Page 8 of Beckon

What he did know for sure was he owed her, whoever she was. She’d shown him kindness he didn’t deserve. That kind of behavior in this ugly world needed to be rewarded, not ignored.

He grabbed his phone, which was… still in his pocket.

His rideshare app didn’t have a recent trip listed. Great, the only way to find out who she was and make things right was to reach out to Tate.

Fuck.

Chandler stumbled to the sink and refilled his glass of water. After downing that, he checked the closet for the aforementioned smell.

She was right, there was a smell. He fired off a text to Tate and started emptying the closet while he waited for a response. He scrubbed the floor and replaced all the shoes but there was still a smell.

Not surprising since the last time he’d cleaned it was at least a month ago when everything changed yet again. That was when he’d started drinking too. He hadn’t told Tate the real reason or it would destroy him. Brady had shown him a document they were never meant to see. That was the last time anyone had seen him. He took off in the middle of the night without a trace.

Chandler shook off his thoughts and focused on the mission at hand.

After a quick check, he found the source of the offensive odor on the bottom of a pair of sneakers. After ridding them of the unidentified blob on the sole, he closed the closet door and opened it quickly. No smell.

Mission accomplished.

But still no word from Tate.

“Dammit,” he muttered to himself while he hit the call button. As expected, no answer. “Hey, Tate. I know you’re probably still pissed at me, and I promise, I’m gonna figure my shit out. I wanted to start with my driver last night. I need to find her. Can you send me the trip info?”

Chandler ended the call after leaving the message and ran his hands over his face. He was messed up, mentally. He needed to get his life in order, but he was stumped as to how to go about it. Or even if he wanted to. It would be easier to throw in the towel and end the fight.

For a moment, at least, he would continue the fight.

The first step was the one everyone seemed to have a suggestion for. From grief counseling, AA, psychologists, psychiatrists, even sound therapy or some hippie stuff. That was not him, but neither was drinking until he dulled the sharp edges of memories either. At the rate he was going, he would become a raging alcoholic in no time.

Maybe it was the motivation to take that first step that was his real sticking point. It wasn’t that he just loved living like that, he damn sure didn’t. But it was the devil he knew, so to speak.

Spiraling, that’s what he was doing. He needed something to focus on. A goal, a task…

A mission.

The driver.

The text tone of his phone pulled his attention. A tingle of anticipation skittered up his spine, a feeling he hadn’t felt in years. Not in a good way at least.

The words that greeted him pulled that feeling right out of him.

TATE: Chandler, I love you, man, you know that. But you need to be pulling yourself out of the fucking hole, not chasing tail.

Three bouncing dots told him Tate wasn’t done yet.

TATE: I’ll help you heal, but I won’t help you drag some girl down with you.

Chandler cursed but it didn’t make him feel better. Tate just assumed the worst, rightfully so, but it still stung.

CHANDLER: She’s not tail and I’m not chasing. I want to apologize, that’s all. Aren’t you the one always on me about taking responsibility for my actions? Well…

Those damned dots danced again. He hated them. The longer they danced, the more it ramped up his anxiety. It meant his friend was typing and erasing, typing and erasing. Gearing up to set him down. Chandler wasn’t fooling himself about where Tate stood. He was the last person who gave a shit about him.

And I do mean last.

Chandler didn’t even care about himself anymore. Except, a sliver of self-preservation had crept in as he read the note left to him by a stranger. It wasn’t technically self-preservation, that was an oversell. It wasn’t about saving his own blackened, shriveled soul; it was about not infecting another person with it before he left this world.

The dots still danced.

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