Resurrection (The Deviant Hearts #3)

Prologue

"Tyler!"

"Tyler! Here!"

"Congrats, Ty!"

"Look this way, Tyler!"

The calls come from every direction, loud and eager, like the industry is afraid I might vanish if they don’t pin me down.

I blink at the glare of cameras as I move to the center of the red carpet.

My smile is wide and press-ready. I’ve done this a thousand times before—pretended to care.

And I think maybe at some point, I did. At some point, it was important.

I had big shoes to fill. But the days of the mighty The Deviant, once the biggest rock band on the planet, are behind me.

Behind us all. The four of us are going in different directions now.

Our lead singer, Justice, got married again. Became a father for the second time. He’s doing very well with his solo material.

Zander, our drummer, is in a relationship with some popular LA artist. He’s happy. He and Justice are still best buds and hang out often.

Cruz… Well, Cruz has always been a family man. Even when the rest of us were still assholes sleeping through the band’s willing female fanbase.

As for me, life surprised me by putting some people in my path who got me this latest gig.

An extremely popular anime series that needed a visionary producer to write a score.

I don’t know why the show execs thought that was me, but they liked what I did.

I was invited back to work on the second season.

Good money. No touring involved. A bit of creative freedom too.

A nice change after playing someone else's material for almost a decade.

I’m supposed to love this—so why do I feel like an alien in designer jeans and a leather jacket?

"Tyler!" A photographer from Pulse Nation waves at me to get my attention.

I rearrange my smile, pose some more, let them swarm, hiding the fact that these days, scrutiny makes my skin itch.

The PR girl on the edge of the red carpet fumbles with the printed sign with the name of the next artist, and I take that as my cue to leave the area. A couple of hands are thrust at me. I shake them as I walk further away from the cameras.

A sharp-dressed guy from the label gives me a thumbs-up. "Great work, Tyler!"

I chuckle back. "Thanks, Barry. Hope everyone’s speakers are ready."

Some model slides up next to me, whispering, "You really know how to light up a room.

" She bites her lip as her manicured fingers trace my arm.

Five years ago, I probably would've welcomed this flirtation just to kill some time later in the evening.

Now? I just offer a polite grin as I distance myself and brush her off with a quick "Sorry, hon. "

I’m a little tired of all this plastic. The more these people try to pull me in, the more my mind drifts, caught between being here and being somewhere else entirely.

Maybe it's an age thing. I can't pinpoint any other reason.

A swarm of industry friends comes at me next.

"Tyler, man! You killed it!" says a guy with perfect hair and too-tight jeans. His name escapes me. After a while, faces tend to blur in this business.

"You guys coming to the afterparty?" my friend Kellan eagerly inquires. It seems there's a private gathering following the main event.

"Heard you’re working on some solo stuff?" asks another industry acquaintance, Joey. He’s an actor by trade but plays in a punk band too.

"Nothing solid. Just noise and chaos so far," I tell him, shrugging like I don’t have a care in the world.

I wish it were that simple. It’d be nice to have a solo album, but I haven’t had any inspiration for a while. Seventeen years, to be exact. Being in a band kept me on my toes. Being on my own is harder than I expected. Especially creatively.

"If you need a drummer, let me know." Joey claps my back.

"Will do."

The chaos has already begun on the red carpet with the arrival of the main cast of voice actors from the series.

"We better get inside," Kellan suggests, jerking his chin in the direction of the venue.

Too late. I’m tugged into photos with one of the lead voice actresses on the show. "Always so shy, Tyler!" She giggles, snapping a selfie right there on the red carpet to the delight of all the reporters.

I manage a smile, quick and crooked. More celebs drift by in a sea of bling and Botox. It’s a game we all know, and I play along, nodding and handshaking, but my eyes keep scanning the crowd, looking for something or maybe someone that'll never be here.

The past always clings, even when you think you’ve shed it.

On the way into the venue, a girl with a press badge and too much enthusiasm thrusts a mic in my face. "Tyler! We’re all dying to know—is there a special someone?"

I wink, fast on my feet. "Only one," I say. "But she has six strings." The press girl pouts as I slip away.

Inside, the sea of people move about, laughing and drinking. In the center of it, there’s a goddess of a model, her smile wide enough to eclipse the sun.

"Tyler," she says, wrapping herself around my arm like a diamond-studded snake. "You’re making all the other boys look bad." She sounds like champagne fizz.

I let out a lazy laugh. "You overestimate my talents, Celina."

The ladies, they all love the laid-back rockstar vibe. And I’ve been hiding underneath this look for so long, I sometimes feel like I don’t know who I really am anymore. Maybe I became that other fictional persona, that other version of myself, while wearing the paint mask on stage.

Someone hands me a drink. I take it, my fingers wrapping around the ice-cold glass. I’m bored, I realize. I head outside to the back terrace, where the noise of the party is minimal, and call Cruz. Last time we spoke—it was months ago—we agreed to meet up. But the call goes straight to voicemail.

Seconds later, a text lights up my screen.

Hey, man, can't talk today. Me and Mrs. Velez have a date night. Trying this new BDSM club. You know how it is.

I bark out a laugh that makes a woman standing nearby look at me suspiciously, then type up a reply.

Damn. Go get it, bro.

Later.

Later.

Fucking Velez, a husband and a father of two, has more fun than I do. And I’m a free agent.

I flinch when the phone rings. It’s Mom. I hesitate, but deep down, I know there’s no avoiding it.

I slide the Answer button. "Yeah?"

"Hi, baby."

"Hey, Mom. What’s up?"

"Why is it so noisy? I can barely hear you," she starts immediately.

"I’m at the premiere."

"Is that today?"

"Yep."

"And you're staying out of trouble?"

Colette Brady is a helicopter mom. Even all these years later, she’s still terrified rock’n’roll will corrupt me. I can understand her fear, considering whose place I took. The guy is gone. Drugs got to him in the end. Sad fucking story.

"Absolutely," I reply.

"Good."

"Mom, it’s not the best time to talk. Can I call you tomorrow?"

"Jose is being taken off life support soon," she says, her voice solemn. "You should come say goodbye."

Her words reach inside, grabbing something vital, then twisting. An image of the desert fills my mind. Blue skies and palm trees from a lifetime ago. It’s like an imaginary map, one that’s been calling me back since I left.

"When?" I ask. The noise of the event is suddenly pressing in like it might crush me. Laughter and music and the clink of glasses, all of it too much and too little.

"Next week," my mother supplies.

Memories hit like waves all at once. The Medinas’ kitchen filled with the smell of spices.

Naomi’s voice blending with her brother’s as they tease each other over cards.

Their mother, Letty, constantly trying to feed me.

Her husband, Jose, telling local stories about mythical creatures that don’t exist.

"I don’t know," I admit, hesitating for a split second as my heart does that annoying flutter thing it always seems to do when that family is mentioned.

Funny how the prospect of facing Sageview Ridge shakes me more than any gig crowd ever could.

"Yeah, okay," I finally muster up a response through the phone like I’m biting into a lemon.

"I’ll do my best to be there before next week. "

"Your father will be happy to see you. He misses you. I miss you too."

Her words feel like a reprimand. I don’t visit often. And when I do, it’s brief. And I think my parents despise me for this distance I’ve created between us.

But maybe facing Naomi Medina is inevitable.

Maybe it’s time we have this conversation.