Page 30 of Giving Chase

ELIZA

The musty scentof aged paper and dust tickles my nose as I push open the attic door. Shafts of late afternoon sunlight cut through the gloom, illuminating dancing motes in the air. I sneeze, the sound echoing in the cramped space.

"Get it together, Eliza," I mutter to myself. "You're the President of Blackmore Records, not some sentimental schoolgirl."

But as I pull down the box marked‘Incendiary Ink - Early Years,’my hands are trembling. I settle onto the dusty floor, realizing my white jeans were a bad idea as I look at the years of dust around me. Professional Eliza would be horrified. But right now, I can't bring myself to care.

The first item I pull out is a demo CD, its case cracked and label faded. I close my eyes, transported back to the first time I heard Chase's raw, powerful voice coming through my office speakers. I'd known then, in that moment, that I'd discovered something special.

Next comes a stack of contracts, my own neat handwriting in the margins. Notes like "Negotiate publishing rights" and "Discuss tour budget" remind me of late nights poring over legaldocuments, fighting to get the best deal for a band I believed in with every fiber of my being.

A small velvet pouch falls out as I move the contracts aside. I open it, and a guitar pick falls into my palm. It's worn and slightly chipped, with "CA" etched into one side. The memory hits me like a physical blow.

Austin, Texas. July 2005. Chase, high on the energy of a killer show, jumping off the stage and pressing the pick into my hand. His fingers lingering on mine, his eyes bright with something more than just post-performance adrenaline. "Couldn't have done it without you, Eliza," he'd said, his voice husky. It had taken every ounce of willpower not to kiss him right there.

I close my fist around the pick, the edges digging into my palm. Remembering another special guitar pick…This is dangerous territory, Eliza. Remember - professional boundaries.

But as I continue to sift through the box, those boundaries become increasingly blurred. Concert tickets and passes from shows I'd watched from the wings, my heart swelling with pride. Handwritten notes from Chase, usually scribbled on hotel stationery - some professional, some decidedly not.

I pull out a photo album, its edges worn from frequent handling. I flip it open, and there we are - the band and me, all impossibly young and full of hope. There's Will, grinning widely behind his drum kit. Mark, guitar slung low, trying to look cool but unable to hide his excitement. And Chase... God, Chase.

His eyes are bright with that fire I'd recognized from the first moment I saw him perform. I trace the line of his jaw with my finger, remembering how it felt under my lips in stolen moments on tour buses and in dimly lit hotel rooms. The ghost of his touch sends a shiver down my spine, and I snap the album shut.

"Focus, Eliza," I scold myself. "You're here to write a speech, not moon over ancient history."

But as I reach for my laptop, another item catches my eye. A small, leather-bound journal, tucked away at the bottom of the box. With trembling hands, I open it to a random page:

September 3, 2007 - Board meeting today about Incendiary Ink's third album budget. Had to fight tooth and nail for the resources they need. Sometimes I wonder if the other execs see what I see in them. In him. Chase played me a new song after the meeting. Said it was a thank you for always having their backs. There's a line in the chorus that keeps repeating in my head: 'In the silence between words, there's a truth we've never heard.' I can't help but wonder if he's trying to tell me something. Or am I just projecting my own feelings? This is dangerous territory, Eliza. The band needs you as a manager, not a lovesick groupie.

I close my eyes, remembering that day vividly. The frustration of the meeting, the triumph of winning the budget battle, and then... Chase. The way his voice had softened on certain lines, the intensity in his gaze as he watched for my reaction. That song eventually becameWhispered Truths, and hearing it at the rehearsal had nearly broken me.

As I sit there, surrounded by the physical evidence of a lifetime of almosts and not-quites, I realize something. This speech isn't just about inducting Incendiary Ink into the Hall ofFame. It's about acknowledging a fundamental truth I've been running from for years.

Chase Avery didn't just change the face of rock music. He changed me. And maybe it's finally time I admitted that - to myself, to him, and to the world.

But as I reach for my laptop, ready to pour my heart out, my phone buzzes. It's an email from the board, reminding me of the need for "professionalism and objectivity" in the induction speech. The real world comes crashing back in, and I'm suddenly very aware of the dust on my clothes and the lateness of the hour.

I stand, brushing myself off, trying to shake away the lingering emotions. I have a responsibility to the company, to the band, to maintain professional boundaries.

But as I descend from the attic, the guitar pick clutched tightly in my hand, I can't help but wonder: At what cost?

I sit at my desk, open a new document, and type:

Ladies and gentlemen, let me tell you about the band that didn't just make music - they made history. Let me tell you about Incendiary Ink.

The words begin to flow, professional and polished. But underneath each carefully crafted sentence lurks the truth I can't fully express. The story of a woman who found herself while shepherding a band to stardom. The story of a love that never quite was, but never quite wasn't.

As I write deep into the night, I realize that this speech, like my relationship with Chase, will be an exercise in walking a tightrope. Professional, but personal. Revealing, but restrained.

Just like always.

June 15, 2014

The champagne flows freely, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses filling the opulent ballroom of the Beverly Hills Hotel. Incendiary Ink's 10th anniversary with Blackmore Records is in full swing, and I can't help but feel a surge of pride as I watch the band mingle with industry bigwigs.

My eyes, as always, are drawn to Chase. He's holding court near the bar, his charisma palpable even from across the room. Our eyes meet, and he gives me a subtle wink that sends a shiver down my spine. Eight months of secret rendezvous, stolen kisses, and nights that leave me breathless flash through my mind.

I excuse myself from a conversation with some executives and weave my way towards a quiet balcony, knowing Chase will follow. Sure enough, moments later, I hear his familiar footsteps behind me.

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