36. Chase
Saint of Spades imploded, first on television, then in person, and Chase could do nothing but watch.
The fight had crashed down on their band like a landslide, unpredictable but inevitable, and he was left behind in its wreckage. Alone at the table with Dallas, who sat staring down the glass of whiskey in front of him like it held the key to fixing everything.
Chase tried to think of something to say to the other man but kept coming up blank. Nothing in his austere, conservative upbringing had equipped him with the skills to reason with an emotional, troubled addict. Moreover, it was difficult to sympathize with the person hell-bent on hooking everyone else up to a hitch and towing them along his path to self-destruction. The spoon and needle were obviously not the solution to anyone’s problems, but to look at Dallas was to pity him.
Dallas grabbed his glass by the rim and swirled it around on the table, contemplating, before he picked it up and finished it off in one swallow. “You probably think we’re all fucking nuts, huh, new guy?”
Chase met his eyes. “No.”
“Right,” Dallas drawled. He tilted his glass from side to side. “So just me, then.”
“No,” Chase repeated, still trying to decide what he should say next. How honest he should be, how empathetic, how stern. “No, I think you’re in pain. And pain can make people do crazy things.”
“I gather your pain didn’t make you do any of the shit I do, though.”
Chase didn’t have to think back far when the pain was not behind him. It lived within him, something ever-changing and maturing.
Though his new experiences in music had helped him heal, they had been a graft. Not a seamless transplant. There was still a permanent, physical reminder of the life he once had every time he looked down at his leg. Even with his newfound optimism, it was impossible not to mourn the sport that had brought him just as much joy and purpose as it had conflict and loneliness.
“I stopped talking to everyone for a long time.” Chase looked across the table. “I immediately cut ties with the handful of guys I got along with on the team. When I woke up from surgery, my parents and my sister were there waiting. I could tell they were scared, but my first words were still, ‘Get them out of here.’ I told the nurses not to admit any visitors.”
He”d never told anyone this story, but in this low of a moment, it seemed the only commiseration he could offer.
“I don’t remember how long I sat in that room by myself before I agreed to see them again. I watched and read every bit of news that had my name in it, and I spiraled. Eventually, one of the nurses came in with a duffel bag. Lydia had put together all this stuff I loved. Movies and CDs and socks and the snacks I only got to eat on cheat days. There was a notebook in there, and she had written a list of all the things I could still do with one leg and put asterisks next to a bunch of them with a footnote saying, As soon as you stop sulking and go to physical therapy.”
Dallas huffed. “Nice of her.”
“Yeah, it was. I called her in to thank her, but you know what I did?” Chase smiled sadly. “I yelled at her instead. Like an asshole. And she didn’t even care, because she was just happy I was finally willing to talk to her. That was the moment I realized I hated myself.”
And also the moment he realized how toxic his relationship with hockey had been. It had been his outlet for every emotion. The rink was the perfect place to let out all the anger and sadness he’d internalized, following the example set by his parents. He might not have ever chased a high like Dallas, but he chased personal bests and league records for years because they had been inextricably linked to his sense of self-worth.
There was a hazy, loopy look in Dallas’s eyes that made Chase question whether he’d been listening, but he finally nodded, and said, “But you made things right. You didn’t get fucked up all the time. You didn’t disappoint your friends every minute of every day.”
“That’s because I made sure I didn’t have any friends. I pushed everyone out of my life because they reminded me of what I lost. Because I didn’t know who to trust, and I just wanted to move on, on my own terms.”
The other man reached for the beer Alex had abandoned and finished that off, too. “You think that’s what I’m doing? ‘Cause I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing or why I’m doing it. I’m an idiot. I’m just searching for some way to feel good for five fucking seconds. Anything to keep me from having to listen to my own idiot brain.”
Dallas’s laugh was rigid and caustic. “They hate me, I bet. I would hate me, too. I’m useless and selfish and I’m not even all that good of a musician compared to the rest of them. I’ve always been the weakest one. The slowest learner. Couldn’t graduate high school. Couldn’t hold a job. Couldn’t keep any friends except for Link and them. But then again, they’re only friends with me because of Link. And apparently, Link didn’t think I was such a good friend either if he was cool with lying to me for years.”
The waitress brought the food they’d ordered earlier to the table, visibly confused about where three of their party of five had ventured off to. Though Chase was starving, the smell of salt and peanut oil was now more nauseating than enticing. He knotted his hands together beneath the table.
“I don’t know why he lied to you,” Chase said honestly. He wished he had more comforting words, but seeing the way Dallas acted toward Alex made him bite back any assurances that Link had kept his sexuality a secret out of denial. Maybe Link had accepted who he was, but feared his best friend wouldn’t. “I know everyone else here cares about you, though. They care enough to be honest. Enough to want you to get clean.”
“Look at me.” Dallas flung his arms outward. His limp hand knocked the empty whiskey glass onto the floor, where it shattered on impact. “How the fuck am I supposed to get clean?”
A hush fell over the neighboring tables as soon as they heard the yelling and the sound of breaking glass. Chase caught their waitress grabbing a dustpan and broom from the back. He slid out of the booth before a manager came to kick them out and dropped a handful of hundreds by the uneaten food.
“Hey, come on.” He motioned to Dallas. “Let’s call it a night.”
Dallas complied and wobbled to his feet, trampling shards of glass. Chase grabbed his arm to keep him from falling and guided him outside. On the curb in front of the tavern, Zak, Edge, and Alex all sat relaxed, still talking, but cut their conversation short as they noticed the rest of their five-piece shitshow stumble out of the building.
“Don’t mind me,” Dallas’s speech jumbled together. “Chase ‘as it covered, ain’t that right?”
Alex stared at him. And now, Chase wondered if he was seeing someone else in Dallas’s staggering gait. Hearing someone else’s voice in his slurred speech.
“You’re sure?” Zak responded to Chase instead.
He nodded. Taking this one worry off everyone else’s hands tonight seemed like the only actionable thing he could do to help ease the immense strain on their band.
He was way out of his depth when it came to dealing with their past. And presently, he couldn’t make up for the fact that Alex’s sexuality had been weaponized against him for the sake of entertainment. He couldn’t speak on behalf of his predecessor. He couldn’t reassemble the pieces of their friendship, fractured four ways.
“Course he is,” Dallas answered emphatically. “He’s a big dude, ya know. Could pro’lly carry me up the stairs.”
“There’s an elevator,” Chase said.
A laugh burst from Dallas’s mouth, but it was all for show. The second Chase hauled him into the back of the taxi, he stopped trying again. His expression fell, his dark eyes deadened. He groaned and cursed as the car lurched forward, wrapping his arms tightly around his stomach.
Chase spent the entire trip back to the hotel, and the brief ride up the elevator, balancing on a wistful hope that he wouldn’t get puked on. Thankfully, it came to fruition. He supposed when someone had as much experience as Dallas did putting down liquor, they also had experience keeping it down.
Dallas fell against the door to his room as soon as they arrived, feeling around his pockets until he found the key. “You must like Zak an awful lot to hang around us.”
“I like all of you.”
Dallas snorted. “That’s an unpopular opinion.”
Being around the four of them made it simple to find himself and be himself, when they were all so real. All the time.
Sometimes, reality was hideous.
The pungent stench of tobacco battered Chase’s nostrils as soon as Dallas opened the door. The Do Not Disturbsign hanging from the outside handle rattled against the wood when it shut behind them.
Dallas flicked the light on, illuminating an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts that spilled onto the coffee table. Vodka bottles and clothes were strewn across the floor, and Chase had to kick them aside to help the other man to his unmade bed.
“Still think there ain’t somethin’ wrong with my head?” Dallas fell back onto the mattress and kicked his shoes off.
Stamp bags—some filled with tiny portions of beige powder, and some empty—dotted the nightstand. The realization crashed into Chase; it was the first time he’d ever seen heroin. It was the first time he’d been confronted with anything harder than party pills, and it chilled his blood to ice. A satchel, no bigger than his thumbnail, had been the tipping point that murdered the singer before him.
“God. I’m such a fuck-up.” Dallas put his head in his hands.
Chase erupted into a coughing fit as soon as he opened his mouth. Stale cigarette fumes were lodged in the back of his throat. “Does any of this make it go away?” he choked out.
“For a little while. For a while, the cigs kept me numb. Then weed and beer. Then vodka, whiskey. Now it’s not enough. The liquor gets me through the day, but that?” Dallas nodded to the nightstand. “That makes everything feel good for a few hours.”
Chase shifted his weight back and forth from flesh and bone to metal and foam. “Is it worth it?”
“I can see why Link did it. When I’m fucked up? It’s worth dying for.” Dallas laid back and stared up at the ceiling. His eyes watered at the outer edges. “But when I’m not? I don’t wanna die, man. I really don’t.”
“I don’t think you need to be numb,” Chase said, emboldened by the scene before him. “I think you need to let it hurt. It’s going to suck, but that’s the only way it gets better. This stuff? It’s temporary.”
“Flush it,” Dallas blurted.
Chase hesitated. He wanted to drown this issue for the whole band, for Dallas most of all, but it wasn’t his battle to fight. “You should do it.”
“I can’t.”
“You can,” he said more firmly. “And that’s exactly why you should be the one to do it. Prove it to yourself.”
Dallas inwardly deliberated for only a few seconds before he cursed and shot up. He gathered the drugs in his hand, threw open the drawer to grab the syringes, too, and with poor coordination, bolted to the bathroom.
Chase followed in his steps, watching feebly as Dallas dropped everything into the toilet bowl. Plumbing be damned. He wobbled, lowering himself to his knees, and for the split second that passed as he placed his hand on the lever, Chase could have sworn he was about to reach into the toilet water and light up a dose on the bathroom floor.
But he didn’t. He pulled down.
“Goddamnit,” Dallas said over the ambient sound of water trickling back into the tank. “That was three hundred dollars.”
“Stay off it, and I’ll pay you back double,” Chase offered with a pat on the shoulder. “Hell, just add another zero on the end.”
Dallas smirked. “Wow, moneybags. Wonder what else I can do to—”
He heaved into the toilet bowl, his body finally rejecting the whiskey.
Chase awoke only hours later to the sound of Zak slamming her door like it owed her money. Their adjoining wall shook from the force.
He blinked the sleep from his eyes and rolled out of bed, cracking his own door to check down the hall. And there she stood, not arriving, but leaving. Waiting for the elevator with her palms tapping an impatient rhythm against her thighs. A double-take at the alarm clock told him it was six a.m.
“Where are you going?” he called out in a groggy whisper-shout.
The down arrow was already lit, but she smacked the button three more times anyway. “Sergio’s office. He’s probably in there now, right? They don’t start shooting till eight.”
“Give me one second, okay? I’m going with you.” Chase pulled on his leg, threw on the first pair of clothes he could grab, and emerged from his room. Surprised to find that she hadn’t given up on waiting for the elevator and taken the stairs instead, as she often did. “You weren’t going to wait for me, were you?”
“Probably not. You’re distracting,” she muttered.
“Oh?” He gave her a still-sleepy smile. “And what am I distracting you from? What’s up with this covert mission to see Sergio?”
“He may be an asshole, but he’s a surprisingly generous lover.” The corner of her mouth ticked up, irritable as she was.
Chase did not anticipate how hard his laugh would be, and she’d knocked a few good ones out of him before. He backed her against the side wall as the doors closed. “Is that so? Better than me?”
He could see she had another joke ready to fire off, but her face was still full of tension and anxiety as well. And lust. Right as the elevator swooped down, she looped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him recklessly.
Normally they were closer in height, her heels closing all but a few manageable inches, but this time she was balanced on the toes of her sneakers. He wrapped an arm tight around her waist and deepened the kiss, his touch roaming beneath her sweatshirt, where the sudden knowledge that she wasn’t wearing a bra lit him on fire.
Chase backed away as the elevator bell dinged. “Shit, Zak. Do you even own underwear?”
“Whoops, guess I forgot.” She bit down on her lip. “I was kind of in a rush.”
“Sergio’s a lucky man,” Chase teased her back. “But really. What are you up to?”
“You’re not going to try and talk me out of it?”
“I’m not fond of wasting my time.”
“And you’re not just tagging along to keep things civil?”
He raised a hand to his chest and one in the air. “I give you my word, I will not interfere. Barring you doing anything that would result in criminal prosecution.”
She considered him insidiously as they entered the revolving door together and stepped out into the cool morning air. “So, theoretically, if I killed him?”
“There aren’t very many places to bury a body in New York City, but if we could chop him up small enough to get him on a boat…”
“You know, you’re kind of my favorite person?” Her words weakened the pit of his stomach, until she diminished the sentiment by saying, “It would be great if you could do something to ruin it sooner rather than later. I hate setting my expectations too high.”
He hailed a cab, letting his fingers twist in her sleep-tousled hair on the way down. “Set them higher. I love a challenge.”
In the backseat of the taxi, she scooted in close to him, lining her leg up with his as she gave the driver the address. The musty upholstery odor and clatter of paraphernalia dangling from the rearview mirror brought him back to last night like a rewind button.
“How’s Dallas?” she asked, as if reading his mind. Though more likely, she was recalling the sorry state her friend had been in when she’d seen him last.
“Do you want the good or the bad?”
Her brows lifted. “There’s good?”
“He flushed the drugs,” Chase told her. “Says he wants to quit.”
She pressed her lips together. “And the bad?”
“I don’t know if it’s going to work.”
“He quit drinking five years ago for a month. Then he quit again a few years later, and it lasted a little longer.” She looked out the window. “I keep hoping that if he keeps quitting, maybe eventually everything will be right. Life, the timing, his mental state, whatever. And maybe then it’ll last. I just hope he gets there before it’s too late, because whenever Dallas is sober, it reminds me why we all deal with it when he’s not.”
“How’s Alex?” Chase asked.
“Tough,” she said. “And a lot nicer than me, because I was only partially kidding about killing Sergio for what he did. I don’t even know what I’m going to say when I get there, but I couldn’t sleep, and it’s all that motherfucker’s fault.”
Note to self: never come between Zak and whatever little sleep she gets.
“Not trying to scare you away from your dream or anything, but this is only the beginning. There’ll be more run-ins with the press, especially as you get bigger,” he warned. “People will say shit about you all the time that isn’t true, they’ll say things that are true, and they’ll tear you apart for both. Fame doesn’t just make you visible, it turns you into a hot topic instead of a human being. Everything you do is either glorified or criticized.”
“What’s the worst thing anyone ever said about you?”
“Oh, I’ve heard it all. I was a diva, I had a temper. Three illegitimate children by girls I went to high school with. I was too young to be a starter, an insane draft pick by a desperate team. I was never going to make it, I was in way over my head.”
His pinky brushed her thigh and stayed there. “But the gossip didn’t bother me much. I was focused on the game. The worst were the stories that came out after my career was over.” He quoted all the commentary he could remember to her:
What a waste of young talent.
Poor Chase, he’ll never get to be a hockey player again.
But he deserved it. He shouldn’t have started that fight if he couldn’t live with the consequences.
If only he hadn’t talked shit.
If only he had taken care of himself better, it wouldn’t have gotten infected.
If only he had gone to the hospital sooner.
If I were him, I’d kill myself.
“You’d think none of that would bother me either. But when the inside of your mind is a hellhole, and then you’re hearing every depressed, self-loathing thought in your head play out on the news? Makes it hard to convince yourself that things are going to get better.”
She locked her pinky with his. “They’re better, right?”
“By a mile.”
Zak gave him a tender smile. One that appeared sweet at first, but turned duplicitous as she said, “All thanks to the joys of fatherhood?”
The cab rolled to a stop in front of the studio. Chase tossed the driver a wad of cash, reached over her to open the door, and jokingly shooed her out. “All thanks to the smartass guitarist who bullied me into joining her band.”
“You say bullied, I say convinced.”
“And what are we calling the strategy you’re about to use now?”
She pondered. “Talking.”
He was practically nervous for their executive producer as they stood outside the door to Sergio’s office and Zak’s expression screwed into a pissed-off glare. But if anyone deserved her wrath, it was the man who was exploiting the very performers who sold out tickets to the network’s most successful debut show in the last three years. All while he reaped the accolades.
Zak pounded on the door with her fist, cutting off the muddy conversation taking place on the flipside. “Sergio, you and I need to have a little chat,” she said without announcing her name, hitting the hollow wood again. “I know you’re in there.”
“Give it a break, will you?” Sergio grumbled as the handle turned and he slipped into the hall. His gelled hair beamed fluorescent lighting right into Chase’s eyes. “What do you want?”
And of course, he said it while looking at Chase, not Zak. She waved her hand in Sergio’s face. A substitute, Chase presumed, for grabbing him by his plaid necktie and choking him with it.
“I want to know what you think gives you the right to air that segment about us without even a warning, Sergio. That kind of shit can ruin people’s lives, and I fail to see how it’s good for the show either when they loved us. Most popular by audience vote for three fucking weeks in a row, and then you want to throw it all away because we had one night out? Really?”
“Your contract gives me the right.” Sergio looked bored. “Yeah, America loved you. But they love to hate people more. Last episode’s stats back it up. Viewership numbers are up nearly fifteen percent and ad revenue isn’t far behind.”
“What happened to the manufactured drama?” she asked. “I didn’t say anything when you made all those surgical-level cuts to my interviews. You didn’t have to expose anyone’s real, personal problems on TV. You could have just made some shit up if you needed the boost.”
“We take what we get, and we work with it,” Sergio said, holding the edge of the door like he was itching to slam it in Zak’s face. “And I don’t know what you think complaining is going to accomplish. The damage has already been done. How do you propose I fix it?”
“Now I need to do your job for you? Stand by the gay community because whatever happens in a person’s pants is their own fucking business. There have been plenty of gay artists who make incredible music with the support of the public. Air a heartwarming interview segment with Alex or something. Put up the number for the crisis hotline for people who are struggling with depression and drug addiction. You figure out how to ruin people all the time, I’m sure you can figure out how to uplift them.”
“You tell me how any of that shit is going to make me more money, and I’ll give it a thought. This is business, sweetheart. You should keep your little feelings out of it before they get hurt too bad. Maybe you should have done some reading before you signed on the dotted line.”
Behind her baggy sweats, Zak shook with rage.
“I read the contract, too.” Chase placed a hand on her lower back. A pardon, for stepping in to fight her battle with her. “And I’d be more careful about who you’re threatening. We might not have a say while we’re here, but there’s nothing barring me from reaching out to every channel I know with a statement about the management behind your network’s favorite new show.”
“Oh, right. You’re the mouthpiece. And to think, I spared you by not releasing the photos of you with her at that bar.” Sergio crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his chin to Zak. “Looking awfully cozy, weren’t you? Might be a better idea to get with someone more your type next time, if at all. Single’s a good look for a rock star, but better one of those models or actresses than a girl with too much meat on her bones and way too much attitude. No offense, of course. You’re a hit with working-class guys, I’m sure, sweetheart.”
“I’m not your fucking sweetheart,” she seethed.
“I have another appointment at the half-hour. Is now a bad time for you, Serg?” A deep voice came from inside the office.
“Yeah, it’s a bad time for Serg,” Zak called back. “And I don’t really care if this is inconvenient for any of you corporate assholes. God. You’re all the same, aren’t you?”
Sergio geared up to tell them to fuck off, most likely, but behind him, the other man chuckled. A chair’s metal feet scraped against the floor tiles. The thunk of heavy boots approached the doorway.
And then Scott Lee appeared.