15

Shock, fear, rage mixed to a boil that threatened to explode through Chase’s body. “Mark…Mark is what?”

“You had no idea.”

Fortunately Kellen didn’t phrase the words in the form of a question. With a few simple words positioned against the framework of Pyper’s past, Chase experienced the sensation of watching a tidal wave bearing down, arcing toward shore in a furious curl of destruction based on nothing more than water, and sand, and the rhythm of the earth. God, help me. Please. Right here and right now. I’m begging you. “I had no idea, Kellen. None at all.” Still, Chase went defensive. “Do you honestly think for even half a second I’d keep something like that from her?”

“No!” Kellen paced the length of the room. His footfalls were silenced by plush carpet, yet remained no less urgent or forceful.

“As for Mark’s connection to Pyper, what reason would I have to know that kind of personal background information about him? I was his patient. Reach counselors are short on personal detail but long on philosophy and therapy, which is as it should be.”

“Agreed, and I’m not accusing you, or him, of anything. I’m simply trying to understand the timeline so I can protect Pyper and the Brocks. And you. That’s my job. I had no idea who your sponsor was, didn’t care much as long as you emerged from rehab clean and sober, but around ten this morning, I got a call from Petra Goode. She sprung this on Pyper at breakfast and wanted to know if I had an official comment to offer on behalf of my clients Tyler Brock and Chase Bradington. I wanted to throttle the woman for ambush.”

“Get in line.” Chase’s voice was a rough growl. Walls closed in, caging him tight. His senses thrummed.

“Once I got the call from Petra, I knew I had to get you involved, especially since everyone will be coming together at the Reach event next week. Worlds are about to collide, Chase, and like it or not, you’re the guy standing in the middle of the blast zone. I want you to be prepared. You know and care for them all, so you’re going to have to help them get through whatever happens next. You’re the only one who can.”

“How, Kellen? How can I possibly be there for her when I’m a mess myself? Mentor or not, all I want to do right now is plant my fist in his jaw for ever—ever—hurting her.”

And who knew, really, what Mark’s intentions were in returning to Nashville. The man was far from stupid. He was far from uninformed. He was on Pyper’s trail just as surely as Petra Goode. Chase thought about the gossip rag he had found buried in Mark’s groceries. He thought about the standoffish behavior his mentor…his mentor…had exhibited when Chase helped him move in. Fog cleared, revealing an uneven, treacherous pathway ahead. Chase’s trust disintegrated.

Mark Samuels, abusing Pyper. Mark, one of Chase’s most treasured confidantes, had lashed out at an innocent child with words and hands while in the grip of an alcoholic stupor. Pyper had hinted at it all along, in cryptic descriptions of her life with Amy in Michigan. She seemed unwilling to revisit anything having to do with her father, or the first five years of her life; Chase had respected that measure of distance, knowing the best and truest revelation of her past would come to the fore when the time was right.

Now, truth struck home like a lightning bolt to the center of his chest. This was Mark. The man who had taken hold of his hand and, with God’s help, yanked him out of an abyss. A man he respected and admired. Cared about.

A caldron of mixed emotions continued to explode into hot bursts of fear and uncertainty. Chase’s world went into a freefall, spinning downward until he couldn’t think straight any longer, because this was also the man who had nearly ruined Pyper’s life.

“I’ve got to talk to him. And I’ve got to talk to Pyper.”

He stumbled to a stand, reaching blindly for an exit from Kellen’s office. This meeting was over.



Chase sped from the business district. A headache twitched behind his eyes. An unholy, rip-your-guts-out level of thirst built to a dance that slipped and slid against his taste-buds, prompting temptation, eliciting that familiar need toward a cooling, numbing dose of alcohol.

His mind raced—weakness quirked its dastardly finger in his direction. He craved a shot of whiskey. An easy taste. Just this once. Just enough to help him push through the smog and the fear that shrouded his mind. It’d be OK. Really.

Chase pulled his pickup to a fast stop in front of a low-slung, non-descript retail center. When he threw the vehicle into park, when he came eye-to-eye with what he was about to do, his chest began to heave.

But that didn’t stop him.

The third shop from the left sold liquor. That’s all that mattered. He yanked on a baseball cap and marched inside the store like he owned the joint. He hunched his shoulders beneath a light windbreaker he had nabbed from the back of his cab and slid into place as an added bit of camouflage. Not making eye contact with anyone, he stepped straight to the counter, tossed a twenty across its faded, chipped surface. “Need a bottle of Jack. A pint.”

The store clerk didn’t pay him any mind; bored, visibly eager to move on, the guy bagged the bottle, handed it over, and Chase booked from the shop without even gathering his change.

A raging battle didn’t stop—not even when he landed in the kitchen of his condo. Stuttered breaths caused his entire body to tremble. God help him, he craved this shot of whiskey. A couple fingers would ease his nerves, clear his mind. It would provide such relief. It would soothe, and fortify…

No, son. The answer is no. Heed Me. Trust Me in better things—even now. Trust.

Chase braced, squeezed his eyes shut against the pull of God’s call versus the pull of temptation. The facts ripped him apart all over again. Mark Samuels. Pyper Brock. Father and daughter with a white-water river of pain flowing between them. And here he stood, strapped between the two with nothing and no one to blame but fate. Temper blasted through his system in pyrotechnic explosions. Chase whacked at the right hand water spigot, the one etched by a bold, cursive ‘C.’ He slammed the whiskey bottle onto the counter to his left and leaned over the sink, breathing hard, waiting for the temp to turn bracing cold before dipping his hands beneath the stream and splashing water across his face.

Over and over he threw the clear liquid against his skin, gasping and trembling. Before long, the water would go no colder and the shock value wore off.

Only then did he look up to meet his own ghosts and demons. He stared at his reflection in a small, oval mirror positioned on the wall above the sink, shocked into sickness by the naked display of need he discovered. On one side of the sink rested the fresh bottle of whiskey, seal not yet broken, its familiar promise sending his pulse pumping. One sip. Maybe two…or three. A finger. A double, maybe.

On the other side of the sink there was nothing. Empty space. A clean slate.

Pyper.

He shook to the core within the hammerlock of a choice that loomed, a choice only he could make. Good or bad. Angel or devil. Victory or ruination.

He looked into the mirror once more and his stomach rolled, nearly rebelling. Was this really him? Was this what he wanted? Was this what would bring him peace? Fulfillment?

No. An inner voice all but screamed at him. Don’t do it. Honor Pyper. Think about Crash. Think of all the ways she’s touched you, and think about what you want and what you can have. For once in your sorry life make the smart choice. Help her through this. She’s going to need you. Make the Godly choice. The choice that stems not from a black, ashen past but from the heart in all its sweetness and all its vivid, sometimes turbulent hues.

The revelation struck him hard. That was the kind of poetry Shayne would have created once upon a time.

A black, ashen past—a heart in all its vivid hues…The words were like lyrics, a forever anthem. He was being given the chance to craft, perform and memorialize a life of music with the woman of his heart. Verses. Melody. Harmony. Peace.

Forgiveness was no longer just a catchy album name, or winsome song title. Forgiveness was now his reality, an ideal that called through his mind while the internal light of his soul switched from off to on.

Chase wasted no time. He grabbed the neck of the whiskey bottle and carried it with him to the commercial-grade dumpster located behind his condo complex. There he treated himself to the satisfaction of taking that bottle and smashing it hard as he could into the depths of that rank, wide-mouthed trash receptacle.

Stillness came at once. His breath went even. Panic subsided. A grin spread slow and sure, because for the briefest instant, the aroma of spilled liquor wafted through the air, stirring revulsion instead of the much more familiar, bone-rattling ache of need. He turned from the garbage bin and escaped, accompanied by bird-song and a sweet combination of floral scents that formed the essence of a late summer day kissed by warm earth.

Determination pushed him forward—a mission in need of completion. He had work to do, and that work would begin with Mark Samuels.