by Jayne Frost
“Not really.”
Another song took form in my head as I stretched the musical muscles that had been dormant for the past few weeks.
“Is your friend an addict?” he ventured.
I barked out a laugh. “She’s addicted to beautiful.” The lyric popped out in answer to his question, turning around in my brain.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No,” I grumbled. “She’s not and addict, or an alcoholic, or a co-dependent. She’s normal.”
“So are you.”
“Can we leave her out of this?” I shot Briar a fierce look, but he remained neutral. “She’s not in my life anymore.”
He nodded, surveying me with a placid smile that I wanted to wipe off his face with my fist. “So she didn’t mean anything to you?”
I bristled, my fingers frozen on the frets of the guitar. “I didn’t—” Biting my tongue, I averted my gaze. “I said she’s not around.”
“Your choice or hers?”
“Mine.”
Some of the tension left my shoulders as Briar stood.
“One more question?” he asked.
Like I had a fucking choice.
“Yeah?” I laid the guitar in the case and picked up the notebook with the curled pages and tattered edges.
“Do you love her?”
I stared out at the Guadeloupe, the sliver of water now lit by the full moon that hung low in the sky. The answer was clawing at the back of my throat, but still, I pondered.
“Yeah,” I finally said.
My shoulders sagged, the weight of my confession like a ton of bricks I’d just strapped to my back. Taryn was part of it now. My “process.” The road to recovery would include lengthy sessions about the girl that never knew how I felt.
When the lock clicked shut behind Briar, I flopped onto the bunk and closed my eyes.
Taryn was there. Inside my head. She’d inhabited the same spot ever since I woke up at the hospital. Before, even. I fingered the smooth side of the small stone that I’d picked up during the float trip.
You’re the smooth surface to all my jagged edges.
My vision clouded as I wrote down the lyric. I’d used music before to soothe the savage beast. But right now, I needed to learn to deal with the ache.
Drugs hadn’t taken Taryn far from my memory, but I’d use them nonetheless. But instead of seeking a high, I’d be chasing oblivion. And if I wasn’t careful, I’d find it.
Chapter 38
Chase
SIX MONTHS LATER
The blood rushed to my head as I made my way to the lectern, the steady drone of the air conditioner accompanying me on my path. Though, from the temperature, you’d never know the small church basement had the amenity. Since the weather in central Texas fluctuated between hot and boiling hot with humidity, the heat was nothing new. But today, I had serious doubts that I’d be able to get through my speech without soaking through my T-shirt.
I wiped my palm on the front of my jeans before shaking John’s outstretched hand.
“You ready?” he asked.
I nodded, then clasped my hands in front of me while he addressed the group.
“We’ve got an anniversary today,” John said through a wide smile. “I’d like y’all to welcome Chase Noble. He’s celebrating six months of sobriety today.”
He paused when the room erupted in cheers. Some of the tension left my body as I scanned the faces of my addicted brethren. The pride I felt came from a different place than being applauded for my music, but it was gratifying nonetheless. More so since recovery was a hard-fought battle, and singing and playing the guitar was as easy as falling off a log.
It wasn’t necessary to make some big confession, but at some point, we all did it. When we were ready. I went over the monologue in my head while John spoke a little about support and the challenges we all faced.
I’d made the speech before, in group the day I left rehab. But that was kind of a cop-out. I would never see those people again. They would never ask me about my regrets, the ghosts of all the people I’d hurt. I made my confessions with the assurance that they would stay locked in that little room with the pale green walls and the tattered couches that overlooked the Guadeloupe. The place I felt closest to Taryn.
The door creaked open, drawing my attention. Fresh sweat popped out on my brow when Logan stepped in. Pulling the baseball cap low on his head, his eyes darted around, then locked onto mine. Acknowledging me with a smile, he took a seat in the back.
“Chase?” John smiled, holding out his hand.
I shifted my attention to the dark blue chip. Six months of sobriety and all I had to show for it was a piece of plastic. And my life. Yeah, there was that.
He dropped the disk into my open palm, patting me on the back when I stepped in front of the microphone.
“Hi y’all.” I took a deep breath and smiled, my focus on Logan. “I’m Chase and I’m a dope fiend.”
A few chuckles broke out at my turn of phrase. We all had our own little words we used to describe what we were under the skin. Since I was a fiend when I used, dope fiend seemed as appropriate a brand as any. When everyone settled, I took a sip of water and then continued, “I’m six months clean today.” More cheers and a few whistles. Logan nodded, silently offering his support.
“I’ve been using drugs off and on since I was twelve. I’m a musician, and I started playing in bars and clubs when I was a teenager. By the time I was fifteen, I’d developed a taste for prescription drugs. But y’all know how that goes.” More chuckles. “Since I couldn’t convince a doctor to prescribe me any without breaking a couple of bones, I moved on to heroin at sixteen. My brother found me one night after I’d taken a little too much. I nearly died.”
Cameron had obviously never shared that sordid little piece of our family history, if Logan’s slack jaw was any indication. My brother, fiercely loyal until the end.
I blew out a breath. “That didn’t stop me, though. I’d just signed a record deal, and the first leg was in Germany. So I … uh … I scored this stuff.” I scratched my head. “And I didn’t really know how strong it was, and I ended up overdosing backstage before a show. I was in full withdrawal when I got back to the States, and I ended up at the hospital. That’s when I went to rehab for the first time. I was eighteen. And I stayed clean for over ten years.”
I bowed my head when the applause rang out again, accepting the praise as much as it chaffed.
“Thanks,” I shifted my feet, turning the six-month chip over in my hand. “I can’t really pinpoint the exact moment I fell off the wagon. But I do know when I started using, though.” More laughs and I chuckled myself. “Anyway, if I had to guess, I fell off about two years ago when I … um … forgot.” Looking over each of the faces, I saw reactions ranging from confusion from the younger members to deep understanding from some of the veterans. “I forgot that this isn’t something I’ll ever beat. That I’ll never be cured. The most I can hope for is a better understanding of myself and my disease.”
My disease.
I cringed inwardly at the weakness I felt admitting it out loud. But I was getting used to that too.
“My family and close friends never gave up on me,” I continued. “When I hit rock bottom, I had someone there to help me back up.”
Rubbing my chin, I grinned while Logan just shook his head, suppressing his own smile. Logan did help me up that day, but not before he knocked me on my ass. The ache in my jaw and the bruise that refused to fade for a month were testaments to his strength.
“I’m doing my best to make it up to the people I hurt.” My fingers curled around the podium when I thought of the one person I’d hurt most. Sweet Taryn. The biggest casualty of my little war. “I’m trying—”
A loud chorus broke out from the crowd. “Trying is lying!”
Trying is lying.
I nodded. “Yeah … So, I am taking it one day at a time.” I held up my chip. “Thank y’all for listening.
”
A weight lifted off my shoulders as I stepped off the stage. John clapped me on the back, the pride on his face evident. Of all the people in our little group, he’d helped me the most. And he had the most to lose. John recognized me the minute I’d stepped foot in the church. And I’d recognized him. I’d met him years ago when I needed a variance to develop some land around Lake Travis. John was a state senator that sat on one of the most prestigious committees in Texas. And he was a cokehead. His word—not mine.
“You’ve got my number if you need anything.” He leaned in. “And I mean anything.”
“Thanks.” I nodded. “I’ll see you next week.”
A trickle of sweat ran down my back as I made my way to the exit where Logan propped up the wall.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I said with a smile when he looked up. “If I would have known you were coming, I’d have baked a cake.”
Logan released a chuckle and followed me out the door. I gave him a sidelong glance as we walked.
“What?” he asked, burying his hands in his pockets.
“Just didn’t expect to see you here.” I veered onto the garden path, taking the long way to the parking lot when I spotted a couple of chicks with wide eyes trained on Logan. “How did you find out?”
“Cameron told me.” Staring down at the crumbling red bricks, he frowned. “I hope you don’t mind me coming. I just … you know … wanted to support your sobriety. And since Cameron went to your other graduation, I figured … um … I’d come to this one.” I strolled along, unhurried, so that Logan could find his words. This kind of stuff was hard for him. Hell, it was hard for me, and I’d been in intense therapy for months.
“I know it wasn’t your fault,” he finally managed to get out. “Laurel. I know it wasn’t your fault.”
A smile tugged at my lips, equal parts pride and gratitude. Logan had grown a lot in the last few months. Laurel was back in rehab after showing up at his door, strung out and broke. Foregoing the country club facility he’d sent her to the first time, he drove her ass straight to a sobriety boot camp. The same one I opted to go to when my seventy-two-hour hold was up, and my head was clear.
I pulled out my car keys. “How is she?”
“Hating life at the moment.” He shrugged. “She’s complaining about the accommodations at rehab.”
“I suspect she was couch surfing for the past couple of months.” I chuckled. “The fresh air will do her good. And when she gets out and goes through sober living, I’ll set her up in one of my buildings. She can pay reduced rent, but she’s got to work.”
Logan nodded, biting a hole in his bottom lip. “I can’t help her if she doesn’t want to help herself,” he begrudgingly admitted.
For a man who prided himself on bending people to his will, this was a huge step.
“I’m glad you realize that, dude.”
He lingered at the bumper of the car, his eyes roaming around the parking lot.
“What aren’t you telling me?” Leaning against the trunk, I lifted a brow. “I know you, Logan. What’s up?”
“You’re building that new recording studio with Tori, right?”
His lip curled inadvertently at the mention of my new business partner.
“You know I am.”
“Is that what’s got her so worked up—or is she just naturally bitchy?”
I laughed, and his scowl intensified. Tori Grayson was fiery, no doubt. And demanding. From what Cameron had relayed to me in passing, she was putting the group through their paces.
“She’s intense,” I conceded. “But y’all knew that when you signed on.”
“I didn’t know she was crazy.” Logan ripped a hand through his hair. “Dylan said Tori was easier to deal with when Taryn was in charge. I guess we came on board at the wrong time.”
I flinched inwardly. Rarely did anyone speak Taryn’s name aloud. Since I’d gone into partnership with Tori on the studio, I’d spent two or three days a week at Twin Souls working on designs. Between Rhenn, Paige, and Taryn, it was like the offices were inhabited by ghosts that no one talked about. Seeing Taryn smiling down at me from one of the many photos that lined the walls was the sweetest kind of torture.
When Logan met my gaze, I surmised I wasn’t as successful as I thought at hiding the grimace.
“I’m sorry, dude.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s fine.”
“Maybe Tori will chill when she gets out to LA,” he groused. “If I don’t kill her on the fucking plane.”
The question popped out before I could reel it in. “What’s in LA?”
Besides Taryn. She was there. It took all my willpower not to fly out and throw myself at her feet. I’d gone as far as booking a ticket. Twice.
“The Leveraged album is finally done.” Logan rolled his eyes. “You know Tori wouldn’t miss that. If Dylan was releasing a fart she’d be there, let alone a new album.”
I almost choked on my tongue. Cocking my head, I noted Logan’s petulant tone. And then it hit me.
“Tori’s kind of hot, though, don’t you think?” I asked casually.
His blue eyes turned frosty, homing in on me with laser like precision. “That’s not cool, Chase.”
“What?”
“Taryn’s her best friend. Isn’t there some kind of chick-code?”
“I’m not a chick.” Unable to keep up the ruse, I clapped Logan’s shoulder and laughed out loud. “Don’t worry, bro, my interest in Tori is all business.”
He feigned indifference, though his features visibly relaxed. “If you’re interested in keeping me from choking out your new partner, you’ll fly out to the coast with us and keep her out of my hair.”
Logan Cage was nothing if not crafty. And I suspected keeping Tori out of Dylan’s hair was more what he had in mind.
“I suppose I can take a few days off.” I suppressed my smile, and the pang of apprehension that followed. “We can stay at the beach house. There’s plenty of room.”
Logan slumped against the car, contemplating. “I guess that would be all right. I was thinking we could stay in town. Tori’s going to be staying at Dylan’s house, from what I hear.” His scowl returned with a vengeance.
“Really?” I tried to hide my surprise. “How’s that going to work? Isn’t Taryn staying with the band?”
With Beckett …
For someone who was as clear as a pane of glass when it came to his fascination with Tori, Logan had no right to chide me when it came to Taryn. But from the smirk on his face, he was about to do just that.
“Taryn isn’t staying at the Hollywood Hills house,” he said with an I’ve-got-a-secret tilt to his lips. “Dylan said she rented a place on the beach.”
The shock wiped away any guile I possessed. “Which beach?”
“I don’t know,” he replied with a shrug. “All those beaches sound the same to me.”
“Logan,” I growled. “Cut the bullshit.”
When I pushed off the car, ready to wrestle the information out of him, his blue eyes flickered with amusement.
“I’m just fucking with you, man.” The smile dimmed as he toed the pavement. “But I don’t think Taryn would have rented the place if she knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That the guy who broke her heart owns a house two miles away.”
Chapter 39
Taryn
The door to my cottage blew open, the chuff of air spreading a fresh dusting of sand on my wood floors.
Groaning, I made a grab at the stack of papers on the table in front of me.
Beckett strode in, checking the label on the box. “This says ‘bathroom.’” He glanced at me. “Which bathroom?”
“There are only two bathrooms,” I grumbled. “Take your pick.”
Shrugging, he headed down the hall.
“If you’re so concerned about space,” he called, “maybe we should have rented a bigger place.”
We. My stomach knotted at
Beckett’s choice of words. We weren’t together. In the six months I’d been at the Hollywood Hills house, I’d displaced him from his room, taken over his private bathroom, and made the kitchen my own. But we weren’t a couple.
He ambled into the kitchen, humming to himself as he grabbed a box from the floor. As he unpacked the glassware and plates, he stumbled upon a couple of wine goblets. “Red or white, babe?” His long fingers turned the bottles in the built-in wine rack to examine the labels.
He wanted merlot, which I hated.
“On the left.” I settled into the chair, bringing my knees to my chest as I drank him in. He was beautiful, as always.
“You didn’t answer.” He replaced the cork, then swirled the burgundy liquid around the glass while he assessed me. “Do you want cabernet or something white?”
I dropped my gaze to the bottle in his hand. “How do you know I don’t want merlot?”
“Because you hate merlot.”
And yet, bottles sat in the half-empty rack. I’d stocked up at Trader Joe’s on my first shopping trip. Along with pistachio nuts and his favorite cherry ice cream. Neither of which I particularly cared for. A Beckett-friendly house. If there was such a thing, I had it.
Abandoning the glass, he crossed the room and knelt in front of my chair.
“Babe, what is it?” His fingers twined my hair as he examined my face with a look of concern so genuine, I winced. “Is it your stomach? You shouldn’t have eaten the—”
“The what?” My feet hit the floor with a thud. “The dried tomatoes on my pizza … is that what you were going to say?”
His palm trailed down my arm, and he took my hand. “Yes.”
“Why?
“What do you mean?”
“Why shouldn’t I eat the dried tomatoes?”
Confusion lined his brow. “T-Rex … what’s the matter?”
“Just answer me.” A tear spilled onto my cheek. “Why?”
“Because there’s too much acid,” he said cautiously. “And it upsets your stomach. Is that what this is. A stomach ache?”