Ian

Not gonna lie, I definitely considered not showing up this morning. After that little… whatever the hell it was yesterday, part of me doesn’t want to face Chelsea, and the other part is desperate to get some damn answers out of her.

I’d dreamed of kissing her, of getting my hands on her body, but I never imagined that Chelsea Garten would be the drug that did me in. Her lips are like heaven, her soft, shuddering breaths the best music I’ve ever heard. And I’m dying for more, but there’s no way I’m going to push it until we talk about why she ran out on me.

I’ve got some ideas of course. A lot of them, in fact. But I learned in rehab that you can’t always just assume the worst and act on that before finding out the truth. That’s a one-way ticket to self-sabotage.

So I’m at the studio again, bright and early, muttering to myself about getting up at this ridiculous hour just to “prove” something to a girl that probably doesn’t give even a fraction of a damn. I’m empty-handed this morning, not knowing where we stand, not wanting to push it. Of course I’d love to do more with Chelsea, but if this is where she draws the line, I need to know before I make our working relationship unbearably awkward and uncomfortable.

I’m doing my actual warmups when she walks in, looking as beautiful as ever, even if her eyes do have a hint of purple ringing their undersides. I nod at her, but otherwise don’t stop my warmups or pay her much attention. I know how these things work. The first person to break the silence is the vulnerable one, the one open to rejection. So I’m keeping my mouth shut and focusing on the job.

By the time Chelsea’s in the recording booth with me, her eyes are narrowed and her mouth is set in a thin line. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her watching me, her eyes flicking in my direction every so often as another pointed sigh rushes out of her. She can huff and puff all she wants; she’s the one that ran out and she needs to explain herself. I’m not a fucking mind reader. I don’t know what her mixed signals mean. She kisses me, then she runs. Then she looks annoyed that I’m not friendlier with her? Disappointed even? What does she expect? An apology? I didn’t do anything wrong. She kissed me as much as I kissed her. I’m pretty used to taking the blame for shit, but for once, I’m going to stand my ground. She doesn’t just get to have a convenient junkie scapegoat.

Honestly, it’s probably for the best. She’s been nothing but a distraction from the first moment I saw her. At least now, with this tense silence between us, I can distract myself with being annoyed rather than aroused.

Small steps, right?

Chelsea pulls out her phone and frowns at it before flipping it around to me. “Rosa said to start without them; they’ll be here soon. Label business.”

“Fine,” I say. “‘Twisted Heart’?” I ask, naming one of my songs, the next on the line to be recorded. She nods and I strum the first chords with far more force than necessary, the notes coming out even angrier than usual.

She comes in on the wrong beat and I stop, and start again, not saying anything though I can see the tension tightening her shoulders.

The second time we start, the harmony is shit. I’m not sure which one of us is doing it, but it sounds bad and we both abandon it before the first chorus.

The third attempt isn’t any better because now I’m forgetting the fucking words to a song I’ve been touring with for seven years. It’s ridiculous and we’re both frustrated, but we keep at it, trying again and again, and again without any real success. I’ve lost count of how many attempts we’ve gone through when the lights in the lounge come on to show Merrill and Rosa frowning at us.

Rosa looks entirely dismayed, like she’s just watched her puppy get caught in traffic without being able to do anything about it. Merrill looks disappointed, which is somehow worse. He’s had so much faith in me when no one else did and now I’m letting him down because some flighty little country star’s gotten under my skin. It’s bullshit.

“Should we take a break for a few hours? Perhaps we’re moving too quickly on this,” Merrill says, and I can see him measuring each word carefully, still earning a shocked look from Rosa, which quickly turns resigned.

“Maybe he’s right. If this one’s not working, we can’t force it.”

“How about we come back around three? Enough time to gather your thoughts and some food,” Merrill suggests.

I nod. “Yeah, sure, whatever.” I shrug, hanging the guitar up on the wall. Chelsea just gives a silent nod and slips out of the studio. I want to go after her, to ask her what’s wrong, to hold her because she looked like she’s on the verge of tears, but I just stay in the studio, casually putting away all the things I’ll just be taking out again in a few hours. It gives me something to do.

I send an apologetic look to Merrill on the way out and head to my car with no real destination in mind. Whatever this funk is, I need to shake it off. Chelsea’s just another girl. Another person who will expect too much of me, then act like it’s my fault when I can’t ever possibly deliver. She’s a useful tool to repair my image, but beyond that, she’s nothing but headaches. I’m better off forgetting about her.

Somehow, without thinking about it, I’m at the beach. The sun’s moving higher in the clear sky, the ocean below almost white with sparkling light. I open the car door and the roar and crash of waves hits me immediately. Salty air tickles my nose as I breathe in deep and head for the nearby bench.

I’ve been here more times than I can count. Maybe it’s weird to some people, but the ocean calms me. The ebb and flow of the waves feels like the pulse of the entire planet. I read once that if you have trouble sleeping you should try to match your breaths to a sleeping person or animal, to slow your heart rate and trick your body into sleeping. It’s kinda like that meditation thing, but I’ve found that the same method works with the ocean instead of a person or animal. Breathing in time with the waves soothes me, it brings me back to the present, clears my mind in a way that nothing else ever has.

A shadow moves over me and I practically jump out of my skin at the sight of Chelsea looming over me.

“Did you follow me here?” she asks, pointing a shaking finger at me.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I was here first, if you didn’t notice. It’s my bench.”

The seaside wind is blowing through her hair, making it catch the sun like it’s woven of actual gold. I have to ball my hands up to remind myself I can’t reach out and touch it. I can’t let my guard down with this girl when she’s just going to walk out on me at the first sign of trouble. No, scratch that. She bolted before any sign of trouble, the coward.

But as much as she looks like a goddess framed by sunlight and ocean, I can tell she’s pissed as she huffs and slams down on the bench next to me.

“It’s not your bench. You can’t just own a public bench,” she spits snottily.

Any other time I’d probably be amused to point out how wrong she is, but there’s no satisfaction in it right now. Just anger. Just annoyance and a need to rub her face in what a jerk she’s being.

“Sure about that?” I ask, pointing to the memorial plaque between us on the back of the bench.

She turns and narrows her eyes at the engraving.

This bench is dedicated to the fans of Ian Monroe.

Just like that, all the fight drains out of her and she looks like she physically deflates. Her shoulders slump and her chin falls. A long moment hangs between us, then she takes a deep breath.

“Are you really clean and sober?” It’s barely a whisper over the roar of the ocean, but it’s there.

The question hits me like a freight train at midnight with no lights on. In an instant freezing panic seizes my blood before I remember that it’s not a question I need to be afraid of anymore. Old habits die hard.

“Yeah,” I answer simply. I don’t owe her anything more.

Then she looks at me, her eyes wide and hopeful. That’s the only word for it. That look shatters the stone wall I’ve been building up brick by brick since she walked out on me yesterday. The whole damn thing comes tumbling down and my breath’s stuck in my lungs.

“You promise?”

It’s such an innocent question, practically pleading with me. I figured Chelsea’s hesitation had something to do with my reputation, but this just confirms it. I’m not surprised by that, of course, but I can’t stop cursing my past self for fucking me over so badly. This is always going to be an issue. With every person in my life for as long as it keeps going. This issue is going to crop up, these doubts are going to have to be pushed away, over and over again, for the rest of my damn life. And I did it to myself, so I’m the only one I can be mad at.

“Yeah,” I say again. There’s nothing else to say. I mean it with every part of me. The guy who got wasted and wandered into strange cities for baggies of who-knows-what to shoot up is long gone. The guy who burned every bridge and nearly got one of his best friends killed is almost unrecognizable to the guy I am now. Being sober is a part of my identity now as much as being a junkie used to be.

It seems that Chelsea can tell that I’m sincere because she scoots closer on the bench and her hand reaches out to cover mine. I turn my palm upward and we sit there holding hands, staring at the ocean. I’m not sure what just happened here, but I’ll take it. For all my blustering about how I’m better off without Chelsea, the moment her hand is in mine it feels like something in my chest locks into place, never to come undone. A part of her links into me and I just know that we’re going to be connected like this forever. I hope she doesn’t walk out on me again, because I’m not sure I could take it.

After a long time of just listening to the waves and her breathing, Chelsea sighs.

“I have five siblings you know.”

“I didn’t,” I say. We’ve never really talked about our family lives. It’s all been about the music. But I suddenly realize that I want to know about her family. I want to know about her past. I want to know everything that makes this girl tick and commit it to memory.

She nods. “I do. Four brothers and a sister… Three brothers and a sister,” she corrects, shaking her head.

A frozen fist clasps around my heart, the pain in her tone so raw and open. It’s all I can do to whisper, “What happened?”

She gives a humorless laugh, now staring out toward the horizon but clearly seeing something from her past, looking into the ocean and sun to some long-ago memory. “I did.”

I don’t say anything. I feel like I just need to give her the time to get this out. Like maybe she really hasn’t had that chance. When someone’s told a story before, they almost have a script. They know how they’re going to phrase things, they know what order to put things in. Right now, I can see Chelsea trying to work that out, not sure what direction to take, so I give her time.

“I started in the business when I was just fourteen. For a few years, my parents were pretty involved in my career, but then my sister got sick. By that point I was an adult and could tour and stuff without them, but my oldest brother really wanted to be a part of things. He loved music. He loved theaters. He loved roadies and tech guys and learning about all the lighting stuff.” Her voice tightens and I squeeze her hand, reminding her I’m here for her. “By that point I was doing sold-out arena tours and would go days without seeing him. You know how that is. Press, rehearsals, show, meet and greet, try to grab a couple hours of sleep before it all starts again.”

I nod, but otherwise say nothing. I don’t need to tell her that many times in the past I exchanged sleeping for getting blitzed. She already knows, and this is her story.

“He started hanging out with some of the roadies. Someone introduced him to heroin. I don’t really know how it all happened, but it happened fast.”

Now my free hand is sweaty and I’m hoping the other one isn’t too, but I can’t really tell because I refuse to let go of hers right now. It’s a story that’s so common in our industry, one I’ve heard so many times before. One I already lived through—thankfully.

“We tried helping him to get clean. I put him in rehab once, then again. He’d stay clean for a few months, but then someone would call me, saying they found him passed out in the street. He spent every cent on that stuff. I’d get him the best suite in a hotel and he’d turn around and give the keys to someone for fifty bucks. He got arrested for living in the streets, for possession, for attempted robbery… Finally a judge ordered rehab and I sent him to that fancy place in San Diego. The one everyone seems to go to. I have to hand it to him, Eric did everything right. He was the model rehab patient. All the staff adored him, they gushed over his progress, they threw a big party for him the day he finished the program. Mom and Dad flew in for it and everything. Then we didn’t hear from him for two weeks until the cops showed up with the bad news.”

I still don’t know what to say. I want to apologize on behalf of junkies everywhere, but I don’t think it’ll actually make her feel any better. I feel the tiniest drop of water hit the back of my hand and look over to see that a tear splashed down from her cheek to her arm. It’s the only one though, and she wipes it away quickly.

“They never said it in so many words, but I know my parents blame me for Eric’s death. For introducing him to this lifestyle and not protecting him better.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say, unable to keep quiet now that I know the enormity of her guilt. Carrying that kind of thing around has to be exhausting.

She shakes her head, dismissing my reassurance, waving it off like an annoying pest. “I just…” She sighs and it seems like the weight of the world is on her shoulders. “I can’t watch someone go down that path again. I can’t bear it. After Eric… I nearly gave up. I basically quit music until…”

She looks at me, her eyes shimmering, and she doesn’t need to finish the sentence. “Until me,” I finish, blowing out a heavy breath. She just nods.

“So… If you’re lying to me, if you’re still using, if you’re still an addict, tell me now. End this now before it starts, please.”

Her voice is so soft and broken that it nearly does me in. I drape my arm over her shoulders and pull her into my side, holding her there like I can stop her from ever leaving.

“Chelsea, I’m not going to lie to you. In rehab, they tell us that there’s no such thing as an ex-addict. There will always be that part of me in there, and it’ll always be a fight, but I swear to you it’s one I intend to win. Every day. I’ve been sober for five years now. I don’t even drink, and I can tell you that the guy I used to be… you wouldn’t even know him. I wouldn’t want you to. I don’t know what this is, or what might be starting here, but I promise you I will do everything I can not to fuck it up. And if I do fuck it up, it won’t be because of drugs. Never.”

She’s nestled into my side, her arms wrapped around me, and it’s all I need in this world. The waves crashing in the distance, this woman wrapped around me. It’s one of those perfect moments that you sear into your mind and never let go for as long as you live.

“I really like you, Ian,” she says softly, and I tighten my arm around her, placing a kiss on the top of her head.

“I really like you too, Chelsea. And I really like making music with you.”

She looks up at me, her face splitting into a grin that takes my breath away. “It’s pretty good, isn’t it?”

“When we’re on our game, there’s nothing better.”

She nods and then her face falls. “I’m sorry about freaking out yesterday…”

“I understand why you did it.” She’s had a lot swirling around in that pretty head of hers and I was just a splinter jabbing at an old wound that still hasn’t healed. “Though I’d prefer if you didn’t do it again,” I say truthfully. “I’ve had a lot of people give up on me and I don’t know if I can handle you doing it too.”

She looks at me like it’s the first time she’s considered how her actions affected me, and to her credit she looks suitably horrified. “You’re right, that was really crappy of me.”

“Also that little silent treatment thing?”

Her face goes red. “Immature, I know,” she says, sounding ashamed.

I lift her chin with my finger, bringing her eyes up to meet mine. “Don’t worry, beautiful,” I say, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. “We’re good now, aren’t we?”

She nuzzles into my chest, nodding. “Yeah, we are.”

We stay like that for a long, long time, enjoying the silence and each other’s company. The sun’s moved a considerable distance across the sky when I finally sigh and say, “We should probably head back to the studio and show that song who’s boss.”

The reluctance she has toward getting up is a reward in itself, but I still have to get up and stretch out my sore muscles. I hold a hand out to her and she slips hers into it, letting me pull her up. Our hands stay linked until we get to the parking lot and have to go our separate ways.

“See you there,” she says, perching up on her toes to kiss my cheek.

The whole way back to the studio I feel like I’m flying. Soaring freely without a care in the world. All that anger and annoyance and uncertainty is gone. I feel good about this thing with Chelsea, whatever it is. I feel like it could be the start of something real. Something realer than I’ve ever had. Something realer than I ever imagined I could have. And Chelsea herself is beyond anything I deserve—beautiful, talented, compassionate, and feisty as hell. What more could a guy want?

And she accepts me, warts and all. I know it’s not easy for her, but she believes me when I tell her I’m clean. She’s willing to give me a shot even though it could break her. I don’t take that responsibility lightly and I’m not going to let her down.

Rosa and Merrill both look unsure when we walk back into the studio one after the other. They look like they’re waiting for a judge to come deliver a verdict, all solemn faces and measured anxiety.

But Chelsea and I dive in without saying a word to anyone and the music flows. We get every note, every beat, every ounce of emotion we can manage into that song and it’s pure magic. Maybe the best thing we’ve done together so far. I look over to Chelsea at the end of the song and she felt it too. Her eyes are wild and bright, pleased like I’ve never seen them. And there’s something else lingering there, something warm that’s just for me. It sends a jolt straight to my cock and I have to turn my attention away from her before the situation gets embarrassing.

Merrill and Rosa are both silent, stunned, almost like they’re hesitant to get too excited because it might not be real. But then we dive into the next song and it’s just as good. It’s like we can do no wrong now, recording the whole song through in one take. That’s basically unheard of for anything other than live recordings, but with Chelsea, the music flows naturally. It just pours out of me, and I think it works the same for her with me. It might be the emotions, it might be chemistry, and years of professional work under our belts make it possible, but it’s something and that something is amazing.

After two songs we call it a day since we wasted the whole morning. But that’s still damn good progress and I’m feeling really good about how the day went overall. I started today not knowing what was in store and now I have something new—I’m not sure I would call her a new girlfriend, but I don’t need a label to be happy about whatever she is to me.

We’re packing up our stuff and the managers are already gone when Chelsea tosses her hair over her shoulder and turns to me, suddenly looking bashful. It’s such a surprising look on her that I almost laugh, but it’s so damn cute that I don’t want to make her angry and ruin it.

“So, do you wanna keep working on the new song tonight?” she asks casually. I hear something else in her voice, but I don’t know what it is. I can’t quite place it. Maybe nerves?

“Sure, you’re welcome any time.”

“You’re not the only one with a home studio, you know,” she says smartly, smirking despite the sharp tone. “Besides, it’s my turn to host.”

There’s another layer beneath her invitation. Something suggestive and teasing. Am I imagining it because I want it to be there? Is she really just inviting me back to her place for work? I feel like Chelsea and I turned a corner today, but I’m not really sure what’s waiting for us on the other side, so I need to play it cool.

I nod, slinging my guitar case over my shoulder. “Deal. But I get the food this time. How do you feel about sushi?”

“I like eel rolls,” she answers, grinning.

Yeah. I’m really not sure this is a just-for-work thing, but I’m not going to presume anything until she’s asking for my eel roll.

“Ask and you shall receive,” I say, stealing a kiss before she can stop me and heading out, eager as a schoolboy to get to her place and find out what’s in store for me.