Page 12 of What They Say

“You must be Chase,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m Mercedes, Benny’s new sober companion.”

Chase shook her hand, surprised at how firm her grip was. “Nice to meet you. So...what exactly does that mean? You just follow him around all day?”

Mercedes gave a small, knowing smile. “A lot of people think that, but no, it’s not babysitting—or not just babysitting. It’s structure. Accountability. I’m here twenty-four seven for the first few months. I keep him on his schedule with meetings, therapy, nutrition, sleep, exercise. I sit with him when the cravings hit hard at 3 a.m. I call him on his bullshit when he tries to minimize things. And I help him rebuild the habits that will keep him healthy when I’m not around.”

Chase glanced over at Benny, who was now arguing quietly with Slate about whether coffee counted as a trigger to relapse. The tension in Benny’s shoulders was obvious.

“It’s hard work,” Mercedes continued, voice steady but kind. “For both of us. Benny has to want this—really want it—or none of it sticks. My job is to make sure he has the tools and support so when the urge comes, he’s got something stronger than willpower to fight it with. The goal isn’t just keeping him clean today. It’s getting him back to whole health. Mind, body, music, everything.”

Chase let that sink in. This wasn’t some temporary watchdog. This was serious. Real. The kind of commitment that meant Mercedes had signed up to live Benny’s recovery with him, day in and day out.

He felt a strange mix of hope and guilt twist in his chest. Hope because Benny finally had real help. Guilt because he still wondered if speaking up sooner could’ve prevented things from getting this bad.

“Thanks for doing this,” Chase said quietly. “He’s...important to a lot of us.”

Mercedes nodded, her expression softening. “I know. I’ve read his file. He’s got a lot worth fighting for. Including you guys.”

Slate called her name, and she gave Chase one last nod before heading over to introduce herself properly to nearly everyone. Chase stayed where he was, watching as Mercedes calmly but firmly redirected Slate’s overbearing energy and started laying out ground rules with Benny.

For the first time since Benny had collapsed, Chase felt like maybe, just maybe, things were going to be okay.

Not easy. Not quick. But okay.

Chapter Three

Chase

Chase sat in his usual front window booth at the little diner on the edge of town, absently pushing scrambled eggs around his plate with his fork. The morning sun poured through the windows, warm and bright, but his mind was still half-stuck in last night’s show. The new songs were really starting to click. The crowd had been loud. Vic and Benny had both told him afterwards that he was sounding tighter every practice and gig.

Still, something felt restless under his skin.

He took a sip of coffee and glanced out the window just as a deep, throaty rumble cut through the quiet morning air.

Chase knew that sound.

He’d spent hours in Bear’s garage watching the big man work on that bike—matte black with an electric blue-and-white schema streaking across the tank and fenders like lightning frozen in motion. Bear had been stupidly proud of the paint job. Said it was one of his favorites.

He hadn’t heard Bear say who’d bought it, but Chase expected to see one of the patched RWMC members pulling in.

What he saw instead made his breath catch.

A girl swung a leg over the bike to dismount with effortless confidence. Short platinum hair caught the sunlight as she pulled off her helmet, the longer pieces on top falling messily across her forehead. She wore a simple white tank top tucked into black shorts, bold red stockings that disappeared into black boots, and enough tattoos to tell him she didn’t give a damn what anyone thought. A silver chain glinted at her waist. She looked like trouble wrapped in sunlight.

She stood for a second beside the bike, rolling her shoulders like she was shaking off a long ride, then turned towards the diner. Their eyes met through the glass for one electric second.

Chase’s heart slammed against his ribs.

She didn’t smile. She just held his gaze for a beat longer than necessary, one eyebrow lifting slightly like she was sizing him up. Then she broke the stare and walked towards the entrance, helmet tucked under her arm.

Who the hell is she?

Chase couldn’t look away. He watched her push through the door, the bell jingling overhead. She moved like she owned the room, not arrogant, just with certainty. Comfortable in her own skin in a way most people faked.

She ordered at the counter, then took a seat facing the window. When the waitress brought her coffee, she wrapped both hands around the mug like it was the only thing grounding her, something he could empathize with.

Chase realized he was staring again.

He forced his eyes back to his plate, but his pulse was still racing. That bike. That girl. The way she’d looked right at him like she could see straight through whatever mask he was wearing today.