Chapter 3 Ryder Hendrix
RYDER HENDRIX
A YEAR AGO… OBLIVION HAZE’S TOUR BUS
The first dream that hit was a warped version of my most recent memories.
Nevada blurred past the shaded windows like an endless watercolor refusing to come into focus.
Dry heat and brutal sunlight did that—making the world wave in psychedelic ways even when you aren’t tripping.
It was nearly a hundred degrees outside as we’d rolled into Paradise for the sold-out concert.
I sat in one of the recliners and stared up at the ceiling of the tour bus, examining a mystery stain.
I’d have to leave a note for the deep cleaners.
Though, maybe they’d avoided it on purpose.
In the past, we had a habit of leaving unsavory ‘party’ remnants around the tour bus.
The guys were watching some dumbass movie. Tray had burnt popcorn in the microwave. I hated that smell. It lingered in the air for hours.
I blinked in the dream.
We were parked. The sun had dipped, though the day wasn’t any cooler.
Our wardrobe gurus had settled on all-black ensembles, which seemed like a dumbass move.
Fucking hellscape and they wanted us to don funeral garb.
We’d thrown that shit to the curb and just worn comfortable crap from our personal luggage.
I stepped off the bus, boots slapping against black top so hot that I worried it might melt the rubber soles beneath me, and all I heard was the buzzing noise of crowded fans.
Faces in a crowd stared at me and the boys.
Bobbing white poster board featuring bright neon bubble letters.
Magazines were slapped against heaving breasts; each gossip rag was clearly opened to the recent Oblivion Haze interview.
Our faces all over the world. Even after all these years, fame didn’t settle well.
Hell, it was what we’d always wanted, but sometimes it was too much.
It was why we turned to booze and drugs and quick fucks.
In some weird, warped way, that trifecta kept us grounded.
Lately, I’ve been wondering if we were all just getting too damn old for the hustle.
What was that old saying? Only the good die young?
No… that didn’t fit. The hotter the flame, the shorter the burn.
Some nonsense shit like that. Once we’d hit the big time, it was a nonstop inferno.
The flame was fizzling. Our drive was slowing.
Mostly, our ability to hold our Alpha bullshit together was waning.
The bomber jacket was too fucking hot, and I slid it off my body, folding it over my right forearm before shoving my hand into my artfully distressed jeans.
My shirt was one I’d had for a decade, paper thin and the design was nearly faded out of existence.
Probably should toss it. Could see my fucking nipples through the damn thing.
But right now—with the sun beating down and the bottoms of my feet burning despite the heavy protection of the boots—I’d be naked if possible.
“Ryder! Oh my, God, Ryder! Sign my tits!” A redhead launched forward, violently launching herself at the guards keeping the crowed back. She quickly found herself hoisted in the air, thrown over a Beta’s shoulder. Dude was strong, though no Alpha.
Check that. I definitely wouldn’t want to be naked here. Fucking groupies.
“Different arena, same bullshit,” Dixon growled beside me.
I nodded without looking at him. Dixon, though we’d ditched the official wardrobe, had ended up in his black leather vest over a black tee and black wash jeans with gaping holes at the knees.
The only interruption of color was a green bandana he’d tied onto a belt loop.
He kicked the ground with one motorcycle boot, as if he could somehow tweak the scene in front of us like applying effects or looping sound with a stomp box.
“This bullshit used to give you an instant hard-on, Dix.” Tray quipped, tossing his arm over Dixon’s shoulders and grinning with dimples on full display towards the woman who was kicking and screaming, trying to get down. The Beta held her, though by his strained expression it was no easy feat.
“It’s just fucking old at this point,” Dixon griped, shoving Tray off.
Our youngest pack member hopped away, taking the hint.
We all read Dixon like a thermometer these days.
Keep it below seventy degrees, it was cool and breezy.
When the temperature crept higher, it was better to steer clear.
Tray could get away with more than me and Mac when it came to pushing Dixon’s buttons.
They had something going on that none of us bothered defining.
We were all a family, all loved each other in our own ways.
“If having women throw themselves at us has gotten old, then we need to find new professions.” Tray, dimples still cratering, soft punched Dixon’s shoulder. Dixon rolled his eyes, mouth drawn into a tight, unhappy line.
“Your outfit looks stupid,” Dixon jabbed.
Tray always looked a little out of place, favoring artistic clothing.
Today was a long tunic fringed at the bottom over tight, studded pants which strained over his large leg muscles.
The tunic had a see-through mesh panel across his pecs, putting his nipple rings on full display.
I’d asked him once if sitting in pants like that wasn’t a pain in the literal ass while drumming, and he’d just shrugged.
“I look hot.” Tray quipped, smile barely faltering.
“You look like a hot mess.” Dixon’s mood was fouling further, despite Tray’s attempts to cheer him up. We needed to shift his gears before he put himself in such a state that he couldn’t perform.
“That Beta is really determined to get to us.” Mac sidled into view, always the last off the bus.
He crossed his arms and perused the rabid fan crowd.
“We’ve got several hours. Autographs?” Mac glanced down at his vintage watch, tapping the glass casing and then quirking a brow.
He was in tailored vintage slacks and a vintage brown vest over a white tank.
His sharp-toed burgundy oxfords were crowned with plaid socks that would scream ‘grandpa’ on anyone else.
“I’m not signing shit,” Dixon growled.
I blinked again.
Then again.
It took three blinks this time.
The dream shifted.
The crowd in the parking lot blurred, and we were suddenly on stage.
The blinding lights made it hard to see past the edge of the expansive platform.
I closed my eyes against the jarring brightness.
I didn’t need to see to know the fans were there—in the pit or their ticketed seats—and that they all wanted the same thing.
An Oblivion Haze experience they’d never forget.
I belted out the first song. My hands slid down the strings so firmly and sharply, that my fingers stung.
That sting was delicious, pulsing through years of calluses.
There was unchecked wildness in my voice tonight.
Dixon, thank fuck, had pulled himself together for the performance.
As the music continued, rising and falling, I sang until my throat turned raw. This was what it was all about. Me. Dixon. Mac. Tray. The crowd. All of us. Together. Twisting, tangling, becoming one unit. Not just a concern. A spiritual fucking release.
Sweat tracked down my face and neck. By the fifth song, my body was soaked and my shirt plastered to my chest. The stage spotlights were nearly as unforgiving as the Nevada sun outside, but I was a live wire, so charged up that it wouldn’t have mattered if magma bloomed up from the floor beneath me.
I continued to slide my fingers up and down the strings, the rush of the notes racing through my veins to bleed out onto the crowd.
I’d wondered if I’d ever tire of that feeling, if the rush would fade.
Not today. Not yet. We were alive, and every chord we hit was as good as sex and drugs and rock and roll promised to be.
Dixon’s tempo shifted, but only for a heartbeat before he got back on track.
I flicked a glance over at him, saw the way his face was strained and that deep, telltale crease between his brows which meant he was having to use every ounce of focus to stay on target.
He was struggling so damn much lately. We’d be mid practice, and he’d lose rhythm without warning.
He’d punched a hole in the studio wall from frustration.
We all knew why. We weren’t getting any younger.
None of us had found our scent match. I’d only made the situation fucking harder by clinging to the memory of that Omega in Seattle.
I’d convinced them all to search for one match for our pack.
I kept reasoning that it would keep us closer in the future.
It also meant anytime one of us smelled someone worth checking out, the others had to agree.
I didn’t used to believe in love at first smell.
Now I did. Love at first sight. First smell.
First kiss. It was probably my goddamn fault Dixon was deteriorating.
Gentle, giant Dixon. He wouldn’t purposely hurt anyone ever.
Maybe if they’d all met her back then. Maybe they’d all feel the same way I did.
Didn’t matter. I couldn’t find her. I’d searched doggedly for months. She was an angel that went back to heaven.
The song shifted.
The fog machines kicked on, casting a spooky haze over the stage to flow into the crowd.
“Ghost of us. Graves with our two bodies turned to dust. If I say just stay, can you do that or is it too late? Should we hate? Is this fate? Should we pray for one more day?” I let the guitar rest against my body as I cradled the mic with both hands.
“My memory is hazy. I only know you were the one to save me. Ghost of us. In death with trust. We were a rush before the ghost of us.”