4. Ford
Ford
Ford stood on the side of the stage like he did before every show, listening to the support act.
Even after all these years in music, he couldn’t get enough of it. While his bandmates drank a few pre-show beers, he watched the three young men and one young woman in front of him give it their all to an audience who weren’t there for them.
He'd become very skilled over the years in picking out the bands who were going to make it, and when Donnie walked up and stood next to him and asked, “Do they have it?”
Ford knew exactly what his manager meant.
“Yeah, they do. Their songs are good. The energy is great, and their frontman is working a crowd who aren’t here to see them. The drummer could be tighter, but he looks about twelve, so he’s got plenty of time to develop.”
“Should I sign them?” Donnie gestured to the band. Midnight Thunder were Donnie’s first clients and the only ones he personally toured with, but he now had a large stable of bands all under his management company.
Ford tilted his head, closing his eyes as he got lost in the music. When the song ended, he opened his eyes and looked at his manager.
“Yeah, you should.”
“Thanks.” Donnie nodded.
The two men stood in silence through the next song, which was quiet, almost beautiful in the verses before it soared into a powerful chorus.
Until Donnie asked, “Do you ever still think about her?”
“Who?”
Ford’s gaze snagged on the girl playing guitar. She looked nothing like Sie, with blonde curls cascading down her back, but when he looked at her, all he saw was a young girl with straight black hair and eyes that looked into his soul.
“You know who. Sie,” Donnie said.
Ford didn’t look at his manager, but his friend’s attention bored into the side of his head.
Donnie knew what a mess he was when she walked away.
Had listened to him ramble on drunkenly about the woman who was his everything.
Picked him up off the floor more times than he cared to remember or could remember, as he was so often blacked out with alcohol and drugs.
Donnie was the one who told him when it was time to stop and drove him to rehab again and again until it stuck, something Ford would be forever grateful for.
Ford took a deep breath.
“I wish I could say no. But that would be a lie. I still think I see her. Every girl with long dark hair, for a second, my brain tells me it’s her. After sixteen years, it’s madness that I still think about her at all.”
Donnie shrugged. “It is,” he agreed, pulling a chuckle from Ford.
“Thanks, mate.” Ford pushed Donnie’s shoulder.
He said quietly, “I did think you were the couple that would make it.”
Ford swallowed hard. “Me too. Life, though, has a way of kicking you in the balls when you least expect it. I don’t think about her much anymore,” Ford lied. “Seeing a band with a female guitarist made me think of her again.”
Donnie nodded, then asked, “How’s Sylvia?”
Ford chuckled darkly when he thought of his latest ex. She'd dumped him a few days ago when he had clearly told her that he would not be getting married and that if she was waiting for a proposal, it would be better if they split up now.
“She dumped me.” Ford shrugged. He was sad; he'd had some great times with Sylvia, but he'd known for a while that it wasn't going anywhere, and if he hadn't been on tour, their relationship would have ended months ago.
“Marriage?” Donnie asked.
This wasn’t the first time that Ford had been in this position. Once he got sick of the groupies, he became a serial monogamist, with each relationship exploding when his girlfriend began to make noises that they would like a ring and a wedding.
“Yeah,” Ford groaned. He hated that he was having this conversation again with Donnie.
“Maybe one day you’ll be ready.” Donnie tried to reassure him.
Ford’s mind flashed back again to long dark hair, violet eyes and a pointed chin. He used to tuck her under his arm, her head only coming up to his shoulder, and they would talk about everything and nothing.
“Maybe,” he said non-committedly.
“How are you feeling about the last show?” Donnie changed the subject.
“Good,” Ford said.
“And you’re happy for it all to stop?” Donnie questioned.
When Ford said he was done for a long time, they’d argued back and forth. Donnie told him to think about what he was saying. The rest of the band joined in the fight, as without their frontman, they were on hiatus too.
But Ford insisted he needed a break. A long break.
Ford shrugged. “Yeah. I love it, it’s my whole life. But I feel like I’m thirty-eight years old, and living in this bubble hasn’t given me any time to work out what I like outside of music.” It sounded clichéd, but he needed some time to find himself.
“What if it’s only music?” Donnie asked.
Ford chuckled. “If it’s only music, then I’ll give you a call, and we can arrange the next tour.”
He knew that the guys would accept immediately.
They all loved the band's lifestyle. Waking up in a new country every few days.
The publicity. The perks of fame. Although they did admit it was harder being the frontman.
While the other three could still walk down the street and only be recognised by die-hard Midnight Thunder fans, he was stopped wherever he went.
Sometimes, he could see why Sie walked away from it all; the attention could be overwhelming. What he couldn’t understand was why she walked away from him.
When he was alone and couldn’t sleep, he often rehearsed the conversation that he would have with her if they ever met again. But so far, the private investigators had found nothing, and as the years went on, he began to accept it was a pipe dream that would never happen.
Donnie clapped him on the shoulder. “I look forward to that phone call.”
Ford nodded and went back to listening to the band. Bobbing his head in time to the beat.
His gaze snagged on long, dark hair on the other side of the stage. His heart skipped, and his legs propelled him forward without his conscious decision.
Making his way around the back of the stage, he pretended to be checking on one of his guitars, which were sitting waiting for him to play.
His pulse pounded in his ears as he tried to catch a glimpse of the woman’s face. It wouldn’t be Sie, but he needed to check.
When the woman turned, beautiful, dark almond-shaped eyes met his gaze.
It wasn’t her.
He stroked his hand over the electric guitar he clutched, and realised it was Sie’s. He occasionally played it in the show, and tonight, being the last concert he was planning on playing for a long time, it seemed only fitting to use it.
The set of the support act was drawing to a close, and Ford took that as his cue to head back to the dressing room and spend a bit of time with the band before they put on their final show.
When he walked into the dressing room, his heart sank.
Ryan looked like he was asleep on the sofa. But Ford had known the other man for many years. He wasn’t asleep; he was passed out, drunk or drugged.
The bottle of Jack Daniels that he kicked as he rushed over to the guitarist told him there was definitely alcohol involved.
“Shit,” Ford swore.
The other man’s chest slowly rose and fell, so at least he wasn’t dead.
Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he dialled Donnie, who answered immediately, “Ford?”
“We’ve got a problem. Come to our dressing room now,” he demanded.
Ford poked Ryan, hoping he was wrong and the other man was just asleep.
Even when he shoved him hard, Ryan didn't respond.
Donnie came sprinting into the room, with Scotty and Joel close on his heels.
“What’s happened?” Donnie’s eyes landed on Ryan, and he swore, “Fuck. What the fuckety fuck has that stupid arsehole taken?”
Ford shrugged and glanced at Scotty and Joel, who were both as clueless as he was.
His shoulders sagged with relief. The other two—like him—over the years, had their ups and downs with drugs and alcohol. After they both did some stints in rehab, thankfully, they now kept it to alcohol and the odd bit of weed. Only Ryan was still hard into the drugs.
“No idea, man,” Joel said. “He did say something about a new dealer with some epic gear. But we weren’t interested, so we left him to do what he wanted.”
When Ryan was on a mission for drugs, there was no stopping him.
Donnie’s eyes scanned the room, searching for any clue about what the guitarist took, but there was nothing out of the ordinary apart from the Jack Daniels bottle.
“Fuck. Right, there’s a first aid tent here. They’ve got a doctor. We need them now,” Donnie said.
“Shall we call an ambulance?” Ford asked, glad to have handed the responsibility over to Donnie.
“Not yet. Let’s get the doctor here first.” Donnie reached for the radio on his belt. “I’ve got a medical emergency backstage. Get me the doctor from the first aid post, immediately.”