Chasing Kane (27 page)

“You had enough of fucking up your own life you wanted to mess with mine.”

CJ gained leverage, rolling me off him. I braced for impact, but he stood, backing up as if challenging me to stand. I did, though it was difficult given how dizzy I was both from my hangover and his punch.

He strode toward me and I couldn’t help but to back up—my body’s involuntary survival strategies kicking in, overriding my desire for revenge. CJ pressed his index finger into my shoulder so hard it made me wince.

“At least I don’t deny fucking up. But I didn’t try to beat
you
up over
my
mistakes, Regan.” His breath was ragged from exertion and adrenaline, echoing mine.

Dodging his punches was an exercise in itself, but I wanted to get one more swing in. CJ ducked, launching his shoulder into my gut like I was some prop on the football field.

“I could knock you out on your ass right now, Regan,” he said as a few guys from other bands—Moniker and The Brewers among others—walked toward us with obvious intent of breaking us up. “But I’m not going to. You deserve to sit in your mistake last night. It wasn’t one I made.”

“All right, guys, come on.” Our tour mates approached us with caution. Wanting to separate us while maintaining their physical safety.

CJ pressed his shoulder into my diaphragm once more, forcing air from my lungs, before backing away with his hands up. “I’m done,” he claimed. “He’s not worth it.”

My left eye must have caught hell from the punch CJ landed, I figured, because vision was getting questionable on that side. CJ didn’t bother keeping his eyes on me as he walked defiantly back to his hotel room and slammed the door.

Alone in the hallway with some of the guys, as bystanders closed their own doors, I glanced tiredly at all of them.

“I should probably get this checked out,” I said, holding up my hand. Then, pointing to my face, I said, “And this.”

“I’ll go with you,” Marco said, waving everyone else off.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, lowering my head.

As we walked down the hallway, I caught sight of Nessa as she moved toward the elevator.

“‘What the hell happened?” she asked, staring open-mouthed as Marco and I entered the elevator.

He held up his hand. “Not now, Ness.”

She looked confused, maybe even a little hurt. As the elevator doors closed, I shrugged, looking at her.

“Guess you and I had some fun last night …”

The doors closed, and I felt a little bad for leaving her with that, but figured she could piece the rest together herself. I had more pressing matters on my mind, like the possibility of at least one broken bone in my hand, a busted-up face, and then, the clincher. Memories from last night slowly swirled into my memory.

Of me asking Nessa to dance, her initial refusal, and my persuasive insistence. The smell of sweat and the feel of her hands on my lower back. And mine on her waist as we rocked away to the music …

The elevator doors opened just in time.

“I’m gonna puke,” I said to Marco before diving toward the nearest trashcan.

Unfortunately, the nausea wasn’t from a concussion. My vitals were fine, and so was my hand, it turns out, but my conscience wasn’t. Marco stayed with me in the ER while I got my hand and face x-rayed, and went back to the hotel via cab when I convinced him I was fine to—and needed to—walk back. There was only a few hours until the show and I needed all the time and space I could steal until then to think.

Exiting the sliding emergency room doors, I stepped into muggy, late-morning heat. It was approaching noon as I stood on the sidewalk, formulating my next move. Seemingly out of nowhere, Yardley emerged from a cab looking stressed. Makeup free, which was rare, and her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, she approached me with her arms across her chest.

“Heard I might find you here,” she started.

I tilted my head back, taking a deep breath as I stared at the clouds. “Yeah,” I said rather passively. “Here I am.”

“Well, I came to assess the damage, but it looks like you’re in one piece …” she trailed off, keeping a curious eye on me.

“What?” I asked, shrugging.

“CJ? Really? You two? What the fuck, Regan?” I could probably count on one hand the number of times I’d heard Yardley swear, so even in her syrupy accent, the words stung.

I waved her off, walking in a direction I hoped led toward food. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s something,” she challenged, following a few paces behind me.

“Don’t panic,” I assured her. “I’m sure we’ll be fine to play tonight.” While I’d never played
this
mad at CJ, it was hardly ever a struggle when we were mildly pissed at each other. I assumed we’d both be able to hold our professional shit together, if nothing else.

Yardley caught up to me, grabbing hold of my elbow, tugging it so I’d turn around. I did, and was met with a look of deep concern on her face.

“I don’t give a damn about tonight’s show. I’m more concerned with you.” She pressed her finger into the same spot CJ had a couple hours earlier. It was still tender. “It seems like you’ve been running on empty lately.”

I put up my hand. “Can I have a minute? I’ve had a
lot
of fucking input since I woke up this morning.”

“Sure,” she answered casually, walking next to me as quietly as if she wasn’t there.

Two blocks of silent walking later, I spotted a hole-in-the-wall burrito joint that smelled palatable. I needed carbs to soak up the still-lingering hangover.

“I’ve gotta eat,” I mumbled, opening the door, holding it for Yardley since I knew she’d friggen follow me anyway.

She smiled as she crossed the threshold. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Once we were settled at an outdoor table with fat burritos and soda, I waited until I’d taken a few bites before I spoke.

“What do you know?” I asked.

Yardley chewed, formulating her answer. “Probably too much and not enough. I’m not even concerned with the side bullshit, honestly. That’s all par for the course and you’re all adults. What I
am
concerned with is your mental health.”

“I’m fine,” I cut in without thinking.

“No.” She shook her head. “You’re not. Again, I’m not concerned with what did or did not happen at the club last night. But fighting CJ? That’s not good. For me, that’s a sign that things have gone very,
very
poorly for you. That’s not your style.”

“I was pushed,” I stated flatly, talking through a mouth full of burrito and hot sauce.

“Regan, cut the shit.” Yardley swore for like the second time this year—both times on the same day. “What do you need right now?”

“I need to get on stage tonight and fulfill my contract and obligations. I need to play.”

“The second part of your sentence I buy,” she said. “But, put the tour aside, put the label aside, and put whatever the hell happened last night aside. What do you
need
right now.”

I needed to talk to Georgia. I needed to find out what went so wrong with CJ’s night last night. I needed to apologize, even though I was mad. It wasn’t him I was mad at, after all. I didn’t need a therapy session to piece
that
one together. I needed to be a goddamn adult, own my shit, and figure out what I wanted, for me and for my marriage.

Yardley eyed me with an arched eyebrow as I formulated my answer. Finally, after a few more bites of food and a swig of Dr. Pepper, I was able to articulate myself.

“What I need,” I started, “is to go home for a few days.”

She nodded once, sage as if she was simply waiting for me to say what she already knew.

“Go,” she nearly commanded.

My shoulders fell, disappointment that I’d let my marriage spiral out of control and, in doing so, I’d have to bail on work commitments. Turns out, having it all wasn’t turning out to be all it was cracked up to be.

Especially if I couldn’t have what actually mattered—my wife.

“I’ll give CJ stuff to do for the next few shows, don’t worry about him.”

“I’ll have to talk to him when I come back. I’ll be back by Chicago, okay?”

Yardley leaned forward. “Even if you aren’t, Regan, don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. There are eight billion musicians on this tour, so we can work something out. But keep me in the loop, okay?”

I nodded. Okay.

Yardley wrapped up her burrito and stood from the table. “I gotta get back and rearrange the set for tonight. Let me know when you’re taking off.”

I opened my mouth, probably to apologize, as was my habit, but Yardley held up her hand. “Not another word. Just go take care of yourself and come back as whole as possible.”

“Thank you,” was all I said before she gave me a polite smile and walked to the end of the block to hail a cab.

I finished my lunch within twenty minutes and decided to walk back to the hotel, which I figured would take a half hour, or so, and make my travel arrangements for tonight. Of course a last minute flight out of Minneapolis was going to cost a fortune but, really, it was both priceless and worth every penny. I knew Georgia and I could likely talk through everything that happened last night and today, and the past several weeks, but I
didn’t
know if too much damage had been done. Or what I would do in that case.

Anything.

I would do absolutely anything to make my marriage work, I realized halfway back to the hotel. I thought I was going to vomit again when I replayed the awful things I’d said to her. Not awful in fact—everything I said was true—but wretched in intent and tone. I’d said everything in a way to hurt her. Because I was defensive. I’d pulled the same shit with CJ last night, too. A few hours ago I’d have even justified my defensiveness, insisting that everyone else was wrong and paranoid because my character was as spotless as my conscience.

The only problem was, now neither were clean. No, Nessa and I never had any physical contact outside of that dance floor, but that doesn’t mean lines weren’t crossed. I didn’t know what exactly happened, or when it shifted into something that everyone else could see except for me, but I’d have a few hours flight to think on that before I faced my wife.

Once back at the hotel, I decided to avoid CJ’s room, both because I was embarrassed and because I valued my safety. Walking out of that ER with a prescription for Tylenol 3 was about as easy as anyone had ever gotten off after a fight with CJ. After packing my bags, though, I did text Nessa and ask her to meet me in the lobby of the hotel.

My throat was dry with anxiety as she exited the elevator and headed to where I was sitting by the window. Her eyes stayed on me as she walked, but they were red as if she’d been crying. Her face wasn’t puffy, or any of the other telltale cry signs I was accustomed to, but I knew cried out eyes when I saw them.

“Hey,” I started, gesturing to the open seat next to me.

She winced, reaching up to touch my cheek. “Your face …”

I pulled back, avoiding contact. “Yeah.”

“Sorry.” She dropped her hand to her lap, as if she’d just touched a hot burner. “I didn’t mean to do that.

At least it was obvious that someone filled her in on what the fight was about.

“CJ and I had a thing …”

She nodded. “Because of me.”

I shook my head. “Because of
me
. Look, Nessa …”

She held up her hand in an attempt to cut me off, but I continued.

“Let me talk. I had fun last night, from what I remember. And, I mean, I don’t know where the lines were crossed, but they were. And I’m sorry. Either way, I need to go home and make things right with Georgia.”

She shook her head, her eyes wide. “Don’t leave the tour on my account. I should be the one to leave. This is your label and you’re headliner.”

“Just one of the headliners,” I replied honestly. “And it’s not about the tour. It’s about my marriage. My life. The rest of my life that goes on when the tour ends, and before the next one starts. You stay. You deserve the practice and exposure. I hope I won’t be gone long—everything else aside, this has been a really fun tour, and I want to see it through.” I took a deep breath because, if I was being honest with myself, I wasn’t sure when my next tour would be, regardless of what GSE had planned.

“I wish I could be more help about what went on last night, but I don’t remember much, either. I do remember laughing my ass off as you tried to rap along with Pitbull.” She laughed, weakly, but it cracked me up.

“What
is
it with that guy?” I laughed at a fuzzy memory from last night. “Is he like
the
American club soundtrack? I can’t get away from him!”

She gasped comically as if she were offended. “You don’t
loooove
him?”

“I don’t even know what he’s saying half the time, and the other half I feel like I should be wearing a condom just to listen to it.”

Nessa threw her head back and laughed a long, high pitched laugh that made me ache for Georgia’s deep, throaty voice.

“Anyway,” I continued, suddenly discomforted by our easy banter, “I didn’t want to leave without at least letting you know that I hold no ill will toward you. And I intend to be back for Chicago to see you rock it. Promise?”

Nessa’s face stilled as she recovered from her laugh and took a deep breath. “I promise to try,” she said honestly. Vulnerably.

I bit my lip, nodding as I stood and threw my duffel bag over my shoulder. “I think that’s really the best any of us can do.”

***

Once I was thirty thousand feet in the air and the pilot gave the okay to use our electronic and cellular devices—what a marvelous development in air travel over the last few years—I took my phone out of airplane mode. That I hadn’t received a single text message from Georgia was unsurprising, but mildly concerning. I could only remember one or two times in the entirety of our relationship where we were locked in silent treatment mode for more than a full day. One of those days was spent almost exclusively in our house, which made things
extra
fun. I was wishing for that now, though, because at least I’d know where she was. Or if she was angry, or crying, or, worse, withdrawn.