The Chase Page 2

  I honestly don’t know why I haven’t said ‘Sod off’ to this place and the people who live here long before now. Was I holding on to some childish hope that one day they might start to give a damn about me? That Alistair might crawl out of his gin bottle, and Caroline . . . No, I’ve always known she was a lost cause. But this house is the last link I have to my mother, and while my memories of her are fuzzy, I can remember her telling me that she loved me. She’s the only person in the world I can recall ever saying those words to me, and while Sarah might not have lived up to them, at least there’d been a time when she’d cared enough about me to say them. Is that why I’ve kept coming back to this nightmare, putting up with their shit, year after year?

  If so, I’m breaking the chain right now. Because my mother is gone, and the only people left in this place are as toxic as they come.

  It’s an epiphany that’s long overdue – and one that I have Emmy to thank for.

  Emmy . . . Jesus, just the thought of her makes me flinch, and I kick my head back and let out another guttural bellow, before locking my hands behind my neck and dropping my head forward. I start to pace from one side of the room to the other, seething with frustration and an undeniable sense of loss, while the wedding band plays the Thirty Seconds to Mars cover of ‘Bad Romance’ out in the garden. I love this version, but right now it’s making me grit my teeth, the lyrics scraping across my raw nerve-endings like a rusty nail.

  When someone suddenly knocks on my bedroom door, I throw the towel on the sex-wrecked bed and grab a pair of jeans, yanking them on. Assuming it’s going to be Callan, I open the door without asking who it is, and tense when I find myself staring into my grandfather’s dark, ancient eyes.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ I grate, too pissed off to pretend that we’re anything but reluctant acquaintances.

  He lifts his brows, still wearing the same dark jeans and paint-spattered shirt I’d seen him in that morning, when he gave Emmy her interview. ‘May I come in?’ he rasps in his deep smoker’s voice.

  I sound like a total bastard as I laugh and shake my head. ‘Sure, why not?’ I mutter, thinking God, what a day. I lose Emmy and gain a visit from dear ol’ Grandad. Talk about shitty karma. And what in the name of ever-loving hell is he doing here? As far as I know, Harrison hasn’t set foot in this house since my mother killed herself. Not even when I was a kid, stuck in this place with a drunk father and a psychotic stepmother.

  I leave the door open for him and walk over to the far side of the room, kicking the condom I’d dropped on the floor earlier under the bed before he can catch sight of it. But when I look over at him, I find that he’s not at all curious about the room. No, he’s shut the door behind him, made it to the middle of the hardwood floor, and just stopped, his attention completely focused on the painting that hangs over the bed. Even though it’s one of his own creations, he stares at it like it’s something new to him, and there’s an emotion burning in his eyes that I’ve never seen before. It’s too desolate to be anger, and too vibrant to be indifference, which are the sentiments I’m used to seeing on Harrison’s face.

  Shoving my hands back through my damp hair, I say, ‘Look, I’m not trying to be a dick, but this isn’t a great time for me. So maybe you should just get to the point of why you’re here.’

  He pushes his hands into his front pockets as he slides that dark, enigmatic gaze over to me. ‘Yes, I heard.’

  ‘Heard what?’ I clip, daring the old man to say something that’ll piss me off even more than I already am.

  His lips twitch, as if he’s fighting back a smile. ‘I heard you basically tell Caroline to go and fuck herself. Emmy will be proud of you.’

  ‘Emmy’s not here,’ I force through my gritted teeth, needing him to get to the point of his visit. And then I need him to get the hell out.

  ‘Yes.’ He sighs as he finally looks around him, taking in the room. ‘I gathered that she’s left.’

  ‘So what couldn’t wait that you had to come over here and see me now?’

  ‘Your American said some things this morning that got me thinking.’

  I lift my brows, and even though I want to tell the prick to get lost, I’m intrigued. ‘Yeah? Like what?’

  His shoulders go back, and he exhales so loudly I can hear it. ‘She said I was wrong about you and that you’re nothing like your father.’ He glances back up at the painting, and then over to me again, his dark eyes burning with regret. ‘After what I’m guessing has happened today, I have a feeling she’d say you’re like me.’

  ‘Shit,’ I mutter, scrubbing a hand over my jaw. ‘All these years, you’ve thought I was like Alistair?’

  He cocks his head, saying, ‘I’m beginning to see that I was wrong.’

  I snort like an arse, but there’s no help for it. I was angry going into this conversation, and his assumptions aren’t making my mood any better. ‘You’d have figured it out sooner if you ever took the time to focus on anything other than your damn paintings.’

  He laughs low and deep, and I pop my jaw, wondering what the hell he thinks is so funny. ‘Yes, that’s true. But I’m here now, and it seems that we’re long overdue for a talk.’

  I lift my brows again, thinking this must be the most surreal moment of my entire life. ‘What exactly do you want to talk about?’

  Instead of answering my question, he stalls with an observation. ‘I didn’t realize you and Caroline don’t get along.’

  ‘Why would you? It’s not like we know each other.’

  ‘True,’ he murmurs with a slow nod. ‘I suppose I just assumed. Alistair . . . Well, he likes to brag. I try to avoid him, but there are times when it’s impossible.’

  ‘Alistair is a drunk and a fuckwit. Only an idiot would believe anything that comes out of his mouth.’

  He cocks his head again, and there’s a gleaming spark in his dark gaze that wasn’t there a moment ago, as if something long dormant inside him is finally coming back to life. ‘Hmm, I’m beginning to see Emmy’s point. You’re not like Alistair at all. You really do sound like me.’

  I narrow my gaze. ‘Is that supposed to make me happy?’

  ‘God, no.’

  This time, I’m the one who quietly laughs, though the sound is hollow. Fitting, since I feel like I’ve been scraped out inside. Like I’m just meat and muscle wrapped around bone, with nothing at the heart of me.

  Maybe that’s why Emmy left. Maybe that’s what she could see. What I couldn’t hide from her.

  ‘So what happened?’ the old man asks.

  ‘With what?’ I say, being deliberately obtuse.

  He gives me a look that says a thousand words, and my breath leaves my lungs in a sharp huff. I work my jaw a few times, then find myself muttering, ‘I fucked up.’

  ‘Not surprising,’ he drawls drily. ‘Most of us do.’

  ‘I asked her to stay, but she . . .’ My voice trails off, the unspoken words sitting on my tongue like ashes, sour and cold.

  ‘I know I haven’t given you much advice in your life. Hell, I haven’t given you any. But I’m going to do so now, and if you’re smart, you’ll take it.’

  He pauses for my response, but I just cross my arms over my chest and jerk my chin at him.

  ‘Don’t make the same mistakes that I’ve made, Jase. If she means what I think she means to you, then go after her.’

  My brows pull into a deep scowl. ‘What mistakes?’

  ‘Your girl, she’s perceptive. She knows why I paint the way I do.’ He walks over to the chair, settling into it in clothes that still have wet paint on them, completely uncaring that he’s probably ruining a piece of furniture that cost thousands of pounds. Not that I give a shit. When I leave here tonight, the only things I’m taking are my clothes . . . and the painting.

  For some reason, I know it would drive me crazy if I left it. That I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it, though I’m not sure why. Why it’s resonating with me so powerfully now, when it never has befo
re.

  Harrison sprawls back in the chair like a king on his throne, as if he owns it. I realize that he’s always been like this, the master of all he surveys, alone at the top of his kingdom, and I wonder what made him that way. What drove him to a life of solitude and savage art, where his only companions were his paints, nicotine and eviscerating bitterness.

  ‘I need to tell you a story,’ he husks, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a battered pack of cigarettes, along with his lighter. ‘And you, young man, are going to listen.’

  An hour later, my car is packed with my things and I’m driving hell-bent for London, my grandfather’s words still ringing through my head.

  Tonight, I learned things about the old man that I never knew. About the young woman he lost because of his pride. And his fear. So much sodding fear that it’d locked him down. Closed him off.

  Jesus, we really are alike.

  But after listening to him, and seeing what he’s become because of the choices he made, I’m determined that our story isn’t going to be the same.

  Once he finished telling me all about the beautiful blonde in the painting that hung above my bed, I’d scrubbed my hands down my face, growling, ‘Fuck! I’ve been an idiot.’

  ‘Not too late to fix it.’

  ‘You don’t know this girl. She’s not like—’

  ‘Trust me,’ he’d said, cutting me off. ‘I learned a hell of a lot about her from the way she spoke about you. Talk to her, Jase. Give yourself the chance to explain.’

  ‘I don’t even know what I would say.’

  ‘The right words will come when they need to.’

  ‘They didn’t before,’ I’d muttered with frustration.

  ‘Because you were walking around with your head up your arse. Nothing that’s said at a time like that is going to be anything other than bullshit. This time, she’ll know the difference.’

  I’d had to laugh, thinking he has as colorful a way with words as he does with a paintbrush.

  He’d left then, and as I started shoving all my shit into my bag, as well as grabbing the things that Emmy had left behind, I kept stealing glances at the painting over the bed. The old man was right, the blonde standing in the ocean really does bear a striking resemblance to my girl. And even now, as it sits in the backseat of the Range Rover, I feel like it’s mocking me for being such a stupid fool – and I promise myself that whatever it takes to make it happen, I’ll one day be fucking Emmy again in a bed with that painting hanging over it.

  When Callan had knocked on my bedroom door just after Harrison left, he must have been able to read the determination carved into my face, because the first words he said to me were, ‘You’re going after her.’

  Not a question, but a statement of fact, and I’d smiled. ‘As fast as I fucking can.’

  An answering grin had spread across his mouth, and he helped me carry everything down.

  Unfortunately, we hadn’t been able to make a clean getaway. Caroline and Alistair had been arguing in the foyer, and the instant she saw me, she said, ‘Harrison took a lot of pleasure in telling us that you’re going after her before he left. Why, Jase? If you do this, you’ll ruin everything!’

  I have no idea what she was talking about, but a strong suspicion that she’s been hitting the gin as heavily as Alistair today. She’s fixated on Emmy in an unhealthy way, and I’m beginning to think that Caroline’s having a middle-aged crisis. Or maybe she just can’t stand the thought of someone in this family actually being happy for a change.

  Without a word, I’d moved past them, heading straight for the door. I’d already said everything I have to say, and honestly don’t give a shit what they think of my relationship with Emmy. At this point, I’m just praying that I have one. That she’ll forgive me and give me another chance, once I find her.

  I’m pushing the car to its top speed as I race to reach London in time to catch her at the train station. I’ve been calling her mobile repeatedly with the Range Rover’s hands-free system, but she won’t answer. Desperate, I call one of my IT guys at home and have him track down her friend Lola’s contact numbers. I call Lola’s mobile, as well as her home line, and then her mobile again. She finally answers on the fourth ring, and I suck in a sharp breath, struggling to sound calm so she won’t think I’m falling apart. Even though I am. I’m panicking in a way I never have before, as if my entire future hinges on reaching Emmy as quickly as possible.

  ‘Lola, this is Jase. Jase Beckett. Have you heard from Emmy today?’

  ‘I sure have,’ she replies, and I can tell from her tone that she thinks I’m a prick. And she’s not shy about sharing her opinion, either. ‘You really fucked up, didn’t you? I mean, do you have any idea how awesome Emmy is? Not even a guy like you is going to find someone like her twice in a lifetime.’

  Even though she’s giving me shit, I like this girl and am glad that Emmy has such a loyal friend. ‘Lola, I need to talk to her.’

  ‘Yeah?’ she says. ‘About what?’

  ‘It’s personal and you know it. Where is she?’

  ‘Are you on your way back to London?’ she asks, popping a bubble in my ear so loudly I wince.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d head straight to Heathrow, if I were you, then. That’s the only shot in hell you have of catching her.’

  Fuck! I hadn’t expected her to bail out of the entire country so quickly. Had assumed she would stay with her London friends for at least a few days before taking off, and my panic takes on a new dimension. Even though it’s a Sunday night, there’s no telling what traffic might be like near the airport. ‘Do you know when her flight leaves?’

  ‘She had her ticket changed. She’ll be taking off in a little over an hour.’

  Bloody hell. If I’m lucky, I might make it, but it’s going to be close. Too close. ‘Lola, will you call her for me?’

  ‘And say what?’

  ‘Tell her that I need to talk to her.’

  ‘Have you tried calling her?’

  ‘About a thousand times,’ I grunt, ‘but she’s not picking up.’

  ‘Well, then. I guess she doesn’t really want to hear whatever else you have to say.’

  What the hell? Did I actually think I liked this woman? ‘Damn it, Lola, I need your help!’

  ‘Look, if you were smart, you wouldn’t be in this mess. So I guess you’re just going to have to hope that you’re lucky.’

  The connection goes dead, and it takes everything I have not to pick my phone up from the center console and hurl it out the window. I fight the urge, in case I decide to call Lola back. But, Christ, it’s not like I can say anything to get her to change her mind about helping me, because I still haven’t even figured out what I’m going to say to Emmy if I reach her in time. The talk with my grandfather has made me realize that pretending I can keep my emotions in check – that locking them up is the smartest move – is nothing but a load of bullshit, if I ever want a shot at happiness. But I have no idea what I’m feeling, so how in the fuck will I explain it to Emmy? It’s like I’m experiencing every emotion there is all at once, and it’s terrifying. Especially when the woman I need to talk it out with, to work through it with me, is dead set on getting away from me.

  But here’s what I do know.

  I know that I don’t want Harrison’s story, because it sucks.

  And I know that Emmy is the only woman I want in my life.

  But where does our story go from there?

  I’m hoping like hell that it ends with us being together. But there’s going to be a lot of shit to get through before we reach that point, and we can’t start until I reach her and get down on my knees to beg her for another chance.

  I make good time to Epsom, but then everything goes to hell because I get caught up in traffic from a massive accident that’s clogged up the M25. I keep trying to call Emmy’s phone, and start leaving rambling messages that probably just make me sound like an idiot, but she never calls me back. And finally, when I�
�m still about twenty minutes from the airport, I realize that her flight has already left and I’ve failed.

  Amazingly, that’s when the fear finally calms and I’m left with nothing but real, raw insight, and I know. I know, without any doubt, exactly what I want my story to be. What I need to say to her when I finally track her down.

  I want the beautiful, stubborn, frustrating, fascinating, addictive Emmy Reed in my life and in my bed and in my fucking heart.

  And I don’t just want her there for a day. Or a month. Or a year.

  If I have to chase her halfway around the bloody world, then that’s exactly what I’ll do. Because I want this woman to be a permanent part of my life.

  I want her to be mine.

  Chapter Two

  Thursday morning

  EMMY

  One week ago today, I met Jase Beckett.

  And now it’s two hours shy of being exactly four days since I last saw him. It’s probably pathetic that I know that, but hey, at least I’m not counting the minutes.

  For the most part, they’ve been a shitty four days. But while my heart has been aching, my brain’s been in overdrive. Since I woke up from sleeping for twelve hours straight after my emotional flight home, I’ve poured everything I have into my article on J.J. Harrison, and I honestly feel that it’s the best writing I’ve ever done.

  An hour ago, I submitted the piece to the editor at Luxe, so now it’s just a waiting game until I hear back from the magazine. Since it could take anywhere from an hour to several weeks before they get back to me, I called my best friend, Tyler, about two seconds after I’d hit send on the email and asked him if he wanted to meet me for a coffee down at our favorite local hangout, Maggie’s Java and Books. It’s a great little bookstore and coffeehouse, and I’m in desperate need of some ‘talk time’ with the guy who knows me better than anyone in the world. Tyler is an awesome listener, without being one of those annoying people who feel the need to tell you that they would have done everything differently. He’s candid, without being a dick about it. And right now I just need to unload on the poor guy some more, because the weight on my chest is crushing, and it’s only getting worse.