, his eyes widening. "What?"

"I love you," I repeat, my voice rising with a mix of frustration and pain. "Of course I love you. How can you not see that? Every single day, in everything I do. In every fight I've fought for you, every time I've picked up the pieces, every moment I've put your needs ahead of my own. Including right now, standing here in this mess, trying to pull you back from whatever edge you're racing toward."

I run a hand through my hair, years of pent-up feelings spilling out. "Do you think any other manager would be here right now? Do you think this is in my job description? I love you so much it terrifies me, Chase. It always has."

He takes a step toward me, hope warring with disbelief on his face. "Then why-"

"Because it's impossible," I cut him off, my voice breaking. "Because loving you isn't enough. Because there's the band to think about, and the label, and our careers. Because every time we get close to crossing that line, something like this happens." I gesture around at the chaos of his studio. "And I have to be the one to pull us back, to be the responsible one, to keep us both from burning everything to the ground."

"None of that matters," he insists, moving closer. "We can figure it out. Together."

I shake my head, even as every fiber of my being screams at me to give in. "It's not that simple, and you know it. Look at what's happening already. The drugs, the drinking, these people in your house... this isn't you, Chase."

"This is who I am without you," he says, his voice raw with emotion.

"No," I say firmly, reaching out to cup his face. His skin is clammy under my palm. "Don’t you dare pin all of this on me. You don’t get to blame me for any of this. This is you running away. From your talent, from your responsibilities. From yourself."

He leans into my touch, his eyes closing. For a moment, we stand there in silence, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us. The music pounds through the floor, a chaotic counterpoint to my racing heart.

Finally, Chase speaks, his voice barely above a whisper. "So where does this leave us?"

I take a deep breath, my thumb ghosting over his cheekbone. "It leaves us where we've always been. Manager and artist. Friends. But nothing more. It has to be this way, Chase. For both our sakes. Yes, I love you, but it will never work. Why can’t you see that?"

He pulls away, the walls slamming back up. "Right. Professional. Got it."

"Chase..."

"You should go," he says, turning away from me. "I've got a party to get back to. Lots of networking to do." The bitterness in his voice is like acid.

I stand there for a moment, wanting to say more, to make him understand. But as I watch him pick up a half-empty bottle, hands shaking slightly, I realize something that terrifies me: I'm losing him. Not just professionally or romantically, but completely.

As I make my way back through the party, my heart feels like lead in my chest. Every cell in my body screams at me to turn around, to go back, to save him from himself. But I can't. Not if he won't let me.

In my car, I pull out my phone with trembling fingers. I scroll through my contacts until I find Will's number. He needs to know how bad things have gotten. We need to do something before...

I can't even finish the thought.