Caught in the Chase (Caught Series Book 3) Read online

  Caught in the Chase

  Kacey Shea

  Copyright © 2020 by Kacey Shea

  Caught in the Chase

  Kacey Shea

  All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect is appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Editing: Brenda Letendre

  Proofreading: Laura Martinez & Melissa Hake

  Cover Design: Sommer Stein

  Photography: Wander Aguiar

  Cover Model: Jonny James

  Created with Vellum

  Also by Kacey Shea

  Standalones

  One Good Thing

  The Perfect Comeback

  Dirty Dealer

  Firefighters

  Caught in the Flames

  One Hot Night

  Caught in the Lies

  Caught in the Chase

  Caught in Us

  Rock Stars

  Detour

  Derail

  Hinder

  Replay

  Uncovering Love Series

  Uncovering Love

  Uncovering Desire

  Uncovering Hope

  Uncovering Forever

  Dedication

  For Carrie “Rikki” Johnson

  “There is nothing but the moment. Don’t you waste it on regret.”

  I miss you, my friend. The world isn’t the same without your light. This is the book we always talked about and I wish you were here to read it. I hope I’ve made you proud.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Alicia

  2. Chase

  3. Alicia

  4. Chase

  5. Chase

  6. Alicia

  7. Chase

  8. Chase

  9. Alicia

  10. Alicia

  11. Chase

  12. Alicia

  13. Alicia

  14. Alicia

  15. Chase

  16. Alicia

  17. Chase

  18. Alicia

  19. Chase

  20. Alicia

  21. Chase

  22. Alicia

  23. Chase

  24. Alicia

  25. Chase

  26. Alicia

  27. Chase

  28. Alicia

  29. Chase

  30. Alicia

  31. Chase

  32. Alicia

  33. Chase

  34. Alicia

  35. Alicia

  36. Chase

  37. Alicia

  38. Chase

  39. Alicia

  40. Chase

  41. Alicia

  42. Chase

  43. Alicia

  44. Chase

  45. Alicia

  46. Alicia

  47. Chase

  48. Alicia

  49. Chase

  50. Alicia

  51. Chase

  52. Alicia

  53. Chase

  54. Alicia

  55. Chase

  56. Alicia

  57. Chase

  58. Alicia

  59. Alicia

  60. Chase

  61. Alicia

  62. Chase

  63. Alicia

  64. Chase

  65. Alicia

  66. Chase

  67. Chase

  68. Alicia

  69. Chase

  70. Alicia

  71. Alicia

  72. Chase

  73. Alicia

  Also by Kacey Shea

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Alicia

  Don’t do it. Don’t. Do not ruin what you’ve worked so hard for.

  The voice in my head is a mix of my own and that of my sponsor. It pleads for me to stop, turn around, and march right out of this bar before I do something irreversible. My mouth waters though, and thirst consumes and muddles the clarity I’ve worked months to regain. The voice is right. I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t, but I’m going to.

  Because I’m weak.

  Because I can.

  Sobriety is so damn hard and after the day I’ve had, I’m tired of the battle. I want to give up. I want to give in. It’s what I deserve.

  “Two double shots of bourbon. Neat.”

  The bartender is clueless to my internal battle. He gives an impressed nod. “Jack Daniel’s? We’ve also got a Kentucky Owl that’s outstanding.”

  “Jack Daniel’s is fine.” There’s no need to break the bank. I’m not drinking for pleasure. No, this is punishment.

  It’s not too late. You can leave. You don’t have to do this.

  But the letter in my purse says otherwise. The words burn, branding my memory and threatening to torch my very existence. Maybe that’s why I no longer care. Why try so hard to be good when I come from a legacy of lies?

  “Want to start a tab?” the bartender asks, setting the full glasses on the dark grained counter that separates us.

  Just say no.

  “Yeah.” I reach into my bag, careful to avoid the dreaded envelope, and dig out my wallet. My pulse spikes with the thrill as I hand over my credit card. My fingers encircle one of the glasses. I think about moving to one of the booths in the back corner, but somehow that feels even more pathetic. I’m already at a dive bar twenty minutes south of my condo, nowhere near Callie or Jill’s neighborhoods. I might be tossing away ten months of sobriety, but I’m not about to do it in front of my best friends. They’d try and stop me.

  “You need something else?” Bartender boy is back. I sense the concern in his eyes as he regards the still full glasses. Or maybe I’m doing a shit job of masking my heartache.

  I shake my head and pick up the first glass, meeting his eyes before I tip it back and drink. The liquor burns. The taste is worse than I remember. My eyes water but I swallow it down. “Another.” I slam the empty down, pick up the second, and flash a fake smile. “Keep them coming.”

  Anger and determination swirl in my gut along with the amber liquid. I wait not so patiently for the haze to take over. For clouds of bad decisions to chase away my sharp consciousness. Tonight’s is the first drop I’ve consumed since I signed myself up for an outpatient rehab almost one year ago.

  Before that, drinking was part of my daily survival. I was a functioning alcoholic, and no one knew how deep I’d fallen because I was a good little addict. Hiding what I didn’t want them to know. No one sees a problem when the fun girl’s had too much. Not when her inhibitions lower and she’s smiling and appears carefree. No one argues when she’s always down for a night of partying or casual sex. Hell, in college that behavior is practically celebrated.

  My rock bottom came after almost sleeping with my best friend’s man. I lost Callie that night by doing something unforgiveable. That was the push I needed to take back control of my life.

  Or at least, I tried.

  Some good that did.

  Tonight, I’m throwing it all away.

  The two empty glasses on the bartop mock my failure, but they’re soon replaced with fresh drinks.

  “So, you waiting on friends?” the bartender asks. His smile is nice, a little crooked but kind. He’s too old for me and not at all my type, but for a moment I wonder if he’ll overserve me if I offer to blow him in the back.

  J
esus. What’s wrong with me?

  This day. This day is what’s wrong.

  “Yeah, he should be here soon,” I lie and smile, hoping that buys me at least another shot.

  “Cool.” He nods.

  Before he can open his mouth to make casual conversation, I pick up my cell and pretend to appear busy. I have no one to call. No one to talk to. Not about this. Not now.

  That’s a lie.

  I could call my sponsor, or my brothers, or even Jill and Callie—but then I’d have to admit to everything. Which would require an explanation—the letter—and that’s something I’m taking to the grave.

  My body sways to one side, the alcohol doing its job, and I almost fall off my chair. When did I become such a lightweight? Thankfully, the bartender doesn’t notice. He’s busy attending to a couple at the opposite end.

  I down my next drink, and this time the liquor goes down smooth as water. My body is warm and the old familiar feeling takes hold. If I close my eyes, I can pretend everything in the world is right. That I’m happy and not so fucked up.

  For the first time since marching into this dive, I take stock of my surroundings. Neon beer logos glow from the walls. A group of rowdy twenty-somethings shoot pool near the back. A group of older guys laughs and shouts over a Patsy Cline song. I search for the source.

  A jukebox.

  I stumble off my barstool, and a giggle escapes my lips. “Shit.” My feet feel heavy in my shoes, but I don’t give a fuck. My soul is lighter. This is what I came for. God, this feels good. I laugh again and draw a few stares. There’s interest in the faces staring back—mostly men, and I stand a little taller. Reveling in their attention, there’s an extra sway in my hips as I strut over to the ancient machine.

  I peruse through the music, a mix of classic country along with current hits. I dig through my bag for spare change, a task that’d be easier if the room stopped spinning.

  Realizing there’s a slot for dollar bills, I feed the machine a few and make my selections. The letters and numbers blur and focus with my breath. Hopefully, I do it right. I haven’t seen a jukebox since I was a child.

  Memories, sweet and toxic, flood my mind.

  My dad. A diner. So much laughter. The good times. Or so I thought. My jaw clenches and my eyes slam shut.

  Damn him. Damn both my parents.

  The current song ends and Stevie Nick’s voice croons through the speakers. Her lyrics speak to the turmoil that churns in my soul. Haunted. Sad. Alone. Damn it. Why did I pick this song? My eyes prick with moisture. I swallow the thickness in my throat.

  “Alicia?”

  I recognize his voice before I lift my stare. Chase Matthews. The younger stepbrother to my friend Jill’s boyfriend. A hot as hell fire captain. My bestie Callie’s ex-boyfriend, the one I’ve always been dangerously attracted to. The one I almost slept with that night.

  He stands five feet away looking better than ever, his dark hair a little too long and needing a trim. Tattoos peak out from the hem of his shirtsleeves and the cotton shirt collar, giving off bad boy vibes. Fuck me. Muscles, a fucking broad chest, and trim waist. Eyes so deep and knowing I could get lost in them.

  Of course he’s here. This day was fucked from the start, and maybe so am I.

  He stares a long moment, taking in my appearance. His lips tip up with a smirk, as if he’s in on some secret. Or maybe satisfied at catching my drunk ass in a bar. “I thought you didn’t drink.”

  “Please don’t tell anyone.” I can’t fight or hide the desperation in my voice, and I think it catches us both off-guard. I swallow hard, meeting his stare. Begging with my eyes. “Please.”

  “Are you okay? You’re not here alone?” His tone lacks its normal bravado. Almost as if his concern is genuine.

  Damn. I must be really drunk.

  My spine straightens and defensiveness shakes my voice. “I’m . . .” Lost. Hurt. Fucked. “I think I made a mistake.” I don’t know why the admission flies from my lips, especially in front of a man I despise. “I just need to go home.”

  “I’ll take you.” His response is swift.

  “No.” My lips press together. Irritation prickles my already shot nerves. I don’t want his help. “I’ll call an Uber.”

  “Alicia.” He laughs, that all-knowing, obnoxious way. “You’re not getting in a car with some stranger.” He huffs out another chuckle, his gaze sweeping my body with judgment. “Not like this.”

  If he’s insinuating my clothes are too promiscuous, he can go fuck himself. If he’s implying I’m drunk, he’s right.

  Fuck, I hate that he’s right.

  “I don’t need saving.” My chin lifts in defiance, even though my body sways as I scramble to regain my equilibrium. I won’t appear weak or needy. Not in front of Chase. “Especially from you.”

  “Right.” His lips pinch and he shakes his head, grumbling under his breath. I don’t catch his exact words, but his annoyance is clear. Good. I’m not happy about running into him either. The faster he walks away the sooner we can both pretend this never happened.

  Only he doesn’t do that. Chase steps forward, clear determination in his eyes. For a split second I wonder if he’s going to make a move. I kind of want him to. I want to feel desired. Adored. Something. But he doesn’t press his lips to mine. No, instead he scoops me off my feet and hauls me into his arms, walking us toward the exit.

  “Chase! What the hell? Put me down!” My arms tighten around his shoulders as if he might drop me, but it’s feigned alarm. I don’t feel one ounce of fear in his arms. Maybe I should. I definitely shouldn’t enjoy the way his muscles feel under my palms. How he carries me as if I weigh nothing, or how the warmth of his body stirs feelings I have no business entertaining. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking you home,” he mutters and pushes the door open with his back, ignoring a bar full of curious stares and not stopping once to catch his breath as he heads straight for his car. Gravel crunches under his boots with each footfall, echoing loudly above the quiet lot.

  “I’m not sleeping with you.” I grumble into his neck.

  He laughs, shaking his head before setting me on my feet. “Never thought you would.”

  But the truth is, I would sleep with him right now.

  It wouldn’t even take much effort.

  God, I’m so messed up.

  Shame weighs heavy in every fiber of my being. For all that I’ve done and everything I’ve never said. Leaning against his car, I tip my head back and take in the sky.

  The moon peeks from behind a shroud of clouds. It’s full tonight, but there’s no way to witness more than a sliver of light. She’s unable to shine fully. Her full glory covered and hidden from the world. Sadness settles on my chest at the sight. Maybe that’s how it’s meant to be. My destiny. I shut my eyes, craving the dark of night to pull me under its veil.

  “Alicia,” Chase says.

  My eyes snap open and I startle.

  “You okay?” he asks for the second time. His gaze searches mine and his features hide in the shadows, but I don’t need to see his face. He knows I’m not okay. Deep down he’s the same as me. Just another soul desperate for connection. Both haunted by our pasts. Most people don’t understand the level of self-hate I carry, but I think Chase would. Fuck, he looks good. Too good. Another temptation I’m too weak to resist. I shouldn’t touch him, or kiss him, or want him. But I do.

  Fuck it. What’s one more bad decision?

  1

  Alicia

  Ten months later

  Worst. Night. Ever.

  Okay, not the worst. Not even close. But tonight definitely clenches a top ten spot in my list of worst sober nights. I’m certainly questioning my re-emergence into the dating world. It’s been months. Almost a year to be exact and I thought I was ready. Mentally prepared.

  What I didn’t realize was how many idiots walk the streets of Richmond, setting up profiles on dating websites when they’d do better to spend their time on s
elf-help books or one-on-one counseling. I can say that because I’ve done both. Being a recovering alcoholic is no walk in the park, but at least I own my shit. I work through it with my therapist. I don’t air out my insecurities and fetishes like dirty laundry during a first date.

  One thing’s for sure. It was much easier to tolerate a bad date after a couple of glasses of wine. Old me might have taken that guy home, just so I wouldn’t be alone. To feel adored, wanted, and desired for a little while. Sometimes I wish I could go back, become that person again, even though she was miserable. It was easier to be numb.

  Sober dating requires effort. I’m desperate for authentic connection. I want real. But I’m also terrified of finding it. Will I be able to handle an honest love? Will I run or retreat into self-destruction? Real is hard. Honesty and truth aren’t my default. Maybe I’m too broken to deserve something precious? Would I even recognize it if it were right in front of me?

  Laughter and music floats through the open patio bar on my right. The impulse to stop-in and order a glass of Merlot catches me off guard. I exhale a long breath, chasing away the urge. My failed date was a trigger. I’m sure that’s it.