Chapter Thirteen
Waking up, Rick checked his phone before he even sat up in bed.
He didn’t know what he expected to see, but he checked anyway.
The headline was still there, on the entertainment sites that had first published it as breaking news.
Backing vocalist found dead in hotel room.
Police investigating. Rick opened it and scrolled.
Opening the article, Rick scrolled past the filler about Cass’ background.
He knew most, if not all of it, so he didn’t need to read it.
The article included a timeline that didn’t say much.
A quote from a spokesperson and a brief sentence about the tour still going ahead. Then he saw the part that mattered.
CCTV captured an unclear image of a person entering and leaving the floor around the estimated time of death.
Rick stared at the words for a moment, then scrolled down to see if there was a photo. There was, but it wasn’t a face. It was a shape in a hood, head down, nothing clear enough to grab onto. Smiling, Rick kept reading.
No arrests have been made. No suspects have been named. Police have not confirmed a cause of death. Another paragraph later, a line about evidence. No DNA match at this time.
Putting the phone down on the mattress beside him, Rick sat there for a moment, listening to the quiet in his apartment. He picked the phone back up and read the same lines again, slower this time, then closed the article.
It was working. That was the part he couldn’t stop thinking about.
Rick lay in bed longer than he needed to, phone in his hand, staring at nothing. He hadn’t planned to go to Allen that night. He’d told himself he’d go home and sleep. Instead, he’d ended up outside Allen’s building, and Allen had opened the door and let him in.
That part still kept replaying in Rick’s head. The way Allen hadn’t backed up. The way he’d kissed Rick like he wanted it. The way he’d made those sounds when Rick pushed him against the wall. The way he’d clung instead of pulling away. He hadn’t expected Allen to like it.
Rick closed his eyes and replayed what had happened. Allen’s hands on his shoulders. Allen’s breath catching when Rick took control. The way Allen had gone quiet in that split second before he gave in.
He’d wanted it.
Rick’s mouth tightened. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. It made him feel like he could take what he wanted and still be wanted back.
Picking up his phone, Rick scrolled through his messages with Allen. Allen’s replies were quick when he could, slower when he was at work.
Rick stared at the last message and typed. You survive today?
He watched the screen until the reply came in. Barely. People are insane.
Rick’s mouth twitched, and he typed back. Any standouts?
The typing bubble appeared, then stopped, then appeared again. One guy yelled because his delivery was late. Like I’m driving the truck.
Rick leaned back against the headboard. He could picture Allen saying it, being professional when he really wanted to tell the customer to fuck off. Smiling, Rick typed a message and sent it. You eat?
Yeah. Sandwich. It wasn’t great.
Rick stared at that for a second, then replied. Get something decent tonight.
Allen’s answer came back a minute later. Bossy.
Rick’s fingers paused over the keyboard, then he typed, You liked it.
There was a longer gap this time. Rick watched the screen, waiting. Maybe.
Rick’s breath caught. He kept his reply simple. Good.
Another pause, then Allen’s response came through. You okay today?
Rick stared at the question. There was no way he could tell Allen the truth. Yeah. Just tired. Writing’s been a headache.
Allen replied. Want to come over later?
Rick stared at the question. He wanted to go over. He wanted to go back because Allen didn’t flinch when Rick took control. Allen looked at him like he wanted Rick to take control, and that did something to Rick. He liked it.
Rick typed. Not tonight. Friday?
Allen’s reply came quick. Yeah. Friday works.
Rick stared at the words for a moment, then locked his phone and put it down beside him. He lay back and closed his eyes, seeing Allen’s face. Allen made him feel like he could do anything and still be wanted, and Rick didn’t want to lose that.
Rick didn’t plan to watch anything that day. He’d opened his laptop and left the document open with a blank page and a blinking cursor. He’d stared at it long enough that his eyes started to water, then he shut the lid and walked into the kitchen for coffee.
He kept ending up back at his phone. At the news feeds and entertainment sites. He scrolled without reading until a clip loaded and a familiar face appeared in the corner of the screen.
Rick stopped at a short video posted on a music site. A studio setup with a host talking to the camera. A split screen showing footage of a mixing desk and a live room with a drummer behind glass.
And there he was. Elliot Hart.
Rick stared at the man on the screen. Elliot looked older, with gray at the temples, a neat beard, and a clean T-shirt under an open shirt. He was smiling as the host spoke, relaxed as if he belonged there. Rick pressed the volume up and began to listen.
“…and today we’re talking about how a track goes from a rough idea to something you can stream,” the host said, grinning. “We’ve got Elliot Hart with us. Producer, engineer, and the guy behind a lot of records you’ve definitely heard.”
Elliot laughed in an easy way that Rick hated immediately. “That’s generous.”
The host turned slightly toward him. “You’ve worked with everyone. Pop, rock, R&B. Big names. New names. The whole spectrum.”
Elliot’s smile didn’t change. “If someone’s willing to work, I’m interested. That’s the main thing.”
Rick sat at the kitchen counter with his coffee cooling in front of him, phone in his hand.
He continued to watch the interview, his eyes focused on the screen.
The clip cut to a different angle, and now a studio was behind them.
People were moving around in the background, with someone carrying cables and someone else laughing as they walked out of frame.
It looked like a real place with real work happening.
Rick swallowed. His throat felt tight, and he didn’t know why, because none of this had anything to do with him. Except it did.
Elliot had been the first producer who’d ever spoken to him like he wasn’t a product to sell to make money.
Elliot had been there before the song hit, when Rick was still doing small rooms and thinking he might have a career if he got lucky.
Elliot had been the one who’d told him to stop trying to sound like someone else and to be who he was.
“Sing like you,” Elliot had said, and Rick had believed him.
He watched Elliot now as the host asked about starting a song. “Do you begin with the vocal?” the host asked. “A beat? A melody?”
Elliot shrugged. “Depends on the artist. Some people walk in with a full demo. Some people hum a hook into their phone and swear they’ll remember the rest later. Usually, they don’t.”
The host laughed, and Elliot smiled again. Rick clenched his jaw. He didn’t like hearing Elliot talk about artists like they were a constant stream of people through a door. Like it hadn’t mattered who they were, because Rick had mattered. Well, he had back then.
The host nodded, still grinning. “Okay, so say you’re working with a new artist. What’s the first thing you do?”
Elliot leaned forward slightly. “I listen. Not just to their voice. To how they talk about what they want. You can tell pretty quickly if someone wants to work or if they want to be famous.”
Rick’s stomach rolled. He took a swallow of coffee and barely tasted it.
The host’s expression shifted. “So… you’ve worked with artists who had massive careers. And you’ve worked with artists who had, let’s be honest, one moment.”
Rick felt it in his chest first. That prick of warning that this conversation might go somewhere Rick didn’t want it to.
Elliot laughed, and it sounded genuine. “Yeah.”
“One-hit wonders,” the host said. “We all know them. One song that’s everywhere and then… gone.”
Rick stared at the screen. His fingers tightened on the phone as Elliot lifted both hands like he wasn’t taking it seriously. “It happens. Sometimes it’s timing. Sometimes it’s label stuff. Sometimes they get in their own way.”
The host nodded. “Did you ever work with someone like that?”
Elliot didn’t answer right away. He glanced off to the side, like he was thinking, and trying to make it look casual. Rick recognized it for what it was because he’d seen that look on Elliot’s face.
“Sure,” Elliot said. “A few.”
“Any that people would know?” the host pressed, still smiling.
Elliot’s mouth twisted like he was trying not to laugh. “People would know the song. They probably wouldn’t know the guy.”
Rick’s face burned. “Don’t say it,” he whispered.
The host leaned in a fraction. “Come on.”
Elliot huffed a laugh. “It was a long time ago.”
“So it’s not recent.” The host smiled, appearing to be happy that Elliot might reveal something. “That narrows it down.”
Elliot glanced at the camera. “He had one massive hit, thought he was invincible, and then disappeared. That’s all I’ll say.”
Rick’s stomach dropped, and he sat very still. He could hear his own breathing, slow and controlled, and none of it matched what was happening inside his head.
The host laughed like it was a punchline. “Brutal.”
Elliot shrugged again. “It’s not brutal. It’s true. He didn’t want to work. He wanted the result.”
Rick stared at Elliot’s face. The easy smile and calm eyes.
The way he sat there like he hadn’t just said something nasty.
The host kept talking, moving on, asking about plugins and vocal chains.
Elliot answered with patience, still relaxed, still likeable.
Still the guy everyone wanted to be around.
Rick didn’t hear most of it. All he could hear was that line. One massive hit. Thought he was invincible. Disappeared. He hadn’t disappeared.
He’d been pushed out. He’d been managed into silence. He’d been told what to do and how to do it until there was nothing left that felt like his own voice. He’d been treated like a problem to solve. When it got messy, they’d moved on and left him behind.
Elliot knew that. Elliot had seen enough of it to know how the machine worked. He’d still said it, anyway.
Rick watched the clip again from the moment the host mentioned one-hit wonders. He listened to Elliot’s tone. The half-laugh. The easy shrug. The way he made it sound like a general comment while still making sure people would figure out who he was talking about.
It wasn’t an accident.
Rick put his phone down on the counter. He walked to the sink and turned the tap on, washing his hands even though they weren’t dirty. He dried them, then leaned both palms on the counter and stared at the tiles, jaw clenched so hard it started to ache.
Elliot was out there doing what he loved. In studios and on shows. Being called brilliant and amazing, and being treated like he mattered. Rick was here, alone, fighting for a scrap of attention.
Picking up his phone again, Rick opened the clip one more time, pausing it on Elliot’s face. The camera caught him mid-smile, eyes crinkled at the corners. Rick held it there for a long moment.
He didn’t need Elliot to say his name. He knew exactly who Elliot had been talking about.
Rick went into the living room and picked up his old phone. He opened the notes app and wrote Elliot Hart at the top, then stopped and erased it, then typed it again. He added one more line under it without thinking too hard about what it meant.
Where are you working now?
He stared at the screen, then locked the phone and put it down. He stood still, breathing slowly, letting the anger simmer inside. Elliot had decided Rick was a joke.
Rick could live with a lot of things, but he couldn’t live with being laughed at.