All Strings Attached

27. Chase

Sure, Chase drank a beer or a cocktail every once in a while. He wasn’t a saint. Still, he had never gotten drunk before. As in, splitting headache, waking up on the tile floor of his hotel room ensuite drunk.

He had spent his twenty-first birthday on the rink in Toronto, and while there were always after-parties, he rarely attended. Drinking after a game was a recipe for dehydration and muscle damage.

Whole lot of good that philosophy had served him, in hindsight.

“Fuck,” he groaned, reaching for the toggle switch to turn off the bright overhead vanity light that, apparently, he had slept through.

“Rough night for you, too, huh?”

At first, he thought Zak’s voice was a figment of his undoubtedly still-high B.A.C. level, but that was before he noticed the tubes of lipstick on the marble countertop and the violet lace bra hanging from the robe hook on the door.

Then, Zak appeared in that very doorway, and he vaguely remembered coming back to her room last night instead of his. Forming a pact to weather the consequences of those eight or nine tequila shots together, the drunk helping the drunk.

He didn’t, however, remember her changing into that clingy black slip, barely long enough to cover whatever she was wearing underneath.

Wouldn’t he like to know what she wore to sleep, indeed.

His eyes wandered, permissionless.

What a pathetic piece of work he was, waking up with his arms wrapped around her toilet and still shamelessly taking in the way the fabric of her nightdress draped, then sagged, then hugged her hips. Maybe this was where other people would question what had happened the night before, but there was no way he’d been coherent or functional enough to throw away his first time with her on some drunken fling.

She smiled at him, then handed him an ice-cold can of ginger ale that may as well have been a magical elixir for how perfect it sounded right now. Obviously, she had done a better job helping him than he did helping her. Now it made sense why there was a pillow and a blanket strewn across the floor.

He uttered something between “sorry” and “thank you,” cracked open the tab, and nearly drained the entire can in one swig.

“This was your first time, wasn’t it?” she observed.

“What gave it away?”

He barely recognized his own voice, all gravelly and strained.

“Something about ‘What have I done?’ and ‘This isn’t fun anymore,’ and ‘I never drink this much,’” she supplied, air quotes included. “You were very stoic about it, but I managed to piece together all the clues.”

“Any chance you can forget all the ridiculous shit I did and said last night?” he asked, rubbing his forehead. Like that would make the pounding stop.

“Not likely,” she joked, but her smile wavered.

Zak reached over his head and dug through her makeup bag until she came up with a bottle of ibuprofen. She handed him three and took three for herself.

“I, uh—” Zak stretched her arm out to rub her shoulder. She nodded to the towel closet. “Your leg is over there.”

Until now, he had been so wrapped up in her waltzing around in that tiny dress that he hadn’t noticed the missing prosthetic. The stump where his real leg used to be, now hideous, mauled, and lopsided from atrophied calf muscle and scar tissue. Shit, his head hurt so bad he didn’t realize that his jeans were hanging over the side of the tub, leaving him in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs and a ketchup-stained T-shirt.

No wonder she seemed so put off. What a sight he must be: a sorry-looking disabled drunk sprawled out on her bathroom floor.

His hand closed into a fist as he propped himself up and sat on the edge of the tub. Stupid. He was so fucking stupid for letting himself get that trashed last night. For coming back here like some feeble, debilitated loser under the guise that she needed him at all, when really, he had been forcing her to take care of him.

What must she think of him, with a past like hers? God only knew she’d wasted enough of her life mothering other people. Zak was carrying around enough baggage without having to shoulder his, too. Did he really think he stood a chance in hell at being with her when he would forever be a burden?

“Chase?” Her brows knitted together.

Instead of walking out, as he expected, she kneeled on the bathmat in front of him and placed both hands on his knees. For the first and only time, he wished she wouldn’t touch him. Wished she wouldn’t utter whatever sarcastic remark or soft rejection she was about to use to block him out again.

He had ruined everything. He knew it; she knew it. There was no reason to discuss it. He was angry enough with himself already.

“Don’t.” He realized how harsh the word had come out and tried to smile to make up for it, but he felt like shit and looked like he’d been hit by a truck. “Don’t worry about it. I’m gonna head back to my room, okay? My head—it’s killing me. Think I might be sick again.”

“Yeah, I get it. Not feeling so great myself. I think I’ll catch a few more hours of sleep. See you at dress rehearsal.”

Right, their next film date for the competition was two days from now. At this rate, he would still be hungover by then.

Zak lingered in the doorway for a few more beats before leaving him alone to wonder how she made excessive drinking look like a style. The messy hair, the smudged makeup, the flushed face. It all brought him back to those band practices where he showed up and it was obvious she had just rolled out of bed, running on only a few hours of sleep and a burning desire to get here.

Chase didn’t bother with the prosthetic leg or the jeans for now, being only one door down. They had done a lot of walking, and he dreaded the thought of pulling on the sock and liner that he no doubt sweated through. He gathered his things, checked the peephole, and slipped back into his room, bracing himself against walls and doorframes on the way in.

A long, hot shower was in order first, but nothing would wash last night down the drain. If anything, the water woke him up as it hit his back, bringing back snapshots the tequila had erased.

Saying goodbye to Edge and Alex in the elevator. Dallas making a wisecrack about how cozy they were getting. Stumbling through the door to Zak’s room with their arms around each other. Falling onto the carpeted hallway floor, laughing, and crawling into the bathroom while Zak assured him he wasn’t dying… right before she, herself, sobered up by expelling every drop of alcohol she’d ingested while he held her hair back and waxed poetic about how long and soft it was.

And yeah, she had helped him out of his jeans. He’d helped her out of hers. They’d fumbled with buttons and zippers and surely somewhere in there, they would have joked about getting each other out of their clothes.

But even though he had a fuzzy recollection of her rolling down that silicone sleeve on his prosthesis when his fat, drunk fingers couldn’t get it off, he didn’t remember her face. If it was a flash of disgust or morbid fascination, or if it hadn’t mattered to her at all.

How much of that did she remember, he wondered. Then again, did he really want to know?

Earsplitting ringing woke him up again the second time, only not from inside his brain. A welcome improvement.

The hotel phone shook violently on the nightstand, like it would rattle right off if he didn’t pick it up. He had been gone for a month and only gotten one call in that time from Lydia. He answered, assuming it had to be his sister on the line.

“Hey. Look, Lydia, can I call you back later tonight?” he spoke into the receiver. No use in masking how disconcerted he was. Lydia would drag the truth out of him one way or another.

“Mr. Payton?” A chipper, corporate-sounding voice he didn’t recognize came through the other end.

Chase froze as his head rapidly cleared. “Who is this?”

“Good afternoon. This is Marie, calling on behalf of Jim Abbott of the Atlanta Raptors.”

That much detail wasn’t necessary. Chase knew the general manager’s name, and he knew all about the Raptors. The second newest addition and the laughingstock of the league. Were they so sick of losing, though, that they’d recruit a one-legged player?

“Jim has reviewed your CV and would like to bring you in for an interview.”

He sat up straight, the line tugging against his neck. “For what position?”

“Um. The position of Assistant Coach, Mr. Payton.”

Her pause was palpable over the line, but he wasn’t filling the silence with enthusiasm or initiative like Marie clearly expected him to. This was a lot to process, especially since he knew he’d never submitted a resume to them. Not sober, not wasted, not ever.

“We understand California to Georgia is quite the trek. Your travel expenses will be reimbursed, of course. What date can I put you down for, tentatively?”

“I’m unavailable right now. What number can I call you back at?”

Chase grabbed the hotel stationery and pen. He wasn’t sure if he planned to call back. First, there was the matter of figuring out how they’d gotten his contact information.

“Of course. I see you’re on vacation.”

Marie rattled off a callback number, a sure sign that Chase was the front-running candidate for the role, considering he hadn’t been coherent, friendly, or willing to answer questions during their brief interaction. But he thanked her for reaching out and hung up, so he could immediately call the only person he’d notified of where he was staying.

Lydia picked up on the first ring since it was a weekend afternoon. “Hey! Didn’t expect to hear from you, brah.”

He would have hit her back with an equally irritating “dudette” if he wasn’t so intent on figuring out what the hell just happened. “Did you give Jim Abbott my contact information?” he asked, assuming they would have called his home phone first.

“Hmm, I don’t remember sleeping with any Jim Abbotts,” she said in all seriousness.

“The Atlanta Raptors?”

“Hockey?”

Yeah, Lydia had been to a few of his games, but he was pretty sure she could count the number of team names she knew on one hand. This left only one option.

“Mom and Dad then. Did you give them my contact information?”

“Hell, no. Though Mom’s been playing hardball. Chase, you don’t even have contact information, you have hotel information. Speaking of which, you should really get a mobile again now that you’re like three thousand miles away. My work just shelled out for company phones and they’re sweet.”

“What I’m trying to figure out, Lydia,” he interrupted her sales pitch, “is how did Abbott’s assistant, or hiring personnel, or whoever the hell, call my hotel room to offer me a coaching job?”

“Seriously? Well. I don’t know. Wait—”

Lydia’s receiver clattered to the counter as she rustled around in the catch-all bin by the fridge. A drawn-out vowel sound came into focus as she picked the handset back up.

“Okay, so this is probably my fault. See, I didn’t give them your contact information, per se. But I did have them over for dinner last week. And it was sitting out on the counter on a sticky note.”

A neon pink one that screamed, “Holly, Richard! Look at me, I’m a phone number!”if he knew anything at all about Lydia’s personal tastes.

He didn”t know what hurt more. That his parents had snooped around for his number instead of bothering to ask for it before he left, or that they hadn’t used that information to get in touch with him at all. They used it to get him a new job he had expressed zero interest in because that was how little they believed in him.

Had they even bothered to watch the show before forming an opinion? Or was the idea of him becoming a rock star so outlandish they didn’t feel the need? It couldn’t be any more outlandish than the idea of him becoming a professional athlete, yet they had poured their hearts, souls, and wallets into making that dream come true.

“I’m sorry, Chase. I didn’t know I had it out.”

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault,” he said, realizing he had left her hanging. “They didn’t even call.”

“Yeah. I see.” She sighed. “That was real shitty of them.”

“Have they said anything to you? About any of this?”

Was the better answer yes or no? “Yes, they’ve griped about your decisions ever since you left.” Or, “No, they’ve completely ignored the way you’re choosing to live your life.”

“They’ve asked about you. Nothing bad.”

“So they haven’t seen the show, then.”

“I don’t think so. But I have!” Her laugh was something maniacal. “And wow. They did Zak dirty, huh?”

He couldn’t help but smile. Not about what happened, because he had been pissed off for her, seeing the way the network had falsified interview responses and assassinated her character for the world to see. But because, after her initial freakout, Zak let it all slide right off her back.

“Being a bitch or a slut is way more memorable than being nice,”she had told Izzy in solidarity. “And record labels love memorable.”

“I’ll pass along your sympathies.”

“How are things? With Zak?”

Excellent. We got shit-faced together, I woke up on her bathroom floor, then I fled the scene like the coward I am.

“With the band, you mean?”

“I said what I meant.”

Chase debated ending their talk there, but really, who else was he able to talk about Zak with? Herlifelong friends? “I kissed her.”

Lydia gasped like that was the juiciest thing she’d ever heard. “And? Just a kiss? C’mon, Chase. You have to give me more than that.”

No. Not just a kiss. So, so much more than a kiss.

“I mean, shit. It was good. It was way better than good, but nothing since. It freaked her out. We were supposed to be friends. For a moment, I thought we were, but… if I didn’t screw it up then, I definitely screwed it all up this morning.”

He recounted a summarized version of last night’s epic disaster to Lydia, and could practically hear her smirking over the phone when the story ended. He called her out on it.

“Sorry, it’s just,” she said in between chuckles, “I’m glad you’re finally having fun again. Wish I could’ve been there to see it, though.”

“Such a sadist.”

“Did she say that you blew it?”

Not that he remembered, but she might have. It wasn”t like he could recall all the details. “Don’t think so.”

“Did you ask her? How she feels?”

What a dumb question. A simple, dumb question. But no, he hadn’t.

Zak was so blunt that he expected the answers to always be obvious. Were they obvious? Was her answer in the way she kissed him back that night? In the way her knees nudged apart from his touch under the table? That was the thing about being infatuated. The signals were always mixed when he wasn’t sure which ones he’d fabricated.

“Oh, man. You’re really into her, aren’t you?”

More than he could admit to his sister over the phone, because saying it out loud would only serve to solidify the gravity of his predicament. Chase had been used to not knowing what he wanted, and now he wanted it all. Zak and the band.

His mind had already slipped from the coaching job.

The folded-up piece of paper with Jim’s callback number fell to the bedside table and soaked up a two-day-old water ring.

Zak was already on a rampage as she opened the door.

“Spare me the lecture. I know I’m running behind, but this fucking tiny-ass hairdryer is a piece of—oh. I thought you were Edge.”

“Not here to lecture you,” Chase said.

On second thought, he momentarily forgot what he was there to say at all, as he took in the leather pants and corset. Her stage outfit, fitting for her stage persona. Feisty. Untouchable. Way the fuck out of his league.

“Feeling better?” She allowed him in but kept her distance.

Good thing one of them had self-control, because his was in the hallway, and she’d just shut the door on it.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Those two words were all that passed between them until she—most likely fed up with his staring—asked, “Is there a reason you’re here? More ibuprofen?”

“We need to talk.”

“Oh, now you want to talk?” She folded her arms under her chest, raising that sarcastic fortress he hadn’t seen since they arrived in the city.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His eyes caught hers. Though it seemed like she wanted to look anywhere else. “You’ve been avoiding it for weeks. Acting like nothing ever happened.”

“You don’t remember, do you? When I tried to bring it up last night, and you said we’d talk about it in the morning?”

As in, this morning. The morning he got up and disappeared after ogling her and tossing back a can of soda and a few pills. Like a complete tool.

“It’s fine,” she said, suddenly resigned instead of defensive. “Makes sense. Last night was crazy. All I was going to say is that it’s okay if you regret it. It won’t hurt my feelings. I never should have kissed you back, either. We work together.”

“Regret it?”

Where did that come from? Sure, he hadn’t been as explicit as he could have about his feelings, but there was no way she could have read them as regret. Until today. Which meant this wasn’t what she had been trying to tell him last night.

Regret became her explanation after the way he had acted this morning, and she was giving him an out. The same out he’d been trying to give her by giving her space.

“I don’t—”

He was going to tell her he didn’t regret anything. How could he regret the best night he’d ever had? The best person he’d ever known? But his actions had made a mess of this. So, fuck words.

He kissed her again, the need for her crashing over him like a tidal wave.

He let it rip him away, let his fingers tangle into her hair once more, still damp from the “fucking tiny-ass hairdryer.” Let them trace down her neck, the back of his knuckles along the neckline of her top and the cleavage that spilled over it.

She responded instantly. Her lips were soft and urgent and every bit as luscious as they looked. Better than imagination, better than memory. Better than any sex he’d ever had, even when all their clothes were on.

There wasn’t a single ounce of regret in the way she grabbed him by a fist full of his shirt, forcing him back, back, back. Onto the couch and under her body as she straddled him with those perfect legs.

She bore down slowly, breaking the kiss only to suck in a breath through her smile as she felt how badly he wanted her through the clothes separating them.

He kissed that smile. Saved it. Savored the desperate noise she made when he placed a hand at the small of her back and brought her in closer, harder. The smallest movements of her hips threatened to destroy his restraint.

“What have you done to me?” he breathed. “You, you, you. All I think about is you. All I think about is this.”

A stream of consciousness. Words ripped from his chest.

His fingers found the laces at the back of her corset and tugged, a silent question in his eyes that she answered by giving him easier access. Molding her body to his as she brought her lips to his neck. Licking, sucking, catching his earlobe between her teeth.

Weak with want, he could barely loosen her top with the way his hands were shaking.

“Scared, Payton?”

“Terrified,” he admitted, placing one hand on her jaw to bring her lips to his again. Sparing himself from any more ruthless taunting as the other nervous hand pried apart the laces.

As soon as he undid them, she pulled off his shirt, then her own. A sight always teased by revealing work uniforms and those lacy little things she wore under clothes. The nightgown he would never be able to get out of his head. None of it prepared him for the carnal reaction he had to her body, topless before him.

She watched him, watching her. “Still scary?”

He shook his head. A half lie. The way he felt about her was more than terrifying, but this part wasn’t. This was a dream.

“Beautiful.” He ran his hands over her ribcage. The late afternoon sun glowed through the sheer curtain panels and onto her. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

Zak’s mesmerizing green eyes softened with something like solace as she looked down at him, dragging those guitar fingers across his chest like he was anything worth looking at when she was making him forget how to breathe. Not knowing where to taste first, he kissed her lips again. Slower and sweeter this time.

His eyelids parted, hooded, as he backed away by millimeters and brought his hands to her chest. Watching her reaction, the sigh and arch of her spine as he brushed over the most sensitive places with his fingertips, featherlight. Then a different sound, as he softly pinched and rolled those rosy nipples between his index fingers and thumbs.

Her eyes blinked open, her thighs clenching around him.

“Chase…”

It was the first time she had said his name like that, barely audible, and he wanted to hear her say it over and over on a loop like his favorite record. Wanted to fuck that sound from her, louder. Wanted it whispered and begged into a pillow as he tasted every single inch of her.

“Since way before the night you came to my game. When we were sixteen, when we almost did,” he told her like the secret it was. The confession floated somewhere between her collarbone and ear as he pressed a scattering of kisses along her neck. His hands continued to play, to sink into soft flesh.

“What?” she said in a daze, delayed.

“That’s how long I’ve wanted to kiss you. I don’t remember the first time I thought of it, but I never forgot that night.”

But he didn’t get to hear her response because the next knock at her door was Edge.

“Zak, we’re supposed to be on stage in five minutes. What gives?”

“Fuck.” She flew to her feet. “Rehearsal.”

She’d forgotten, and that bit of knowledge made him smile.

“Your shirt,” she said, tossing it to him. Cursing some more as she grabbed a tissue from the box on the dresser and wiped away prints of her lipstick from his mouth.

He stood, reluctantly helping her cinch and retie the top before she ran to the bathroom to fix her makeup. It all happened in such a rush that Chase didn’t think either of them stopped to consider how the rest of the band would react when they came out of her room together.

She threw open the door. “Sorry, I’m ready. I was just, uh—the hairdryer. It sucks.”

“It sucks, huh?” Edge looked over her shoulder and gave Chase a lethal stare. “Is its name Chase, and does it also lick?”

Dallas whistled. “Shiiiiii—”

“—it’s not like that,” she tried to explain.

But she’d missed a lipstick print on his neck that Alex reached over and rubbed off with an emphatic, “Didn’t think you had it in you, Z.”

“Four minutes now,” Edge said dully. Already headed for the elevator. “That’s how much time we have to get over to the studio.”

And though they ran to catch the first cab they saw, they still got there late.