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.”
He spun the bottle on his thigh. “That’s a fair assessment, sure.”
Shelly burst from the chair. “Do you know how hard she worked today to get that story pulled? That poor girl spent an hour on the phone with Eugenia Parker trying every way possible to find some shred of decency in that old shrew. And she did it for you. She left her home, alienated her family, and slacked on her professional duties because you needed her. And you accused her of this?”
Shelly stomped across the hardwood for her purse. “You know what, Chance? Crack open old Jack and have a pity party. Why not, right? Why spend the night working on a way to win back the best thing that ever happened to you when you can drink yourself into a stupor and give her one more reason to believe you’re a worthless piece of shit?” Hauling the door open, she added, “Call me when you sober up, asshole.”
Chance stared at the closed door with Shelly’s words echoing in his ears. Win back the best thing that ever happened to you. And then Naomi’s words joined the playback. I’ve made the mistake of loving you twice. Mistake or not, she loved him. She’d always loved him.
Rising off the couch, Chance carried the whiskey to the counter. Hugging the bottle tightly to his side, he spun the top off and tossed it aside. And then he poured the whiskey down the drain.
“It pains me to say this, but my mother was right.” The words made the chocolate-caramel gelato taste bitter on Naomi’s tongue.
“Don’t worry,” April mumbled around a mouthful of brownie-bite ice cream. “I won’t tell her.”
Ten minutes into the drive from Chance’s, the tears had dried up. She wasn’t doing this again. Not over a jackass who didn’t deserve the salt it took to make a single tear, let alone a pillowful. Her chest hurt like crazy, and she’d been ricocheting from furious to devastated seven times an hour, but Naomi was done crying over Chance Colburn.
“You know what he is?” Naomi asked, loading her spoon for another bite.
April didn’t miss a beat. “An ungrateful prick who wouldn’t know an honest emotion if it bit him in the balls.”
Not what Naomi was going for, but an accurate description. “He’s that, and he’s a chickenshit. Perfectly happy dishing out multiple orgasms a night, but tiptoe a little too close to that big ball of mush in his chest and he spooks like a bee-stung racehorse.”
A spoonful of melting goodness hovered in the air. “Hold on, sister. Did you say multiple orgasms?”
“The orgasms are not the point.”
“Easy to say when you’re getting multiples a night.” The spoon hit the bowl. “Why is it always the strong and silent types? Why can’t the hapless charmers ever be good in bed?”
“Can you focus on something other than sex for five minutes?”
“It’s been eight months, woman.” April waved her spoon in the air. “Eight months.”
After a string of bad dates and a one-night stand that had ended in tears—on the guy’s part—April had taken a temporary vow of celibacy.
“You can end that anytime you want. I cannot undo what happened today. So tonight is about me.”
Both women continued to eat in silence, until April asked, “Are you going to keep working with him?”
Naomi had assured Clay that she would do her job no matter what happened between them, but she couldn’t imagine sitting across a desk from Chance and pretending that he hadn’t ripped her in half. Seven years ago, she’d been heartbroken, but sleeping with her boss was oddly less heinous than declaring the woman he pretended to care about to be a vile human being.
When confessing his reason for sleeping with Martha, Chance had called his actions the worst thing he could do. He sure as hell raised the bar on that one today.
“I don’t know if I can. Being in the same room would be tantamount to jabbing an ice pick through my ribs.” Stirring her gelato, she considered her options. “He goes into the studio next week, so the publicity tour won’t pick up again for a couple of months. Maybe by then I’ll be able to at least feign indifference.”
Turning to press her back to the arm of the couch, April slid her toes between the cushions. “I know that we’re talking about an unrepentant asshole. A repeat offender, if you will. But what if, just to play devil’s advocate here, Chance apologizes? What if he tries to win you back?”
The possibility was preposterous. “That will never happen,” Naomi declared with utter confidence. “At best, he might claim he had reasonable cause to make the assumption by pointing out the coincidence of telling me his secrets and then this story coming out a week later. But to jump to that conclusion is still unforgivably insulting.”
“Good,” April said. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. Because if you give this loser one more opportunity to stomp on your heart, I’m going to kick your ass myself.”
“No worries.” The women clinked spoons. “Short of some ridiculously epic grand gesture, Chance Colburn will never get me back again.”
Chance was happy to see Thompson back at the front of the room.
The meeting started off the same as always, but instead of resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Chance gave the proceedings his full attention, echoed all the usual responses with conviction, and waited for his opportunity to speak.
Right on cue, Thompson said, “Does anyone want to share today?”
Hesitating, Chance watched to see if anyone else would stand. When no one did, he rolled to his feet.
“Chance,” the leader said, surprise widening his eyes, “you have something to say?”
“I do.” Odd that being a performer didn’t make standing in front of a roomful of alcoholics any easier. “My name is Chance and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Chance,” his fellow attendees responded.
“I’ve been sober for just over a year.” A smattering of applause began. “But I spent last night with a bottle of whiskey.”
The applause died away as a dozen pairs of eyes reflected understanding and support.
“The good news is, I didn’t open it. But I wanted to. I really wanted to.” Rocking on his heels, he rubbed the back of his neck. “You see, I hurt someone I care about yesterday. I was stupid, and fell back on old habits. Not the ones that I’m here for, but others that are just as destructive. Like some of you, maybe, I drank to keep from feeling. There’s an article out today—if you haven’t seen it, I’m sure you will—that gives you an idea of the kind of stuff I was trying not to feel. The problem is, while working so hard to block out the dark stuff, I closed out the light, too.”
Chance glanced around at his fellow addicts and saw not an ounce of judgment or condemnation. “Anyway, I poured the liquor down the sink and decided that I needed to share this story as proof that this whole sober thing is possible. Because my life has been pretty fuc . . . I mean, messed up.” Quiet laughter rolled through the gathering. “So if I can do it, so can you. And if anybody here gets to the point that I did last night and needs someone to call, I’m available. Most of the time.”
Returning to his seat, Chance appreciated the words of support offered from all directions.
Harmon leaned in. “I’m proud of you, son.”
No one had ever said those words to him before. Chest tight, he rubbed the back of his hand under his nose. “Thanks, man. I appreciate that.”