Page 4 of Giving Chase

"Chase Avery," he says, extending his hand. Even speaking, his voice has a musicality that sends a shiver down my spine. "These are Will and Mark. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Kerr."

I take his hand, and it's like touching a live wire. There's a spark, an undeniable pull that catches me off guard. His hand is calloused from guitar strings, warm and strong around mine. For a moment, I forget to breathe.

"Eliza, please," I manage, withdrawing my hand perhaps a bit too quickly. "That was quite a performance. You guys have something special."

Chase's smile widens, revealing a dimple in his left cheek that should be illegal. "We like to think so. But it's nice to hear it from someone in the industry."

There's a flirtatious edge to his tone that I pointedly ignore. I've been in this business long enough to know better than to fall for the talent. It’s my number one rule. Well, it is now, anyway.

"Well, I'd like to discuss your future plans. Are you free tomorrow afternoon? Say, 2 PM at our offices?"

The guys exchange excited glances. "We'll be there," Chase answers for all of them. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

I hand him my card, our fingers brushing again. I'm prepared for the spark this time, but it doesn't make it any less potent. "Great. Don't be late. And bring your demo, if you have one." My breath catches in my throat, and I can’t help but stare into Chase’s eyes. I can’t seem to look away. I find myself saying, “You’re either going to be the biggest band in the world or the biggest disaster I’ve ever seen.”

He stares back at me and arches a brow, his dimple making an unwelcome appearance. “At least we’ll be memorable.”

“See you tomorrow,” I mumble under my breath, forcing myself to look away and break our connection. My fingers are still sparking where they met his, and a shot of electricity winds down my spine.

As I turn to leave, I feel his eyes on me. I glance back over my shoulder, catching his gaze once more. A look in his eyes – part challenge, part invitation – sends a shiver through my entire body.

"Looking forward to it, Eliza," he calls after me, my name rolling off his tongue like a caress.

I manage a nod and head back to Bess, my heart pounding in a way it hasn't in years. Part of me is thrilled at the prospect of signing this talented band. But another part – the part I've kept locked away since my divorce – is terrified by the effect Chase Avery has on me.

As I collect Bess and head for the exit, my phone buzzes. It's a text from Mrs. Goldstein.

MRS. GOLDSTEIN: Justin had a nightmare. Asking for you.

Reality crashes back in, and I'm grateful for it. I have responsibilities, a son who needs me. I can't afford to get caught up in green eyes and dimpled smiles.

But as I hail a cab, I can't help but think about tomorrow's meeting. About seeing Chase again.

I have a feeling Incendiary Ink will be more than just my next big signing. They might just be the band that changes everything.

Little do I know just how right I am.

Play The Game Tonight

CHASE

The relentless Californiasun pierces through the gaps in my blackout curtains, a stark reminder that another day has begun. I groan, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, my body a map of aches from yesterday's brutal workout. At forty-five, staying in shape for potential comeback tours is a full-time job in itself. Not that we’re planning a comeback at the moment, but it’s something we talk about occasionally. Better safe than sorry.

My feet hit the cool hardwood floor, and I instinctively reach for the bottle on my nightstand. Water, not whiskey. Old habits die hard, but new ones save lives.

As I pad to the kitchen, the house is quiet save for the distant crash of waves against the Malibu shore. The silence used to be deafening, a void I'd fill with parties, groupies, anything to drown out the thoughts in my head. Now, it's a comfort. A reminder of how far I've come.

My eyes drift to the wall above the fireplace where my platinum records hang, a timeline of Incendiary Ink's rise to fame. Next to them sits a simpler but infinitely more precious award: my five-year sobriety chip. I pick it up, its weight familiarin my palm. Five years. 1,826 days of fighting, of choosing life over oblivion. All because one woman refused to give up on me.

Eliza.

The coffee maker gurgles to life, filling the kitchen with the rich aroma of freshly ground beans. It's a small luxury but one I savor. In my former life, mornings were for nursing hangovers and popping pills. Now, it's protein shakes and coffee, fuel for songwriting sessions and meetings with my therapist.

I carry my mug out to the deck, the sea breeze tousling my salt-and-pepper hair. The view still takes my breath away – endless blue ocean meeting cloudless sky. It's the kind of vista I used to dream about when we were crammed in a van, playing any dive bar that would have us. Back when Eliza was just our manager, not the woman who would shape the course of my life in ways I'm still understanding.

My phone buzzes, and Will's name flashes on the screen. I smile, remembering our late-night call about the Hall of Fame induction. It still feels surreal, like a dream I'm afraid to wake up from.

"Morning, Will," I answer, voice still rough with sleep.

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