Chapter Twenty-Three – Wren
When we’re called up to the stage, I’m the first to get to my feet. Logan is much slower, and he lets me take the lead. We make it to the side of the stage, where the few stairs are to get up there, and he says, “You never told me what song we’re singing.”
“It’s a surprise,” I say, and one look at him tells me he’s not happy about that.
“You’ll know it. I promise.” At least, I think he’ll know it.
If he is who I think he is, he should definitely know it.
Besides, even if he’s not a disgraced former rockstar, I know he knows who Black Sacrament is, because he was singing one of their songs in the cemetery.
If he’s just some random guy and he knows that song, he should know this song, too.
He frowns at me. “Whatever.” We head up the stairs and center ourselves onstage. I move aside the extra microphones we won’t need, and then I grab one and hand it to Logan since he doesn’t seem to be moving a muscle.
Apparently I’m doing all the work. It’s fine.
At least the guy is here, doing this. He could’ve said no.
There’s no way I could have forced him to come.
The moment of truth is about to happen—I just wish I could be in the audience, watching.
Being onstage with him would mean seeing him from a different angle.
I watched so many videos of Black Sacrament this afternoon, countless videos of the band performing the exact song we’re about to sing. I paid special attention to Pope and how he sang it, how he crooned into the microphone and lost himself to the lyrics.
And as for me…
Singing in front of a bunch of strangers to break the ice?
Not my idea of fun, but I couldn’t think of any other way.
It’s kismet that we both are connected to music, and if I’m making him face the music, so to speak, it’s only right that I do my part, too.
I haven’t sung a single word since the breakup, haven’t wanted to.
Tonight would be the first time since—and it’ll also be the first time I sing with another guy.
I don’t know how it’s going to go, but I hope Logan doesn’t get too upset.
The screens before us flare to life as my choice of song starts to play on the speakers.
There’s a short guitar rift before the first verse, and the very second it begins to play, Logan already recognizes the song.
His brows furrow, and he whips his head in my direction, his scowl deepening the longer he stares at me.
I can’t let him run, so I give him a gentle smile that I hope tells him it’s going to be okay. His mouth thins and he looks away right when it’s time to jump in the first verse. I decide to take that one, hoping he’ll get the hint and sing the second verse.
“My world was black. I thought I knew,” I sing, “pain everlasting, sorrow and madness… until you.”
The song, Godsent, is about a man who lived his life in complete misery, a man who thought he knew the horrors of the world.
But then the man falls in love with a girl, and all that pain, all that agony, is made ten thousand times more real.
She is godsent, and all he can do is fall to his knees and let her do whatever she wants to him.
“I was on a ledge, unsuspecting until the end,” I sing, my voice growing stronger, more confident.
I’m hitting the notes even though the song was written for a man’s voice.
I’m no soprano; I’m a pretty low alto, so a song like this is actually perfect for me.
“And then you came and made me bend. Everything I was, everything I am—”
One glance at Logan tells me he’s watching me, but I don’t know if he’s mentally here, or if he’s somewhere else.
I get to the bridge and the chorus, “I never wanted to be found, never wanted this, but you crashed me into the ground like you fell from heaven. True destruction and beauty, my absolution. Will you save me or destroy me? Godsent, give me your answer. Godsent, I need your answer. Godsent, my godsent.”
I stop singing and look at Logan, giving him a nod to tell him to sing. The second verse begins, but he doesn’t sing right away. I give him a pleading look, and thankfully that look breaks him.
He steps closer to the microphone and sings without needing to look at the screen: “My soul was black. I thought I knew pure insanity, torture and truth—until you.” I can tell he’s hesitant at first; he doesn’t really sing to his full power, but as the verse goes on, something changes in him… out of habit, maybe?
His eyes close, and he tilts his head somewhat.
His lips are practically on top of the mic, one of his hands curling over it and his mouth, as if to better capture his voice—a move I’ve seen Pope do in many of the videos I watched.
His feet spread, so the microphone stand can fit between them.
Just like that, it’s as if he turns into a different person.
“I’m on the ledge, staring down, ready to fall to my end, but now you’re here and everything’s a mess.
Who I was, what I am, burning so bright inside there’s nowhere left for me to hide.
” Logan’s voice gets stronger, retaining that rough, low scratchiness I heard at the cemetery—and hearing that voice over the speakers while standing next to him, it’s like I’m transported somewhere else.
To the audience at one of the Black Sacrament shows.
I can imagine him with a mask on, his skin painted black as he sings his heart out to the audience, hypnotizing each and every one, men and women alike. The star of the show with the ego to match. And a killer smirk to tie it all together.
“I never wanted to be found, never wanted you, but you crashed me into the ground when you fell from heaven,” Logan sings the second round of the chorus, its words slightly changed from the first. “True destruction and beauty, my absolution. Have you come to save me or destroy me? Godsent, give me your answer. Godsent, I need your answer. Godsent, my godsent.”
When he launches into the chorus again, as it repeats itself, I join in, though I sing mostly background vocals, too busy paying attention to him to put too much heart into it.
By the look of it, everyone here is caught in his spell, too.
It’s all fun and games when a group of people with not-so-good voices are singing at a karaoke bar, but it’s a different thing entirely when those people can actually sing—and when one is a bonafide rockstar.
And he is. He has to be. Too many similarities in the way he moves, how he holds himself and the microphone as he sings—not to mention the voice. God, his voice… a voice like that doesn’t come around all the time. A voice like that is unique.
The odds are so infinitesimal that it doesn’t feel real, but it has to be: Logan Crew is Pope from Black Sacrament.
It’s why he has an entire room dedicated to guitars, why he always gets so upset when I bring them up.
It’s why he got so pissed at me for overhearing him singing at the cemetery, why he’s so angry at the world.
Logan is a jerk because Pope was a jerk. They’re two sides of the same coin.
“Godsent, will you be the death of me?” Logan sings, oblivious to the way I watch him, oblivious to the way the entire bar watches him with stars in their eyes. “Godsent, or will you save me? Godsent, I’m here on my knees, begging you to see… see something worth saving inside me.”
Though he’s not facing me, it’s like he’s saying those words directly to me, and my heart does something weird in my chest. It constricts, tightens, and warms up at the same time.
I feel like I want to move closer to him, to…
tell him everything’s going to be all right—and I want him to believe me, to put his arms around me and hold me.
I have a thought then I never had before: I want to take him home, so we can make my sheets as messy as we made his.
When that thought crosses my mind, I stop singing background vocals and just watch him, watch as he finishes the song with a flourish.
I was never the kind of girl who crushed on rockstars, but I think I get it now.
There’s something sexy about a man who can sing those kinds of words and sound like he means them.
The song ends, and Logan opens his eyes to applause. It’s almost as if he forgot where he was, because when he looks around at the bar, at all the impressed faces, when he hears their eager clapping, something inside him switches.
He looks at me, mutters a harsh “Fuck you,” and then leaves the stage by hopping off its front edge. I’m so caught off-guard by his switch in demeanor that I stand there for a few moments, watching him zigzag through the bar, with my mouth open.
Wait, no. I can’t let him go after that. I need to get my butt into gear.
I ignore the weird looks as I follow his path; the stage stands three feet off the ground, so it’s easy enough to jump off of even though there are signs galore saying not to do it.
Picking up my pace, I exit the bar and chase after him, and when I step out into the cool night air, I find he’s already a good ways down the sidewalk.
“Wait!” I call out for him, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even look at me. I have to sprint to catch up to him, and when I do I set a hand on his arm. A mistake, because when he turns toward me, the expression he wears is one of pure rage.
“What the fuck kind of game are you playing at, Wren?” he hisses out my name as he towers over me, blocking out the night sky effortlessly.
At such a late hour, the sidewalks and streets aren’t as busy as they were earlier.
I wouldn’t say we’re alone, but there’s no one around to step in should things get dicey.
I don’t think they will, but… I guess you never know. He is really, really angry with me.
“I’m not playing a game,” I say, hoping my sincerity shows through my words. “I just—”