Chasing Kane

by Andrea Randall

  “Seriously? It was Nessa. We were all goofing off, it wasn’t just us dancing. Everyone from the tour was dancing with everyone. I watched the video, G. I saw what you saw, and I don’t understand why you’re mad.”

  “It was Nessa,” she echoed me. “The same Nessa who just a couple days ago was traipsing into your hotel with you while you were wide-awake ready to rehearse, but when she left you basically passed out before the door closed.”

  “That’s not tru—”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’re trying to start a family and you can’t even stay awake long enough to impregnate your wife.”

  “I’m fucking tired of that conversation, Georgia. You’re just going to jet into town and leave when you got what you came for?” My words were sharp as I sat up quickly. Too quick, pointed out by the pounding in my head.

  Georgia gasped on the other end. “You’re fucking kidding me. Using you?! We’re married, Regan. Though, I see you must need a reminder of that.”

  “Fuck off, Georgia. You know what? Fuck off. You would have a camera attached to me every second I was away if you could. I’m committed to you, but you refuse to believe that. I used to think it was because you were so wounded from your childhood that you didn’t think you deserved love. But,” I let a rough chuckle escape my chest, “you know what? I think you like the drama. I think you like all the theatrics that can go along with having a husband gone half the time. You think the only way for me to treat you right is to make me think you’re mad at me all the fucking time!” I yelled, hurting my own ears.

  “Well let me tell you something, wife,” I continued. “I have loved you every second since two months before I told you for the first time. It took me that long to get the courage to say it because we were both scared and unsure. I have loved the piss out of you every damn second.”

  “Regan!” she screamed back into the phone, trying to get my attention, but I wasn’t done.

  “Don’t!” I yelled back, getting out of bed and unsteadily pacing the room. Our first fight like this in easily two years. “You don’t get to treat me like this anymore!”

  “Like what?! Like you have it so bad,” she spat back.

  “Like I’m on probation for someone else’s crimes! I’ve done nothing but take care of you and this is what I get in return? Suspicion? Judgment? If you can’t trust me, Georgia, then what the fuck are we even doing in this relationship?”

  “I do trust you—”

  “Funny fucking way of showing it. And,” I started, out of breath “is that what you want a baby for? To use as another weapon against me when I’m out on the road working?! A tool to use to make me feel guilty or to pit against me when you think I’m out interacting with someone instead of locked in my hotel room on the phone with you?”

  “You fucking prick,” she said, malice in place of her voice.

  “Yeah, me fucking prick. That’s right. Staying up when I get home early in the morning to help you get things done at your shop before getting a few hours sleep then waking up to bring you lunch. Me fucking prick. Also making sure I clean the house and get you dinner since you’d never stop to feed yourself, and leave you notes all around the house before I leave for the night. What a fucking prick I am, huh?” My voice was rough, raw from yelling. “How I make sure that favorite pink fluffy blanket of yours is always clean and on the bed with the damn dryer sheets you like because you say they smell like me. All the texts I send you, notes and flowers while I’m on the road, and the fucking love songs I write for other bands to use that are about you in every note, every pause, and every lyric. Meanwhile, all I get from you is the occasional cupcake and accusatory text. I’m such a fucking bastard.”

  “I …” She seemed speechless.

  “Every goddamn new song that I wrote and Nessa sings and plays? They’re about you. You.”

  Met with more silence, I met the end of my patience.

  Fine.

  But then, her voice morphed into the tone she’d taken earlier in the conversation, even though she was a bit shaky. “CJ wouldn’t have sent me that text if he didn’t think it was any of my business.”

  “Brilliant,” I snapped before ending the call and throwing my phone against the wall, speaking then to an empty room. “Just. Brilliant.”

  ***

  With my anger seething and heart racing, I lunged down the hall toward CJ’s room, pounding unceasingly until a gravelly voice emerged from the other side.

  “Who is it?”

  “Me,” I snapped.

  “Regan?”

  “Get the fuck out here.”

  He opened the door, standing in front of me in his T-shirt and boxers, looking like I pulled him out of a deep sleep. Good.

  “I thought you left the fucking bar early last night?”

  “I did,” he answered, still holding the door open.

  “Then how the hell did Georgia get a video from you of me and Nessa dancing at the club?”

  Finally catching up to the purpose of my visit, CJ rubbed his eyes. He shrugged rather unapologetically. “Someone sent it to me.”

  I pressed my head forward, my eyes wide as I tried to breathe away my rage. “So you fucking forwarded it to Georgia?”

  “Watch your fucking tone. You know what, Regan? I tried. I tried to talk to you about getting wrapped up with that girl. I didn’t think you meant to get in that deep with her, but I saw it happening and thought I’d give you a heads up.”

  I took a firm step forward, grinding my teeth together and speaking low and threatening. “Get to the part where you dropped a grenade into the middle of my marriage.”

  He squinted at me. “Get over yourself. I had a fuck of a night last night. Then, on top of that, someone sent me the video saying isn’t this your married cousin? And, you know what? Fuck me. When I opened it, there was my married cousin, grinding with the girl he isn’t having an affair with.” He said isn’t with air quotes, the bastard

  “I wasn’t grinding with her.” I brought my hands up and pushed CJ’s shoulders. Enough to make him stagger back, but not fall. His hand stayed on the door.

  “Watch yourself, Regan. I gave you a chance to see what the fuck you were doing, and you didn’t take it. Georgia deserved to know what was going on before you and Nessa ended up in bed together—if you haven’t already.”

  It was too much. I let out a low growl, brewing toward a yell. “I never thought the first punch I threw would be at you.”

  Before he had time to respond or react, I swung, making instant, hard, contact.”

  He let out a shocked, pissed yell as bright red blood sprayed from his nose. He brought his hand to his face, catching blood as it pooled in his hand and ran down his arm. “You fucker!”

  It took a second for him to react, but I didn’t step back. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t feeling anything at all, which was proving to be a problem, since I didn’t seem to care that I was going up against not only my cousin, but someone far bigger and more experienced in fights than I was. The only advantage I had was anger over my marriage being screwed with.

  “Walk away Regan,” CJ said, sounding like he was forcing the words out. “Now. I don’t want to fight you.” He started closing the door, but I stuck my foot in the space, preventing it from closing all the way.

  “I don’t give a fuck what you want. You went over the line this time, man.”

  “I think you broke my fucking nose,” he mumbled under his breath. “What line, dude? I wasn’t the one flirting with another woman. For once.”

  With a surge of rage, I elbowed the door open, ignoring the throbbing in my hand, and I sent a right hook to the side of his face. CJ reacted in time, backing up so my knuckles only grazed the side of his jaw.

  He dropped his hand, blood still trickling out of his nose, but the bulk of it soaking into his shirt. With his eyes boring into me, he pulled the door open and took two steps toward me, the second one forcing me to step back into the hallway.

 
“That’s the last shot you’ll get on me,” he stated with purpose before pulling his hand back and clocking me in the side of my face.

  I’d already started pulling back out of the way, so my cheekbone wasn’t hit with his full force, but it was bad enough. It felt like my cheek exploded. There was ringing in my ears and I had to blink several times to see straight. By this time, doors started opening around us, tour members and vacationing strangers unexpectedly with a front-row seat to our fight.

  “That enough?” CJ asked, cocky with an eyebrow arch and a grin on his bloodied face.

  “Hardly.” I lunged forward, needing to get him off his feet. I succeeded quickly when I gave a swift kick to his ankle, knocking him onto the ground.

  As I came down on top of him, planting knees on either side of him, he started swinging in defense. I was numb with rage and anger, at him, Georgia, and myself. I didn’t care what I felt or didn’t feel; I just needed to punch someone. CJ was that someone. The someone who played on my wife’s insecurities and fucked everything up.

  “You knew exactly what you were doing when you texted her, you bastard. You knew it would fuck her right up.”

  “You shouldn’t do anything you want hidden from your wife.”

  I grabbed the sleeves of his T-shirt, trying to lift him up and slam him down, but the force of his back worked against me, so I only succeeded in tearing the fabric.

  “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.

  Twenty-Five

  Regan

  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.”