Giving Chase (Incendiary Ink #1)

18. The Road to Hell – Chase

The Road to Hell

CHASE

I've rewritten this letter at least seventeen times. The latest version sits on my desk, coffee rings staining the corners, words crossed out and rewritten until the paper's nearly transparent in spots. Dr. Hendricks says writing it is part of my recovery, even if I never give it to her. Will thinks I should focus on getting through the ceremony first. Mark just handed me his guitar yesterday and said "Write a fucking song instead."

But songs are what got us here in the first place.

My phone buzzes with another text from Will about travel arrangements for Cleveland. Two weeks. Two weeks until I have to perform Whispered Truths stone cold sober while she watches from the wings. Twenty years of hiding behind a chemical curtain, and now I have to lay myself bare in front of the entire industry.

A text from Michelle breaks my downward thought spiral.

MICHELLE: Looking good in those photos, Avery. Though maybe next time try not to look at my boss like you want to devour her in front of the photographer.

I scrub a hand over my face, feeling the neat edges of my beard. The undercut was an impulse decision last month – needed something to mark five years clean that wasn't another tattoo. But the way Eliza's eyes widened when she saw it, the way her fingers twitched like she wanted to touch it...

"Focus," I mutter, pushing away from my desk. The Malibu sunrise streams through the windows, painting everything gold. Five years ago, I'd have been coming down from something right about now, not watching the dawn.

My phone buzzes again. Will.

"Yeah?" I answer, heading for the kitchen.

"You see the proofs?" His voice has that careful tone he uses when he thinks I might break.

"Not yet." I grab a smoothie from the fridge. Kale and whatever else my nutritionist swears by these days. "That bad?"

"Depends on your definition of bad." A pause. "You two look like you're about three seconds from tearing each other's clothes off in half of them."

The smoothie turns to ash in my mouth. "Fuck."

"Pretty much what everyone who's seen them is thinking, yeah." He sighs. "You need to get your head straight before Cleveland. This limbo thing isn't working for anyone."

I lean against the counter, pressing my forehead to the cool granite. "You know what the last thing I said to her was? Before that failed rehab?"

"Chase—"

"I told her she was a coward. That she'd rather hide behind her desk than admit what was between us was real.” My laugh sounds hollow even to me. "Five years sober and I still haven't figured out how to apologize for that one, or the one after that. Shit there’s so much...”

"Maybe that's because you weren't entirely wrong." Will's voice softens. "You just picked the worst possible way to say it. And the worst possible times.”

The memory of that night threatens to surface – the chaos backstage, the pills in my pocket, the look in her eyes when security pulled me away. I push it back down where it belongs.

"The bands want to run through the arrangements one more time before Cleveland," Will says. "You gonna be okay with that?"

I stare at my hands. They're steady now. Five years steady.

"Yeah," I say, even though we both know it's more hope than certainty. "I'll be there."

I hang up and pull up the camera roll on my phone, thumb hovering over the folder marked "Hall of Fame Shoot." One click and I'll see what everyone else is talking about. See if the camera caught what I felt crackling between us every time our eyes met.

Instead, I turn back to the letter on my desk. Cross out another line. Start again.

Dear Eliza, Twenty years ago, you saved my life by believing in our music. Five years ago, you saved it again by forcing me to face myself...

My hands are shaking now, but not from withdrawal. Some addictions, it turns out, never really let you go.

August 2018

The lights are too bright. Everything's too bright. The bass line to Burning Bridges thrums through my bones, but I can't remember if I'm playing the right notes. Doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the rage burning under my skin and the cocktail of chemicals trying to put it out.

Someone in the front row is filming. They're all always fucking filming, aren't they? Little rectangular lights in a sea of faces. Documenting every fucking moment of our farewell tour. Every mistake. Every missed cue. Every time Eliza watches from the wings with that look in her eyes.

Is she watching now?

The guy with the phone is shouting something. I can read his lips: fucking junkie .

I don't remember jumping. One second I'm on stage, the next I'm throwing punches, surrounded by screaming fans. Fists connect with flesh. The phone crunches under someone's boot. Security's trying to pull me back but I'm fighting them too, everything a blur of sweat and blood and chemicals burning through my veins.

They drag me backstage. I'm screaming something about the show, about finishing the set. Will's there, saying words I can't process. Mark's shaking his head. And Eliza?—

Eliza.

She stands in the hallway, still wearing that black leather jacket that makes her eyes look like storm clouds. Steel grey swimming with concern.

"Get out." Her voice cuts through the chaos. Everyone scatters except the two security guards holding me up. "Now. Everyone out."

"Eliza." My tongue feels too thick. "Show's not over. Gotta finish. Gotta—the lights are wrong. Everything's wrong."

"Chase..." Her voice softens as she steps closer. "What did you take?"

"You're a coward," I slur, because my brain's shorting out and nothing makes sense except her face swimming in front of me. "Hide behind your desk while I'm out here... out here bleeding music. S'all wrong. The songs don't work anymore. They just... they just keep screaming and screaming and I can't make them stop and you're not... you're supposed to... why aren't you fixing it? You always fix it. Fix me. Please, 'Liza, just..."

The concern in her eyes deepens. She reaches for my face and I lean into her touch like a dying man reaching for salvation.

"Chase, baby, you're not making sense." Her thumb strokes my cheek. When did she start crying? "I need you to focus. What's in your system?"

The pills in my pocket feel like they're burning through the denim. New ones. Guy outside promised they'd keep me flying. Keep the music from screaming.

"Can't..." The room's spinning faster now. There's a roaring in my ears like distant waves. "Can't remember. Everything's too bright. You're too bright. Always so bright..."

"Chase? Chase, look at me."

I try. God, I try. But the darkness is winning and my body's not listening and?—

The last thing I feel is her hands on my face. The last thing I hear is her voice breaking as she screams for someone to call 911.

Then nothing.

The hospital room comes into focus slowly. Everything hurts - sharp, raw, real pain that tells me the drugs are finally leaving my system. There's a steady beeping somewhere to my left.

And Eliza.

She's curled in a chair by my bed, still wearing that leather jacket. Her platinum hair's a mess, purple ends tangled. Mascara tracks map the path of every tear she's shed.

"How..." My throat feels like sandpaper. "How long?"

Her eyes flutter open. Steel grey meets mine, red-rimmed and exhausted but so full of love it hurts to look at directly.

"Three days." Her voice cracks. "You seized twice in the ambulance. Once more at the hospital. They had to restart your heart."

Jesus.

"You stayed."

She reaches for my hand, careful of the IV. Her fingers tremble against mine.

"Of course I stayed." Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. "I'll always stay. But I can't... I can't keep watching you destroy yourself. It's killing me, Chase."

I try to squeeze her hand. Try to find words that will make this better. But there aren't any. Not anymore.

"I know," I whisper.

She brings our joined hands to her lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "I love you. I've always loved you. But I can't do this anymore."

She stands, smoothing her wrinkled clothes with her free hand. Three days' worth of wrinkles. When she lets go of my hand, it feels like a final chord fading out.

"Get help," she whispers. "Really get help this time. Please."

I watch her walk away, my vision blurring at the edges from exhaustion and withdrawal. The sound of her heels on linoleum echoes in my head long after she's gone.

When I wake up again, she's gone. The nurses have left my personal effects in a clear plastic bag: wallet, phone, keys... and the silver guitar pick she gave me at our ten-year anniversary party. Even high out of my mind, I'd kept it in my pocket. Always do.

I close my fingers around it, feeling the edges bite into my palm. One more chance. One more rehab. One more promise I'm not sure I can keep.