Chapter Two #3
The line went quiet for a beat. Bear could picture Mason in his Chicago office, jaw tight, eyes hard.
“Carrie,” Mason said flatly.
“Yeah.” Bear kept his voice low. “He didn’t see the body—thank fuck for that—but he’s overheard enough from the brothers over the years.
Knows she was taken. Knows what they did to her during that captivity.
The mutilation. The hand...” He trailed off, the words heavy between them.
“Kid’s pieced together more than he should have.
Dreams are bad when it hits him. Like he’s right there with her. ”
Mason cursed softly. “I should’ve shielded him better from all that shit. Carrie put him through hell while she was alive. Then the way she went out...hell, no kid should have to carry that weight.”
“He’s tough,” Bear said. “Tougher than Carrie ever gave him credit for. But yeah, it’s in there.
He wakes up looking like he’s seen ghosts.
Eddie’s been leaving the hall light on for him, making sure he knows he’s not alone.
He’s starting to trust the place. Building more trust with us.
Just gonna take time—like everything good in life. ”
“Keep an eye on him,” Mason said, the command softened by something almost grateful. “And tell him...hell, tell him I’m proud of how he’s handling Fort Wayne. Music and all. He doesn’t have to choose between the club and the band right now. He just needs to be where he feels solid.”
Bear nodded even though Mason couldn’t see it. “Will do. He’s got a good head on his shoulders. Makes me think of how you would’ve been at that age, only he’s minus the smart mouth.”
Mason huffed a quiet laugh. “God help us all if he picks up that part. Thanks, brother. Call if anything changes.”
“Always.”
Bear ended the call and sat for a long moment in the quiet garage, staring at the half-finished bike on the lift. Chase was finding his place here—slowly, carefully. The nightmares would fade with time, with family, with something solid to hold on to. The club would make sure of it.
He pushed to his feet, flipped off the lights, and headed towards the house. The kid wasn’t alone anymore. Not while Bear had anything to say about it.
***
Chase
Their gig at Marie’s had started like any other.
The back room smelled like stale beer and sawdust, the kind of place where your shoes stick to the floor and the lights buzz just enough to make your eyes ache.
Chase plugged his guitar into the practice amp, the familiar weight of it grounding him like always.
Benny was already tuning up, that restless energy crackling off him like static. Too bright. Too much.
“You good, man?” Chase asked, keeping his voice light.
Benny flashed that grin—the one that usually meant trouble—but tonight it looked painted on. “Never better. Let’s burn this place down.”
They launched into the first set, and for a while, it felt right.
The crowd was loud, the riffs tight. Chase lost himself in the music, the one place he didn’t feel like Mason’s shadow.
But halfway through the third song, Benny’s playing started to slip.
A missed note here. A sloppy chord there.
Chase watched hard and caught it immediately—Benny’s hands had that faint tremor again, the one he’d seen in the garage two nights ago.
Say something.
The thought hit him like a punch, but he shoved it down. Snitching would blow that up. And what if I’m wrong? What if it was just stress from the label bullshit, or the constant grind of the road?
Benny launched into his solo, fingers flying across the fretboard. For a second, it looked perfect—then his hand jerked, the pick slipping. The note came out sour. The crowd didn’t seem to notice, but Chase did. His stomach twisted into a hard knot.
Tell your dad. Slate needs to know.
He swallowed hard and kept playing, matching Benny’s rhythm even as his mind spun. Benny caught him staring and flashed that too-bright grin again. “You good, man?”
“Yeah,” Chase lied, looking down at his guitar. “Just vibing with the crowd. They’re insane tonight.”
Benny nodded, seemingly satisfied, and launched into the next song.
The set blurred after that. Chase watched every move, every missed beat, the way Benny’s energy frayed at the edges like old rope. By the final song, Benny was sweating hard, his face pale under the stage lights. The last chord rang out, and the crowd roared.
Benny stepped to the mic for the usual thanks—and froze.
His knees buckled.
The mic stand clattered as he went down hard, body convulsing once before going still. The amp feedback screamed. The crowd’s roar turned to gasps, then chaos.
Heart hammering against his ribs, Chase set his guitar in the stand and shoved through the small crowd that had immediately surrounded his friend. “Benny!”
Slate was already there, dropping to his knees beside his brother. “Call 911! Now!”
The medics arrived fast, so fast that Chase thought of how Mason was in town for the concert, and he must have made calls.
Chase stood frozen just inside the doors as they wheeled Benny out on a stretcher.
He looked small. Too small. Skin gray, lips cracked, the restless energy that defined him replaced by unnatural stillness.
An oxygen mask covered half his face. Machines beeped steadily as they loaded him into the ambulance Mason had somehow arranged in the past twenty minutes.
***
Benny had almost died.
The words continually looped through Chase’s head like a broken record. Benny almost died. Right there, on the stage they’d played together just nights ago. If the medics hadn’t gotten to him when they did... If the hospital hadn’t been close by...
Everything could’ve gone so badly.
Chase’s throat closed. Guilt slammed into him so hard his knees nearly buckled.
And I knew.
He’d seen the tremor in Benny’s hands. The too-bright smiles. The way he’d disappear for long stretches and come back either wired or crashing. Chase had noticed it all and stayed quiet because... Because I didn’t want to be a snitch. Because he was scared of what Mason would think of him.
Right now, Benny was being rolled into an exclusive rehab facility eight states away, and Chase couldn’t stop thinking that maybe if he’d said something—anything—none of this would’ve happened.
Tears burned behind his eyes. He turned away sharply, sucking in a shaky breath, trying to get it together before anyone saw him falling apart like a little kid.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
“Outside, kid,” Bear rumbled, steering him firmly towards the side door before Chase could protest.
The big man didn’t say anything until they reached the garage behind the clubhouse. The familiar smells of motor oil, metal, and fresh paint wrapped around Chase like a blanket. Bear flicked on the overhead lights and nodded towards the half-finished custom bike on the lift.
“Grab the impact and help me with these exhaust pipes.”
Chase moved on autopilot, picking up the tool even though his hands were still shaking. For several long minutes, the only sounds were metal on metal and the occasional grunt from Bear as they worked.
Finally Bear spoke, low and steady.
“Everyone saw something, Chase. Slate saw the mood swings. Mason saw the disappearing act. I saw how his playing got sloppy last month. Hell, even Lucia mentioned he was either sleeping too much or not at all. But Benny’s good at hiding shit when he wants to.
He worked damn hard to make sure none of us saw the whole picture. ”
Chase swallowed thickly, eyes fixed on the chrome pipe in his hands. “I saw his hands shaking. A few nights ago in the back room. I knew something was wrong, and I didn’t say anything.”
Bear nodded once, not surprised. “And now that silence is eating at you.”
“I should’ve told someone.” Chase’s voice cracked. “If I had, maybe he wouldn’t be—”
“Maybe,” Bear cut in gently. “Or maybe he would’ve just gotten better at hiding it. Addicts are slippery like that. You’re not responsible for his choices, kid. Not even close.”
Chase set the impact down with a clatter and dragged a hand over his face. Everything about this was wrong, and he hated every moment of it, but Bear’s calm presence made the spiral feel a little less suffocating.
Bear clapped a massive hand on his back. “Now hand me that torque wrench and quit staring into space. This bike won’t finish itself.”
Chase managed a weak nod and picked up the tool again. The steady rhythm of work slowly pushed the worst of the panic back. Not gone. Not even close. But manageable.
For the first time since the ambulance doors had closed, he could breathe. Benny was going to be okay, the band would keep playing, and Chase would keep his best friend.
***
It was after midnight already, and Chase still couldn’t sleep. He was wired, mind circling around what happened with Benny and everything that led up to it.
He sat on the tailgate of his truck in Bear’s driveway, having opted to retain his guest room here over moving in with his dad and girlfriend.
They’d bought a house and were in the process of setting everything up.
Willa had tried to interest him in swapping locations to be closer to his dad and little brother, and he’d been able to play it off as wanting to give them a little privacy.
Now here he was, outside his friend’s house, unable to sleep because his stupid head kept replaying Benny’s collapse on loop. The way his fingers had slipped on the strings. The too-wide grin. The final, sickening thud as he hit the stage.
You knew. And you said nothing.
The guilt sat like a stone in his chest, heavy and sharp. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over Mason’s number. One call. That’s all it would’ve taken. But he hadn’t made it.
Chase rubbed a hand over his face, the memory of Bear’s words from earlier echoing in his head: You’re not responsible for his choices, kid. Not even close.
But it didn’t feel that way. Not tonight. Not with the shadows pushing in.