Forgiveness

by Marianne Evans

  Just days after his meeting with Kellen and the Brocks, a brief limo ride took him south from downtown Nashville to the exclusive suburb of Brentwood. The sun had just set behind the darkening juts of mountain peaks that etched a jagged line against the paling blue sky. His driver executed a smooth turn into a curved driveway that framed the front of a huge brick colonial. Chase came aware of the swarm of paparazzi, then the line of cars that paused in front of open double doors at the main entrance of the stately home. Each vehicle released recording artists, media personalities and A-list producers who posed for cameras and chatted briefly before disappearing inside.

  When his turn came, Chase unfolded from the car and made comments to reporters about how excited he was to celebrate Alex Monroe’s twentieth anniversary with Imperion records, how he looked forward to spending an enjoyable evening with friends and colleagues who shared roots in country music.

  “Chase, how tough has it been so far to hold to the straight and narrow and uphold the promises you’ve made to remain clean and sober?”

  An eager reporter, recorder in hand, posed the question. In the strongest and most unexpected way, Pyper Brock’s face materialized in Chase’s mind. “It’s easier than you’d think once you put your heart in it. Thanks, y’all, and have a good night. I need to get inside before I forfeit my invite.”

  The words filled and spilled before he could think them over, but they provided the perfect exit and spoke truth in the type of succinct, sound-bite terms necessary to the moment. He slipped inside the grand foyer of Alex Monroe’s home and took a deep breath, grateful to have—

  “Nicely done.” Pyper’s voice drifted his way from behind, causing a jolt and then a hot, eager sizzle. Chase felt a breath of air, then the brush of a petite body as she sidled past in a pale pink dress full of lace and shimmer that fell to her shapely calves and suited her curves to perfection.

  “You heard that?”

  “We were right behind you.”

  “We” was Pyper, who stood next to her brother Zach, followed by Amy and Tyler. Tyler seemed to battle a grin.

  “Mind if I tag up with you?” Pyper craned her neck to search his eyes. “Dad’s already got a date, and Darren had a gig at The Bluebird. I love my brother and everything, but…”

  Zach rolled his eyes and gave Pyper a shove but extended a hand to Chase who accepted the gesture.

  “Good to see you again, Z.”

  “You, too.” Zach’s smile went wide at the nickname, which crossed Chase’s mind on automatic.

  Chase’s attention didn’t stray long from Pyper and those luminous blue eyes. “So, you gonna be my chaperone?” He shot her a teasing smirk meant to goad her on.

  “Ha. That’s not my job, pal.”

  Sweetness flavored that salty piece of sass. Chase laughed, snagging her hand, and drew it through the crook of his arm. “You’re a piece of work, crash.”

  “You really need to come up with a better nickname.”

  “Nope. If the moniker fits, you gotta wear it.”

  She gave a playful huff, her stride a relaxed and easy sashay that Chase admired and kept pace to as they crossed the threshold of the great room. There, the party was in full swing jammed with folks in suits, dresses, jewels. The assemblage formed a humming vibration of conversation with a gentle undercurrent of jazz that accented the atmosphere from a nearby sound system. Glassware chinked and chimed, adding a melody to the surroundings.

  “So, Darren’s tied up, eh?”

  “Yeah. I recruited Annie to hang out with him so he won’t be alone. He’s got an acoustic set in the round with Jack Paul.”

  “Jack Paul? Nice score.”

  Suddenly, Pyper’s lips flattened and her eyes went narrow as she surveyed the crowd. “Well, joy is me.”

  Full of snark, the muttered comment drew Chase’s focus from the party and the idea of Pyper and her man in the band. “What’s up?”

  “Petra Goode is here.”

  Chase snorted. “Ah, yes. Gossip columnist to the stars. My sullied rep has helped her sell magazines for years. Why does that bother you? She’s got nothing on Pyper Brock.”

  “Maybe, but she never gives up trying. She’s been after me for the last couple of weeks for an interview. Not sure why. Lately, I’ve been laying low, wrapped up in Dad’s induction and coming up with new material for my second album. The PR machine won’t start humming for a couple months yet when I hit the studio and start recording so I’m not sure what’s got her so eager.”

  She shook her head and Chase noticed the creamy line of her slender neck. A gold chain rested at her throat; a small, sparkly diamond pendant dangled from the end. She wore her hair in a loose French braid tonight; he found himself longing for the loose, wavy curls that always tempted his fingers to go for a long, slow dance.

  “Oh, great. She just caught sight of us, and her eyebrows about disappeared beneath her hairline.”

  Chase’s laughter erupted, and he turned Pyper smoothly in the opposite direction from Petra; he leaned close enough to whisper. “You know, we could always just dodge the woman. Messing with the press is an art form I’ve perfected over the years.”

  Pyper’s eyes twinkled in the light of an elaborate, crystal chandelier that graced a soaring ceiling. “So, you’re tellin’ me that hanging out with a bad boy just might have its advantages.”

  “Definitely.” In the face of that playful tease, a newfound comfort fell between them, and Chase thoroughly enjoyed the fact.

  “You’re sweet, but I think I’ll deal with her head on. Find out what’s creeping through that nosey little mind of hers.”

  “Great attitude, Pyp, and great sense of humor.”

  A visual rove of the crowd revealed a number of folks he needed to see. He spotted one producer in particular who had recently offered a ringing endorsement to Imperion of the “Forgiveness” rough cut. The guy deserved a huge kudo for the show of support.

  Chase gave Pyper’s waist a gentle squeeze. “Tell you what. You go conquer Petra. I’m going to spend some time with Tony Edwards. Meet you at the food table in a bit, OK?”

  “Deal.”

  Graced by her smile, Chase released his hold, making tracks to the small group where Tony stood. In a nod to good fortune, it looked as though present conversations were winding down. Chase stepped into the mix with smooth ease and sank into the process of returning to the ebb and flow of networking and schmoozing.

  

  “Pyper, you look incredible, as always. What a gorgeous dress. I love it! Who’s the designer?” Petra Goode stepped up and air-kissed Pyper’s cheeks, a gesture Pyper returned only because decorum demanded it.

  “Thanks so much. It actually comes from a local talent, Becca Bique. I’ll be sure to let her know you like it. Are you enjoying the party?”

  “Absolutely. I wouldn’t miss celebrating this milestone for Alex.”

  “Neither would I. Alex is a wonderful mentor to so many folks in the country and gospel music scene. I’m honored to have worked with him, and I can only hope his career spans another twenty years.”

  OK, I delivered a flawless sound bite for your pub, Pyper thought, can I now be left in peace? Instinctively for some reason, she sought Chase. He remained happily engrossed in a conversation with Imperion producers. Her lips curved soft. Good for him.

  “You’re such a sweetheart. Head to toe.”

  Petra’s high-pitched, over-done southern drawl pierced its way into warm thoughts of Chase.

  “It never ceases to amaze me that with all your well-deserved acclaim in the arena of Christian music, fans and even objective media types like me have been so taken in we don’t do much ground work on where you’ve been, or where you’ve come from.”

  In dismissal, Pyper brushed a hand through the air and beamed a mega-watt smile. “Oh, honestly. What’s there to know? I’m simple and basic.”

  Petra shrugged, answering Pyper’s stand-off with a shrewd look. “Why not let my readers decid
e on that? I’ve been hoping for a phone call.”

  “I’m so sorry if I seemed rude. Between pre-production meetings, the Opry induction, and everything in between it’s been insane. Besides, I’m afraid my history would bore folks to tears.” She infused as much kindness and charm into the statement as possible.

  “You’re hardly boring, Pyper. In fact, the older you get, the more you intrigue me. Everyone has a story to tell—a life worth revealing and using to reach others, right? Isn’t that part of what drives you and your mission?”

  Pyper couldn’t gracefully bow from that observation. “Of course it is, yes.”

  “You’ve lived a storied past, raised at the heart of a loving, talented family. It isn’t top secret knowledge that you were adopted by Tyler Brock, but your past remains a tantalizing, foggy mystery. I guess I’m becoming an aged cynic, but I have to wonder what’s been covered by your beauty, your charming poise…and the good name of Brock.”

  A sneering emphasis covered Petra’s final words, and Pyper took immediate offense, nearly dropping her glass of ginger ale. “Hidden? I’m an open book, Petra, and I’m not at all sure what you mean.”

  “Then let’s discuss. Let’s meet next week and talk. I’ll make the interview part of my plans to spotlight you and Chase’s efforts to fundraise for Reach North. The exposure would help both of you, as well as spotlight a worthy cause, don’t you think?”

  Wait—huh? Was this interlude somehow connected to Chase? Was the reporter angling for some kind of a kiss-and-tell about her and Chase simply because they had walked into a party together? Petra knew they’d be performing at the opening—had she already caught wind of the prospect of their duet on “Burning Bridges”? Man, oh, man were the media sharks circling—sniffing out anything having to do with the return of Chase Bradington.

  And she was falling into the center of a target by listening to her heart instead of her head.

  Pyper’s confident posture faltered.

  The uncharacteristic response seemed to fuel Petra’s wide-mouthed smile, which was emphasized by a garish hue of red lipstick. “Pyper, darlin,’ I just want to talk. You said it yourself”—the reporter’s posture went from kitty-cat soft to biting in an instant—“what have you got to hide? You’re a role model.”

  “I’m no role model, Petra. I’m simply a music lover and music maker on God’s behalf. He’s the role model. Not me.”

  “Like I’ve always said, you’re a sweetheart from head to toe. Talk to me about it, Pyper. All of it. The past, the present, the future.”

  A hissing coil cut loose in the depths of Pyper’s chest, but she schooled herself to reply in calm neutral. She was smart enough to recognize a goading reporter on the hunt. Petra and her style of publication wanted a slick, dirty oil spill, not the affirmation of cool, clear water.

  The only way to combat the dark, Daddy had always taught her, was to shine a light. So Pyper put an end to the pressure by delivering a gracious smile and a nod of agreement. “Call Kellen. Set up a time and place.”

  Petra wanted to go fishing in the river of Pyper’s past, uncover tidbits about her life before Nashville. She’d skated around the press before; she’d simply have to do so again. Pyper wasn’t a novice. Although she loathed the idea of being interviewed by the woman, she intended to place a smooth and concluding stamp on the matter of her past.

  Seeming to figure she had aced her serve, Petra didn’t linger. Instead, she fluttered her lashes and smiled knowingly. “Enjoy your evenin’ now. I look forward to our chat.”

  

  Emily Nelson was five-feet seven-inches of female come hither parked on spiked stilettos so high they nearly brought her eye-to-eye with Chase. Once-upon-a-Bradington, that form-fitting silk dress, all that lush tan fabric draped snug but shimmering against a long, lean form, would have tempted his body heat to skyrocket and his hands to launch into a fast, greedy field day. Layers of long silver chains draped their way from her throat to her waist—there was nothing in the world subtle about this woman, or her intent.

  She slinked toward him, gaze latched, eyes flashing in an intimate form of invitation. Crossing through a pair of wide open French doors at the rear of the Monroe estate, she angled straight for the spot where he stood and had been happily enjoying a few moments of solitude in a peaceful corner of the outdoor veranda.

  She carried two crystal tumblers, both half-full of golden liquid poured over ice. Slow and sleek, she wet her lips, gave her brown, chin-length hair a toss and sidled close. After a deep, long guzzle from one of the glasses, she kissed him full on the mouth without invitation, without compunction and without a single word ever being spoken.

  She tasted of the world that had nearly ruined him—whiskey on the rocks. Emily’s beckoning moan and the way she slithered against him repulsed Chase. He took hold of her forearms and pushed her back. Insolently, she swigged from her glass once more, offering the second one to Chase.

  “You don’t feel like havin’ some fun again?”

  She laughed over the words, pushing aside the months he had spent in agonizing reform, the painful battle lines he still struggled to maintain when it came to liquor. Even the briefest remnants that had lingered on her lips, even the smell, left him aching to toss back the contents of the glass. Instantly, he craved the infusion of warmth, that heady rush of confidence, the strength a few shots of strong liquor would provide. He needed the reinforcement so bad…

  Nothing but deceit. Three words later, Chase shook free of that hedonistic call. “I’m not after the kind of fun you seem to be talkin’ about, Emily. Not anymore.” He removed the second tumbler from her grip, refusing to pay it the merest glance. Instead, he emptied the contents onto a patch of manicured lawn to his right and then set the glass on the cement railing. He needed to get back inside, find some food, and meet up with Pyper again.

  Emily stalled his exit by exerting a strong tug against his arm. “C’mon...don’t go all cold and hard. I’ve missed you so much. We always had such great times together.” She hooked her arms around his neck.

  He unlatched her invasive grip and shoved her hips back and away. He wanted nothing to do with Emily Nelson. He’d never fall back into a bed full of nothing but fleeting pleasure that always ended with soul-crushing emptiness and regret.

  Nevertheless, and God help him, he now ached for the burn of alcohol, for the way it would soothe away the rough edges and erase his discomfort at being forced into an environment he had worked so hard to leave behind. But he knew the score. If he didn’t find a way to fit in, his chance at rebuilding a career in music would be lost forever.

  “Chase? I’m sorry to interrupt, but—”

  What a saving grace. Pyper’s voice cut through hot uncertainty like a cool, sweet breeze. “Yeah?”

  Fortunately there was plenty of distance between him and Emily. Nothing inappropriate could be seen, except for one empty tumbler, and one full tumbler, resting side-by-side on the nearby railing. Pyper noticed the glasses. Chase saw how she took in the view with deliberate calm, a head tilt and quiet, sad eyes.

  Just as fast, she perked up, fashioned a smile he recognized instinctively as false. “My dad was just chatting with Phil Anderson and they were looking for you. Wanted to see you real quick if you’ve got a second.”

  “Absolutely. I’m on my way.”

  “Thanks.” With that, her eyes turned to stone, even as a polite smile curved lips soft and full.

  The instant Pyper was out of ear shot, Emily snorted over a laugh. “Oh, man. Are you seriously considering Miss Sweetness and Light there as a potential conquest? Do you honestly believe you’re going to scale that monument to good, wholesome living and strong Christian values?” Emily snorted once more. “More power to you, Chase. I guess it makes sense in a roundabout sorta way. Using Pyper Brock’d be a nice way to clean up your image—you know—hanging out with the good girl might rub off on you.”

  She melted against his body all over again, her eyes
smoky and wanton. “But once that particular adventure loses its luster, I hope you’ll remember what’s waiting for you on the other side. You know…in my world it’s always been about the thrill of the…Chase…” Emily launched into him like chocolate dessert all over again, mouth latched to his, lips moving in expert motions, dewy, welcoming, pliant, coaxing.

  When involuntary heat rose, Chase’s disgust at her manipulations, at his human weakness and malleability, bubbled to the surface. He pulled away. “Stop it.” He pushed her backward, and this time he wasn’t as gentle.

  Her unwelcomed assault, her mockery of Pyper’s lifestyle scraped him with the sharp edge of a blade.

  “What’s wrong with you?” She smoothed her hair into place, straightened the lavish lines of her gown. Her sneer transformed plastic perfection into every shade of ugly Chase had ever imagined. “You know? You were a lot more fun before you went and got your head all straightened out in rehab.”

  “Thanks for your support, Emily. For the record? Using Pyper is the last thing I’d dream of and the last thing I know I’d ever accomplish when it comes to a woman as strong as she is.” He was on a roll now, and no power in his arsenal could keep him from cutting loose. “Furthermore, here’s a clue from my days spent getting my head straightened out in rehab: belittling her life isn’t going to make yours any better. Chew on that for a bit, won’t ya? I have to go. The CEO of Imperion isn’t someone I intend to keep waiting.”

  Not caring what her reaction might be, Chase turned and beat a hasty exit, crossing into the house where he searched for Tyler Brock and Phil Anderson.

  Fortunately, he came upon Pyper first, but she saw him coming and headed in the opposite direction. Chase released a mild curse, and tracked her. Suddenly, Imperion Records could just wait.