Chapter 17 Ryder
RYDER
What we were producing right now couldn’t be called music, not by a long shot.
The sheet music was right in front of us—well the working song that was still a hot fucking mess—but we couldn’t seem to get in sync.
The band was completely out of step and out of tune, too far gone for even a click track to align us.
Not that a damn audio reference would be enough anyway.
We’d also need high level auto tune to fix the fact that each word I sang hit sharp, if I even managed to expel the lyric without my voice cracking.
This wasn’t a new problem either. Shit had been falling apart since the last tour ended.
Every piece of equipment was fine. Our environment was as luxe and relaxing as it had always been. We were the issue. We were fried, finished, finally the picture of washed-up rockers that couldn’t hack it anymore.
Oblivion Haze was facing the end. The—for lack of a better description—aching, blackened oblivion that followed fame. We’d burned hot for nearly a decade. All good things eventually ended.
“Forgotten memories. Pain cuts shallow then deeper ‘til I bleed.” I cradled the microphone, pitching my voice low in the signature way that had gotten me one too many bras tossed on stage. “Blue eyed, angel savior. A sinner kiss against heaven’s favor.” I hit sinner in falsetto but failed to smoothly drop back down.
As a result, finishing the lyric sounded like the death throes of a drowning cat.
I stopped trying, humming wordlessly along to the jarring notes popping off around me. It just wasn’t right.
I’d written the new song in a drug-fueled fever, words scrawled across torn pages we’d found scattered across the house once we were sober enough to register the mess that we’d all made.
Our best songs often came from partying ‘til we puked, and I knew this could be a number one hit. It might beat out “January Judas” which had topped the charts for a straight year. Or maybe it would be a cult favorite like “Ghost of Us”. That didn’t take off at first, but now fans screamed for it every concert.
If it took getting violently sick on booze to write a song, it was worth it.
Last night hadn’t gotten so bad, thank goodness.
Just too much alcohol and self-pity… a lot less destroying our furniture and trying to drown in the pool because we were too high to remember how to swim.
Pushing the microphone into the stand clip, I walked off the low stage we’d added to the basement last year. I headed over to a well-worn velvet loveseat. Flopping down on it, I tossed my legs up. My untied leather boots slapped loudly against the glass topped, oval coffee table.
“Fuck this shit,” I muttered, leaning my head back and staring at the ceiling.
The large room was soundproof, with an adjacent recording booth for when our jam sessions needed to be recorded for rough cut fan releases.
No fan would want the shit we were shoveling lately though.
Hearing it was tantamount to instrumental assault.
I shook my head a little and focused back on my bandmates.
Dixon had taken my cue, his guitar falling silent as he too gave up before dropping it on its folding stand.
He pushed his hand through his bleached hair, making it stick up in random directions.
He stomped off the stage and towards the well-stocked minibar, but not to drink.
We’d all decided to remove the small bottles from this area, replacing them instead with electrolyte water and Alpha tonics.
Our band therapist Doctor Thorne, an Alpha who had a particularly calming scent and a fatherly aura, had suggested the change.
We were supposed to remove liquor completely but hadn’t quite healed enough for that shit.
Upstairs proved that—what with the empty beer bottles from last night still dotting the living room.
“Really fucking hate this shit,” Dixon growled, staring into the fridge and not finding liquor.
He’d already broken one nickel string today, just from playing aggressively as his tension mounted.
We’d had to replace his electric guitar three times over the last six months.
He’d snapped it in half once, slammed it into the stage another, and just fucking through it in the trash the last time.
We could have saved that one, but we didn’t realize where it was until the trash had already been picked up by the city.
Dixon was… worse off than the rest of us.
His ruts were so deep lately that he couldn’t crawl out of them.
He was talking about joining an amateur UFC group just so he could beat the shit out of people and get some emotional relief.
Mac, ever the rational hold out with perfectly coifed golden hair, still strummed his bass, following the melody he’d scribbled down to match my lyrics.
He paused here and there, notating something on the music sheet, and then he’d continue.
He was like that—pushing through even when it felt worthless.
I knew though, beneath that stoic resolve, was a mine field ready to explode.
He glanced up and we locked eyes. He gave a little shrug, as if to say, ‘someone’s got to keep trying or we’ll really be toast’.
I wanted to scream at him to just give the self-righteous, do-gooder act a rest. I knew though, down to my damn marrow, that if Mac really lost hope, then we’d never crawl out of this quicksand we were currently trying to survive.
Tray lost tempo again and chose, instead of giving up like I had, to transition to an epic solo.
He flicked his sticks with expert precision, proving that with the right environment and song, he’d still dominate the stage with his stupid talent.
He was the youngest member, often getting under our skin with his nonstop optimism and jokester ways.
I felt like maybe, at this point, we were holding him back.
He’d always been a little too good for Oblivion Haze.
We were all talented musicians, but he was something of a prodigy.
Other labels had tried repeatedly to scalp him over the years, offering contracts that a lesser guy would have pounced on.
He stayed though, saying we were more than a band, we were a pack.
We were a family. We’d built our empire together.
You didn’t leave that kind of thing for a few extra dollars.
His last offer had been a cool million initial bonus with a guaranteed five million in the first year, regardless of his new band’s success.
That wasn’t just a few extra dollars. I couldn’t say I was a loyal enough dude to turn it down.
He was right though, when it came right down to the core of things.
We were a pack. These guys were my brothers, not biologically, but by the blood, sweat and tears we’d put into crafting every song.
Dixon trudged over to one of the matching MCM style chairs next to the loveseat.
He flopped down, his giant frame straining the angled wooden legs.
He had two Alpha tonics, one in each hand.
He didn’t offer me one. He dropped one into his lap, snapped off the top of the other instead of properly unscrewing it and knocked it back in one gulp.
Dixon was fucking strong, but with his Alpha nature growing more unstable, he displayed Hulk strength sometimes.
The others and I had given up trying to forcibly calm him down when he lost it.
Tray—a few inches shorter than the rest of us, but also the only muscle match to Dixon—had ended up with three broken ribs last time.
A fan at a PR event had pointed out how Dixon had messed up her name for the personalization.
That was all it took. He’d flipped the autograph table over before taking a step towards the teen Alpha with an expression that could only be interpreted as intent to fuck the poor kid up.
Mac and I had grabbed Dixon’s arms. Tray had jumped on his back.
Me and Mac got knocked away quickly, but that damn youngster of ours had held on like an expert bull rider.
Finally, Dixon had shuffled backwards and slammed Tray into a support column.
The minute Tray slumped to the ground clutching his side and grunting, Dixon’s inner monster had retreated though.
I think he’d have rather hurt me or Mac.
Tray was the one that could often soothe his beast. Tray was the guy Dix sometimes shared deeply intimate moments with.
Hurting him was like hurting not just a brother, but a lover.
He’d been beating himself up ever since, given his history.
I’d heard him sobbing more than one night, beating the wall and screaming.
He’d vowed after his friend overdosed that he’d never hurt anyone again.
That was why mounting Alpha aggression in the unmated was such a horrible illness—even if you’d normally never hurt a fly, like our gentle giant Dixon, you couldn’t fight the onslaught of rage and need.
Dixon tossed the empty tonic into a waste bin. He didn’t miss, thank God. All we needed was that sort of thing to send him off the rails. Seconds later, he’d chugged the second tonic too and binned it.
Mac finally stopped playing, carefully placing his bass in its stand and then swiping his hands down his frayed jeans.
He checked his vintage watch, eyebrows arching as he noted the time and how we’d only managed an hour of practice.
.. if you could call it that. Yet, he seemed satisfied, as if he’d managed to push through the muck and mire to accomplish something.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the melody still sounded like a bag of dicks.