by Terri Osburn
Anger churned in Chance’s gut. He didn’t like the questions or the doubts, but these guys had gone through hell with him, and they were still here. Archie had seen more hell than the rest. So instead of firing off with a fuck you, Chance shut down his temper.
“The fact is, I got sober before Nay came back into my life. A full year without a drink. Now, I don’t plan to lose her, but if something does go wrong, I’ll still be sober without her.”
Archie’s ugly face relaxed into a relieved grin. “Good to know. Now let’s make some damn good music.” He swept the cold cans into his arms and carried them to the table. “Pop a soda top, boys. It’s practice time.”
As Calvin slid a Coke down to Sticks, Louis walked through the front door with Chance’s mail. “Dude. You’ve got to get a shorter driveway.”
“I made it a quarter mile for a reason.”
The stack of envelopes hit the counter and he scanned through them to find one large brown one marked URGENT. Reaching for a knife, he held the envelope down with his left arm and sliced it open. Gingerly and with more pain than he’d admit, he gripped the bottom between two swollen fingers and yanked out the contents with his good hand.
Several sheets spilled out, and the top of page one read CHANCE COLBURN: THE REAL STORY OF ABUSE AND ADDICTION. He scanned the first paragraph to find details of his childhood. Lived in a trailer in Follett, Texas. Father killed. Mother remarried. Abuse began. Bile pooled at the back of his throat as the story went on. Mother was a drunk. Colburn was a teen with a violent record.
“You ready, bro?” Louis asked. “Sticks is all set up. It’s time to get back on the horse.”
Chance glanced up, unseeing. “I’m calling it for today.”
“Come on. We haven’t even started yet.”
Flipping the pages facedown, he rubbed his left arm. “I’m not up for it today.”
“But we—”
“I said I’m done,” Chance barked. “Not today.”
The guitarist pulled the Fender over his head. “Got it, buddy. What the fuck ever.” Crossing to his case on the floor by the back door, Louis announced, “Time to go, boys. The boss has changed his mind.”
“What?” Archie said. “We’re all set up. Why shut it down?”
“Who knows?” Louis snapped his case shut. “Screw this shit. I’m out of here.”
Since Louis was Calvin’s ride, the rhythm player retrieved his own case off the floor. “I ain’t fucking walking, man. Wait up.”
Sticks smacked a cymbal. “You’re living with ’em, bro. Let us know when you’re done pissing around.”
The front door slammed and only Archie remained, lingering beside the abandoned drum kit. “You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”
Chance slid the article back and forth on the counter, shaking his head. “Something came up.”
“I’m going to need more than that.”
“You aren’t getting it.”
“Unbelievable.” The bass player loaded his gear in seething silence, then stopped halfway to the door. “We aren’t puppets you get to yank around, Chance. Every step you’ve climbed in this business has been on our backs. The guys and me? We’ve stuck it out because we’re loyal. Because we’re your friends. But every man has a limit. Pull another stunt like this, and we might reach ours.”
The threat hit hard, but pissing off his band was the least of Chance’s worries in that moment. Snagging the tell-all story, he crossed to the couch and perched on the edge, spreading the papers on the coffee table. Willie jumped up and walked across them, but Chance shoved him away. Starting over at the beginning, he read every word of the article. Every dark secret was revealed. Seeing the details in print was like seeing the bruises return to this skin. All the ugly, violent facts of his life scrawled on the page, thanks to an anonymous source.
When he reached the last paragraph, which made him out to be some poor little rich boy who only drank because his stepdaddy beat him and his mama never loved him, Chance put a face on anonymous. He’d told his secrets to only one person. The person whose job it was to make him look good in the press. Someone who knew how to use information to manipulate emotions. What better way to get people on Chance’s side than to tell them a sob story? Albums would go flying off the virtual shelves.
Leaning back on the couch, Chance stared at the headline, noticing for the first time the date beneath it. May 25. The next day. He had twenty-four hours before his life hit checkout stands everywhere.
After an exhausting day filled with more phone calls and emails than Naomi could count, she’d finally found the answer. And all the work had been for nothing.
Shelly had arrived at the office minutes after Naomi’s call. They started by compiling a list of people who could know all the details in the story. The reporter had been clear that his information stemmed from a single person. Not surprisingly, the list of candidates was short. As in, no list at all.
The details in the story were specific, and according to Shelly, disturbingly accurate. That eliminated short-term neighbors and even most relatives, since Wayne had kept the family isolated. They’d gone to Google to see if the facts could have been collected from multiple sources by one nosy individual, but found nothing. Until a link to a tiny article dated five years before came up. Around the time Chance’s career had really taken off, which would have sent entertainment reporters scouring for strangers who “knew him when.”
Naomi had expected to find some high school coach or even local Texas cop talking about the troubled teen who’d turned his life around. Instead, she’d found an angry mother with nothing nice to say. Eugenia Parker, mother of Chance’s childhood friend Davy, who’d died in combat in the Middle East, had railed to a reporter about Chance not deserving his success. He was trailer-park trash who’d coerced her son into the military and then gotten him killed.
Anyone reading it could recognize a woman with an ax to grind, which was likely why the article had ended up buried in the far reaches of the Internet.
But, since this was the only lead they had, Naomi had started making calls, and it turned out Eugenia still lived in the same home less than a mile from the trailer where Chance’s life had been a living hell. She’d readily admitted telling the reporter what she’d called “the truth about the worthless drunk who’d taken her son away.” Attempts to trigger any sympathy or compassion for Chance had fallen flat, but she did slip in one added detail Naomi would never have considered.
When Eugenia realized Naomi was calling from Nashville, she’d asked her to pass on her gratitude to the nice man who had gotten her in touch with a reporter who would finally listen. That man was Michael Swanson.
Naomi shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was. That he’d take her on a few dates to get his foot in a door was one thing. That he would play a part in revealing another man’s nightmare for petty revenge was another. Five minutes passed as Naomi sat on the news, knowing Shelly was working in another office seeking the answer she’d just discovered. How would she take learning that the father of her unborn child was about to destroy her brother?
Unable to put off the inevitable, she’d broken the news to Shelly first, since Clay didn’t know anything about the baby. The response had been extended silence, then the words, “That makes my decision easier.” Together, they’d revealed the truth to Clay, who didn’t say much, either, but Naomi left his office with the distinct impression that Michael Swanson wouldn’t be making a living in this town for much longer.
Now, she had the miserable duty of revealing all to Chance. Since Eugenia refused to pull her support from the article, there was no way to stop it. Chance had to know. And Naomi dreaded having to tell him.
The long day meant arriving home at dusk. No light shone through the windows, which was odd. Carrying a folder of all she’d learned, Naomi stepped inside the dark house and recognized a human form on the couch.
“Chance?”
“Yeah.”
“Why
are you sitting in the dark?”
He didn’t answer, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. Naomi’s first thought was that he was drunk. But why now?
“Are you okay?”
“Nope.”
Reaching the lamp on the end table, she switched it on to find Chance sitting in the middle of the couch, a brown envelope and three sheets of paper spread out before him on the coffee table.
“What’s that?” she asked.
Brown eyes slowly lifted to hers. “You tell me.”
Angry, not drunk. The better of the two options.
“Did you get something in the mail?”
“Were you going to tell me?”
She wasn’t in the mood to play games. Crossing to the table, she examined the papers and pulled back with a gasp.
“I guess that’s a no.”
“Where did this come from?”
Chance flipped over the brown envelope. “No return address. Too bad I don’t know who to thank for the heads-up.”
Naomi knew exactly who’d sent the article. She’d bet her life on it.
“I wish you hadn’t found out this way.”
The coffee table went flying. “How do you wish I’d found out, Naomi? When the shit hit the stands?” Chance prowled the floor like a caged tiger. “When my life became the lead story on cable news? Poor Chance Colburn, his childhood sucked. We should all feel sorry for him now.”
“No, I didn’t—”
“You didn’t what?” he asked, looming over her like an avenging angel about to strike. “You didn’t think I’d mind you putting my secrets in the paper? The least you could have done was aim higher than that shitty-ass tabloid. Or was my life auctioned off to the highest bidder? Garner nationwide sympathy for the artist and put a little money in the bank while you’re at it?”
Every cell in Naomi’s body went cold as she watched the man before her contort into someone she did not know. He believed she’d done this. After she’d forgiven him. Stood by him. Loved him. And this is what she got in return? Assumptions and accusations? Yes, he’d told her his secrets, but if he could consider for even one minute that she’d betray him like this, then Naomi had made a serious mistake.
Again.
Shaking with pain and rage, she threw the folder at his feet. “My mother was right. You’re exactly what she said you are. A runner. A coward!” She screamed the last word. “I thought you were different now. That you’d changed. But you’re still the same scared little man you were before.”
He stormed toward her. “What did you call me?”
Naomi stood her ground. “Don’t you dare try to intimidate me. I’ve put up with your bullying and your temper, and I forgave you for all of it. I even forgave you for sleeping with Martha. And this is what I get?” She shook her head, willing back the tears. “This is how you repay me? You accuse me of betraying you?”
“Who else, Nay? Who else could have done it?”
Right. Who else could betray him but someone who claimed to care about him?
“I’ll tell you, Chance. Because I spent all goddamn day trying to figure that out. All day making phone calls, trying to find a way to help you keep your secrets.” Snatching the folder off the floor, Naomi flipped it open. “Michael Swanson tracked down Eugenia Parker and put her in touch with a reporter. The result is the story you’re blaming me for.” She threw the documents in his face. Her surroundings blurred as she lost the battle not to cry. “I’ve made the mistake of loving you twice now. I will not make that mistake a third time.”
Naomi didn’t bother looking back as she charged out the door. By the time she dropped into the driver’s seat, her lungs burned, but she threw the car into gear, afraid Chance might come after her. At the end of the long driveway, she slowed to a stop and dropped her forehead to the wheel as uncontrollable sobs racked her body.
Fury overflowing, she sat up and smacked the wheel over and over, screaming, “I believed in you, goddammit! Why couldn’t you believe in me?”
Cheeks soaked, she dug in the console for a stack of napkins and wiped her eyes, but the tears kept falling, obscuring the road ahead. Naomi shook her head, willing herself to breathe slowly, in and out. She closed her eyes and focused on the rise and fall of her chest.
“He will not break me,” she said aloud. “Not this time.”
Clearing her eyes again, she put her hands gently on the wheel and drove away from what had come to feel like home.
Chapter 27
Chance hadn’t bothered to turn on another light, clean up his mess, or feed his cat. He didn’t call his sister, open the file Naomi dropped at his feet, or give in to the urge to find Michael Swanson and kill him. But he did go to the fireplace, jimmy out the loose brick on the side, and remove his last remaining bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
Three hours later, the bottle rested, unopened, in his one good hand.
Many years ago, Chance had learned that liquor could talk. The amber elixir seduced with promises to warm his cold heart, while making him numb to the pain. The more the better to silence the voices. The memories. And, weak man that he was, Chance would submit. Drink until his blood slowed and his brain shut down. But the effects were temporary, which is why he’d do it again and again, night after night, chasing that relief.
One of the tricks to getting, and staying, sober was to stop listening to the alcohol and start listening to himself. But that only worked if what he said to himself was to not drink. The monologue currently running through his head encouraged the contrary. Another trick was to have a strong support system, which Chance did, to a point. Harmon had been reliable, answering the call whenever Chance needed backup. Ironic that tonight would be the one time he didn’t pick up. Shelly had always been in his corner, but she had her own demons to conquer. No doubt she knew the shit Swanson had pulled. Reconciling that with the child she carried around couldn’t be easy, so he scratched her off the list for now.
The band wasn’t likely to look out for their feckless leader tonight. He’d already pissed in that lifeboat a few hours ago. Which left one person. The woman who’d forgiven his sins, nourished his soul, and saved his life. And he’d betrayed her again.
The last time around, he’d had an excuse. A shitty one, but an excuse all the same. Chance hadn’t been ready to let someone in. To let her see the darkness that lurked in the corners of his mind. So he’d given Naomi a reason to back off. A selfish, dickhead move that had kept his fortress of solitude intact. But the wall he’d erected to keep others out was nothing but a teetering stack of empty bottles. He wasn’t protecting himself. He was hiding in plain sight.
So there was nobody left. Just him and Jack and a cat named Willie, who didn’t give a shit what his owner drank so long as he popped the top on a can of tuna at the same time. Chance carried the bottle into the kitchen and set it on the counter while he fetched a can of cat food from the pantry. The black label grinned back, as if anticipating the party about to go down. Willie twirled around his ankles, purring like a diesel engine. Once the bowl hit the floor, the cat dug in and Chance watched him eat.
For a second, he thought about feline Willie’s life. Eat, shit, sleep. Couldn’t be simpler. How did he apply for that job? And then he laughed at his own musings, the sound hollow. If it was true what they said, that your next life was earned in this one, Chance wouldn’t be getting a life of luxury. He’d be a pack mule in the Himalayas.
Hand once again around the heavy bottle, he strolled back to the couch. A knock at the door stopped him midstride. Without the porch light on he couldn’t see the interloper through the window in the door, but whoever it was, Chance knew he didn’t want to talk to them. Plopping onto the sofa, he kicked his feet up and tucked his friend Jack against his side.
The knock did not repeat, and he closed his eyes to contemplate his plans for the night. There was still a brain cell or two voting against getting drunk. Considering the events of the last year, Chance would rather the vote be unanimous,
which was the only reason the bottle remained unopened.
The lock on the door clicked with release and Shelly stepped into the dim living room. “You could have answered the door.”
“I didn’t want to,” he replied, closing his eyes once more. “Can’t you take a hint?”
“If you want to keep people out, don’t keep three keys hidden within ten feet of the door.”
After the window incident, Naomi had increased the number of hidden keys. In case of emergency, look under the fake rock that isn’t fooling anyone. Chance heard what he assumed was a purse hit the side table near the stairs seconds before a body lowered into the chair across from him.
“Where’s Naomi?” she asked, voice heavy with exhaustion.
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“She didn’t say, but I assume to her apartment.” Chance shifted the whiskey from his side to rest on top of his chest. “I’m hanging with Jack tonight.”
Even with his eyes closed, he could sense his sister go still. “What are you doing with that?”
“Nothing, yet. We’re still in the wooing stage.” He opened his eyes and turned her way. “I’m debating whether to give in or keep playing hard to get.”
Shelly didn’t look pleased. “That isn’t funny.”
“Wasn’t trying to be funny.” Tucking his bad arm behind his head, he said, “I’m guessing you’ve heard the news.”
“If you mean read the trash, then yes. And I know who’s responsible.” She rubbed her not-yet-noticeable belly. “Makes pretending I don’t know the sperm donor that much easier.”
They both knew what a man was capable of when faced with a child he didn’t want. “Yesterday I’d have said he has a right to know. Today I say fuck that.”
A slim brow arched up. “I’m guessing Naomi went home because you made the night a threesome?”
If only that was the reason. Chance dropped his feet to the floor and sat up. “Naomi went home because I accused her of being the source behind the article.”
“You stupid son of a bitch.”