Giving Chase (Incendiary Ink #1)

19. Can U See Me in the Dark? – Eliza

Can U See Me in the Dark?

ELIZA

I've driven past his Malibu house at least a dozen times in the last five years. Never stopped. Never called. Just the occasional slow drive-by, checking for signs of life. Making sure the lights were still on.

Today, I park in his driveway.

The sun's setting over the Pacific, painting everything in shades of gold and pink. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see him pacing in his living room, phone to his ear. Even from here, I recognize his "talking to Will" posture – one hand raking through his hair, messing up that undercut that's been haunting my dreams since the photo shoot.

God, those photos.

Michelle forwarded them to me this morning with a single comment: We need to talk about this before the ceremony.

She was right. The chemistry radiating from every shot was undeniable. Professional distance crumbling with every frame. By the final set, we might as well have been the only two people in the room.

I press the doorbell before I can talk myself out of it.

Chase opens the door mid-laugh at something Will must have said. The sound dies in his throat when he sees me.

"I'll call you back," he says into the phone, never taking his eyes off mine.

I've seen him in various states over twenty years – drunk, high, sober, everything in between. But this... this clear-eyed intensity is something new. Something real.

"The photos?" he asks, stepping back to let me in.

"The photos." I move past him, catching his scent – coffee and whatever expensive shampoo he uses now. No alcohol. No cigarettes. Nothing artificial. Just Chase. "Michelle thinks we need to talk about them before Cleveland."

"Michelle needs to mind her own business." But there's no heat in his words. He follows me into the living room, keeping a careful distance. "You want coffee? Water? I think I have some of that herbal tea you like."

"You remember my tea preference?"

"I remember everything about you, Eliza."

I pull up short at his words before carefully turning away to hide my reaction, trying to regain my composure.

He must see something in my expression because he backs off, heading for the kitchen. "Tea it is."

While he's gone, I study his space. Guitar collection on the wall. Piano by the windows. Writing desk covered in scattered papers. One sheet catches my eye – handwritten, coffee-stained, crossed out words everywhere.

"Here," he says behind me, and I turn too quickly, guilty at almost snooping. He hands me a mug – the same one I used to drink from when I'd visit during writing sessions. Another thing he's kept.

"How are you?" I ask, really looking at him. "Really?"

His hand goes to the back of his neck – a tell I've known for two decades. "Shouldn't I be asking you that? You're the one who drove out here."

"Chase."

He sighs, sinking onto the couch. After a moment's hesitation, I join him, leaving enough space between us for our history.

"I'm okay," he says finally. "Nervous about Cleveland. Terrified of performing Whispered Truths sober. But okay." His eyes find mine. "The photos scared the hell out of me."

"Why?"

"Because nothing's changed." His voice drops. "Twenty years, multiple rehabs, five years clean... and one look from you still stops my heart."

My fingers tighten around the mug. "Chase?—"

"Wait." He stands abruptly, goes to his desk. Comes back with the paper I'd noticed earlier. "I've been trying to write this for weeks. It's not... it's not perfect. But maybe it's time you read it."

His hands shake slightly as he holds it out. The same hands that used to shake from withdrawal now trembling for an entirely different reason.

"What is it?"

"Everything I couldn't say before... Everything I should have said after. Everything I'm still trying to say now."

I set down my mug and take the letter. His handwriting is steadier than it used to be. No more chaotic scrawl of addiction.

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...

"Read it," he says softly. "Please. Even if it changes nothing. Even if you walk out that door and we go back to professional distance until Cleveland. Just... read it."

The paper trembles in my hands. The sun's almost gone now, painting the room in shades of blue and grey. Somewhere in the distance, waves crash against the shore.

I start to read.

September 2018

The security alert comes through during a label meeting. My phone buzzes with multiple notifications: motion detected, impact at entrance, unknown vehicle.

Then I see the video feed.

"I need to go," I say, already standing. Michelle catches my eye across the conference table – she's seen my face change. "Family emergency."

I'm halfway to my car when Justin calls.

"Mom?" His voice is tight. "There's a Porsche wrapped around the brick planter. Chase is passed out on the lawn."

Jesus Christ. It's 11:47 AM.

"Is he?—"

"Breathing. Seems okay, but he's a mess. What do you want me to do?"

Five weeks. He managed five weeks in Ojai before either walking out or getting kicked out – no one seems to know which. Five weeks after Chicago. After watching him seize in that ambulance. After sitting by his hospital bed for three days.

"Get him inside before someone calls the cops. I'm twenty minutes out."

"Mom—"

"Please, Justin. Just... keep him there. I'm coming."

I break every speed limit between Blackmore Records and home. My hands don't shake on the steering wheel. They should, but they don't. Fifteen years of crisis management with Chase has taught me how to function through the fear.

The Porsche is silver. Brand new. The passenger side is crumpled against the brick surround of my favorite maple tree. Glass glitters on the driveway like fallen stars.

I hear the shouting before I even get inside.

"—your mother's not your fucking responsibility!" Chase's voice, slurred but angry.

"No, but apparently you are!" Justin shouts back. "Always have been, right? Ever since I was eight years old, watching her piece you back together?—"

I push through the front door. They're in the living room – Justin standing between Chase and the door, Chase swaying on his feet, looking like hell warmed over. His clothes are wrinkled, hair wild, eyes bloodshot.

"Justin," I say quietly. "Give us a minute."

"Mom—"

"Please."

He hesitates, then nods. Squeezes my shoulder as he passes. The front door closes behind him with a soft click.

Chase laughs. The sound is all broken glass. "Sent your guard dog away?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Ojai was bullshit." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing even more on end. "All that... that mindfulness crap. Journaling. Group therapy. Couldn't think straight. Couldn't write. Couldn't—" He stumbles, catches himself on the back of the couch. "Couldn't breathe."

"So you thought driving drunk to my house at noon was the answer?"

"Needed to see you." His eyes find mine, glazed but desperate. "You didn't visit. Not once."

"Because you needed to focus on getting better. Plus, you took me off the fucking visitors list! You promised me, Chase. You promised the whole band you'd stay clean for the farewell tour. Then Chicago happened. You nearly died in that ambulance. Three days I sat in that hospital, watching you breathe, and the minute you got out, you checked yourself into Ojai. I thought... I really thought this time..."

"Better?" Another laugh, sharper this time. " This is better. This is... this is clarity. This is seeing everything exactly how it is. You and your... your perfect house and your perfect son and your perfect fucking life?—"

"Stop it."

"Why? Because it hurts? Because you can't fix this with your corporate credit card and your industry connections?"

"Because this isn't you!" My voice cracks. "This isn't the man who promised me he was ready to get clean. This isn't the man I sat with in that hospital. This isn't—" I break off, really looking at him. His hands are shaking. His skin's ashen under the alcohol flush. "When's the last time you ate anything?"

The question seems to throw him. "What?"

"Food, Chase. When did you last eat?"

He sways again, frowning like he's trying to remember. "Yesterday? Maybe?"

"Sit down before you fall down. I'm making coffee."

"'Eliza—"

"Sit. Down."

He collapses onto the couch while I head for the kitchen. I can feel him watching me as I move around the space, muscle memory taking over – coffee, mugs, the bread I know he can keep down even hungover. My hands are amazingly steady as I work, even though I want to jump out of my skin.

When I come back, he's got his head in his hands.

"Here." I set coffee and toast in front of him. "Small sips."

He looks up at me, and for the first time today, I see clarity fighting through the haze. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I love you." The words come easily, even now. Especially now. "Because I've loved you for fifteen years, through every disaster and every triumph. And because I need you to really hear me right now."

I sit beside him, not touching, but close enough to catch him if he falls.

"Do you know what it was like?" My voice is quiet. "Watching you spiral through that tour? Every night, wondering if this would be the one where you finally went too far? Then Chicago happened, and I... I had to watch you die, Chase. Three times in that ambulance. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"

He stares into his coffee. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are. But sorry isn't enough anymore. When you checked into Ojai, I thought... I let myself hope. Five weeks, Chase. Five weeks of thinking maybe this time it would stick. And now you're here, drunk at noon, wrapped around my tree."

"I couldn't..." He takes a shaky sip of coffee. "I couldn't stop thinking about you. About us. About everything we've never?—"

"Stop." I take the mug from his trembling hands, set it down. "We made that 'no strings' rule for a reason, Chase. And I've never lied to you about how I feel. Never pretended I didn't love you. But I've also been clear about why we couldn't be more. The band, the label, our careers... they were too intertwined. One wrong move and it all would have collapsed."

He starts to protest but I press on. "I've respected your life choices. Never interfered with your relationships, your decisions. I didn't say a word about that Vegas wedding, or any of the girlfriends, or the partying. When other labels started circling after your third album went platinum, I supported you exploring your options. I've loved you enough to let you live your own life, to keep our professional relationship solid. Do you know how many board meetings I've sat through defending you? How many times I've put my reputation on the line to protect you from your own mistakes?"

I run a hand through my hair, dislodging pins. "Remember the Grammy incident? When you kissed me on the way to the stage? I'm the one who spun it to the press as a theatrical moment. I'm the one who convinced the board it was good publicity. Every time you've pushed those boundaries, I've been there to maintain them. Because that was our agreement. Because it was the only way this could work."

His hands are shaking worse now. "I never asked you to protect me."

"No, you just expected it. And I did it, because I believed in your talent. In the band. In you." I gesture at him, at the wreckage outside. "But this? This isn't about us. This isn't about some great star-crossed love story. This is about you using the idea of us as an excuse. You're trying to make me responsible for your choices, and I won't do it anymore."

He stares into his coffee like it holds answers. "The tour... I really thought I could stay clean. For you. For us."

"That's exactly the problem. It was never supposed to be for me, Chase. You can't hang your sobriety on someone else. Not me, not the band, not some perfect future you've imagined." I take a breath, soften my voice. "Listen to me. Really listen. There can't be an us until you're healthy. Not because I don't love you. Not because I don't want it. But because I cannot watch you die again. I won't survive it this time."

He snickers sarcastically. “Oh, is that the new excuse now?”

“What?”

He glares at me sideways, his mood shifting dark yet again. “There’s always an excuse, isn’t there? Some made up fucking reason about why we’d never work. The carrot at the end of the stick dangling right in front of my fucking face. Do you fucking get off on it or something?”

I stiffen at the change in him. “You know damn well that’s not what this is.”

“Do I?” he snorts, putting his coffee mug down to face me. When our eyes meet, I see a hatred there that I’ve never seen him direct at me before, and I feel myself shrink back. “I don’t know fucking shit when it comes to you. I never fucking have. And you…you’re a god damned coward. Using every excuse in the book, and even making up more as you go to push me away. Well, I’m fucking gone now, Eliza, okay? You did it! You win! I fucking hate you. How’s that?”

I’m stunned as he jolts up from the couch and starts pacing again. His words cutting deeper than anything could. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol talking, or if he means it. Don’t people tell the truth when they’re drunk? I don’t know what’s happening now.

“Maybe I should have died in that ambulance,” he mutters, trying to pace but staggering.

“Don’t say that,” I jump up to steady him but he waves me off, and pushes me away.

“Don’t touch me,” he warns angrily. “You don’t get to fucking touch me anymore. Never again you fucking coward.” He leans over the back of the couch unsteadily pointing a finger at me. “You fucking did this to me, you selfish bitch.”

I lean back as if he’s slapped me, and I’m flooded with guilt. Is what he’s saying right? Did I do this to him? Drive him to this madness? Could I really be the reason for his downward spiral?

Tears spring from my eyes unbidden as I feel the sheer hatred directed at me – where it belongs. I did do this, didn’t I? This is all my fault.

“Chase, I…” My words of admission and regret don’t come fast enough as he rounds the couch and pulls me into a hug. The emotional whiplash is overwhelming.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Eliza. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean any of that, I swear.” He rocks me back and forth, and I can’t seem to make head or tails of what’s happening. “I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m so fucking confused all the time…I just…I swear I didn’t mean that.”

I rub his back, trying to piece together what’s real and what isn’t. What’s true and what’s not. But I can’t shake the hurt his angry words caused that is still reverberating in my bones. I think that’s going to be permanent.

Hating to let him go, I pull away slowly, trying to gather myself again into the strong friend I’m supposed to be right now. Not the broken woman with guilt the size of Mount Rushmore, and pain deeper than the ocean.

The silence stretches between us, broken only by the tick of the kitchen clock. Finally, he looks at me, really looks at me, and I see the man I love fighting his way through the chaos.

"I'm scared," he whispers.

"I know." I take his hand, feel it shaking in mine. "But you're stronger than this. You're stronger than the drugs and the drinking and all the ways you try to numb yourself. I've seen that strength. I believe in it. I need you to believe in it too."

He squeezes my hand, and for a moment, I let myself remember every other time we've sat like this, on the edge of change that never quite happened.

"What do I do?" he asks, voice small.

"You get real help. Not five weeks. Not surface-level rehab. Real, deep, hard work on yourself. And this time..." I take a breath. "This time, I can't be your reason. You have to do it for you."

The sun's moved across the sky while we've been talking. The broken glass in the driveway throws rainbow prisms on the walls.

"I'm tired," he says finally, voice cracking. "I'm so fucking tired, Eliza."

Something breaks in my chest. Maybe in both of us. Because suddenly he's crying – real tears, not the drunk, maudlin kind. The kind he's probably been holding back for years.

"Come here," I whisper, and he folds into my arms like a collapsing star.

We sit there, tangled together on my couch, both of us breaking apart. His body shakes against mine as years of damage pours out of him. I hold him through it, my own tears falling into his hair, one hand curved around the back of his neck like I used to do when he was strong and brilliant and not yet scarred by all of this.

"I don't know how to do this," he mumbles against my shoulder. "I don't know how to be clean and still be me."

"You are not your addiction." I press my lips to his temple. "The man I love – the real Chase – he's still in there. The one who wrote Off the Record in one night because the melody wouldn't let him sleep. The one who spent three hours teaching Justin power chords when he was nine. The one who sees music in everything. That's who you are."

He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes red but clearer than they've been all day. "Help me?" The words are barely a whisper. "Please? Not... not like before. But help me find somewhere I actually want to go? Somewhere that might work?"

"Of course." I brush his hair back from his face, the gesture as natural as breathing. "We'll research facilities together. Find one that feels right to you. And when you're ready – really ready – I'll take you there myself."

"You'd do that? After everything?"

"Oh, baby." I rest my forehead against his. "I'd walk through fire for you. I always have. I just can't walk through it for you anymore."

He nods, understanding finally reaching through the haze. The emotional toll of the day crashes over us both, and I feel him growing heavier against me. I should move us to separate rooms. Should maintain those careful boundaries we've drawn in the sand.

Instead, I let him sink deeper into my embrace as we both slide into exhaustion. His breathing steadies against my collar bone. My fingers card through his hair on autopilot. The afternoon sun paints warm stripes across us through the windows.

Just before sleep takes me, I feel him mumble against my neck, "Will you help me make some calls tomorrow? When I'm sober?"

"Yes," I whisper into his hair, knowing this isn't the end of his struggle. That there's still more darkness to come before he finds his way out. But for now, for this moment, he's safe in my arms. We both are.

I drift off to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, proof that he's still alive, still here, still fighting.

It has to be enough.

Justin finds us hours later, when the sun has shifted to early evening. He doesn't wake us. Just drapes a blanket over us both and quietly cleans up the broken glass in the driveway.

Some things don't need words.