Chapter 13 Present
Ry's eyes snapped open, assaulted by sterile fluorescent lights overhead.
A wave of dizziness washed over him as a low hum filled the air.
Where am I? The last he remembered was the thumping bass of the club, Lon's face, and then …
a jolt as his stuttering pulse attempted to quicken.
The room's stark lighting revealed a window, offering an overcast view of a drab parking lot.
The verdant landscape outside, a sharp contrast to the expected concrete jungle of LA, confirmed it—he was still in London.
In a hospital.
A hot flush spread across his neck and face. His limbs were heavy, his thoughts mired, and a constant pang settled in his chest. A prickling sensation slithered under his skin, making it impossible to relax.
Fuck. A throbbing pain pounded behind his eyes, a dull fire searing through his arms. The attempt to move sent jolts of agony through him. Thin tubes snaked in and out of his flesh.
He shifted his head slightly, a subtle movement that brought a sudden, overwhelming metallic taste flooding his mouth as bile rose in his throat.
The room swam, forcing him to lie still.
Sterile white walls offered no comfort, and the distant, rhythmic beep of unseen machines broke the silence.
Antiseptic hung in the air, stinging his nostrils.
A heavy lassitude settled into his bones.
After what seemed an eternity of discomfort, a nurse finally entered the room, her scrubs a sunny yellow. Her short blonde hair framed her round face; two sharp green eyes watched him. Her nametag read Abby.
“Morning, Mr. Clair. How are you feeling?”
His dry tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. “Like shit.”
“No wonder. Now, do you remember anything?”
He nodded. “Drank a lot, took Xanax.”
Abby clicked. “Surprised you remembered. By the way, you’ve got yourself a visitor, eh? He can come in after I take some vitals.”
She fussed over him for a few minutes, taking notes.
“Who?” he croaked out.
“Nice gentleman,” she said. “Afraid I forgot his name, love. All right then, I’ll let him see you and I’ll be back with something to help you rest more.”
“Thanks,” he said.
She patted him gently on the shoulder and left.
Not much time after, a man came in wearing sunglasses.
He also wore a simple gray sweater and loose-fitting trousers.
Long, curly hair framed a face Ry knew too well.
He took off his shades. Though the outfit had changed, Arend’s hard eyes had not. He closed the door behind him.
“Mr. Clair,” Arend said. He sat on the chair near the exit, crossed his legs and stared at Ry. “I do not wish to be the bearer of bad news, but alas, your unfortunate choices last night led us here.”
Ry shifted on the bed, opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“Don’t strain yourself,” Arend said, leaning forward.
“You’ll have a busy schedule when you’re back—I need you ready.
We’ve got the next album to finish and a tour to announce, and I won’t sugarcoat it: this last one underperformed because you didn’t listen.
We can’t let that happen again. And you still owe for the missed interview. ”
He reclined, chin in his hand. “You’ve been a PR nightmare. The tabloids already ran the photos. I only do what I do to ensure the success of Ghostfire.”
“What?” he managed to say.
Arend clicked his tongue, stood up, and walked over to his bed. He leaned close to Ry, his breath sour. “I built your audience. They will believe any version of you that I feed them. I’ll spin this as needed.”
Arend’s gaze was as frigid and unyielding as ice. Ry’s stomach churned with the desire to vomit. His legs twitched, ready to assist him to escape, and his throat tightened to cry for aid, yet he remained immobile on the bed.
A polite knock came at the door before the nurse stepped in again. Arend straightened and squeezed Ry’s shoulder to the point of pain. “Take care, Orion. I wish you a speedy recovery.”
He nodded to her and left the room.
“Always nice to have visitors,” Abby said. She gave him a few pills and some water. Wiping his brow, she told him about the treatment for the following day or so, but his attention shifted back to Arend’s visit.
As the door clicked shut and the lights softened, a heavy weariness settled in his eyes, and he drifted into restless sleep.
?
“—should be.”
The next time he woke, the rhythmic beep of a nearby machine was a dull thrum in his ears. The harsh glare above washed the color from Lon’s concerned face listening to an older man, his white coat crisp and his gaze sharp.
“Oh. Our patient is awake. How are you feeling?”
Ry groaned. His arm weighed down by something, as he tried to wipe his eyes for a clearer view. He blinked to clear them instead. He croaked, “Beat up. Better.”
Lon’s fingers tapped a jittery rhythm.
“I’ll say. Your vitals are looking much improved. Dehydration and cardiovascular issues. We had to pump your stomach in the early morning. You should be all right now that we’ve gone through the worst. We’ll keep you overnight, at a minimum.”
He left with a brief, automatic smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and a curt nod. His detached movements carried the impersonal air of emergency medical staff.
“Oh my god, Ry, I’m so sorry for what happened. I called an ambulance right away.”
“S’okay, Lon.” Ry managed a feeble wave. “My choice to go.”
Lon sat by the bed for a moment, shaking his head. “Maybe if it hadn’t been so long, I’d have insisted you stay at the hotel. Instead, I almost lost you.”
Lon reached for his hand. His warm hands closed over Ry’s. One blond curl twisted in front of his eyes, freckles splashed haphazardly across his nose.
“Can’t get rid of me that easily.” Ry attempted a smile. “You and Arend, yesterday.”
“What?”
Ry shifted in the bed. “You were talking to him. Why I went.” He tried to breathe deeper. “Something about damage control?”
“I … I was worried about you, and he tried to pit me against you.”
“How?”
Lon took his hand. “He said if you were going to be the downfall of the band, that I should think about jumping ship. I told him no. Ride or die.”
Familiar footfalls, heavy and measured, announced Alex. The big guy came in, his arms crossed and his mouth set in a tight, unhappy line.
“Lon,” he said, his voice quiet. “Would you mind waiting outside? Brand’ll be back soon.”
Lon didn’t stand to move.
“I’d like to talk to Ry in private.” Alex uncrossed his arms, shaking them out. “Please.”
Lon rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll send Brand in when he’s back.”
Alex stepped to the side, and Lon stormed out. Alex grabbed a chair and turned it around, sitting on it backward. He rested on the back of the seat, leaning toward Ry.
“What was that about?” Ry asked.
“Hasn’t been sleeping and hangs out here too much. Gave him a scare.” Alex ran his hand through his hair. “Said you blacked out on him.”
Alex’s face betrayed a flicker of fear in the depths of his eyes, while grief tugged at the corners of his mouth. No twist of anger, leaving his features smooth.
“I did.” Ry reached toward Alex, his thoughts sluggish, his tongue thick and unwieldy. “My fault. I—overheard Arend and Lon at the hotel. Wanted to know why Lon thinks I’m a liability. But he said that it was Arend trying to get him to join another band if we crashed and burned. Lon told him no.”
Ry shifted in the bed, trying to find comfort. Fatigue made it hard to keep his eyes open.
Alex’s face softened. “Sticking your head into trouble.”
“He was here, said I might be fined for this.” He gestured to the room.
“He’s a prick. Don’t let him get under your skin.”
Ry grunted in response.
Alex pulled a rolled-up paper from his back pocket, and it crinkled as he smoothed it flat.
Two photos accompanied the headline, “Rock Star Relapses: Drinking Back in Spotlight or Was Rehab a Sham?”, one of him downing a shot, and the other an unflattering photo of him sitting on the ground outside the club.
“Jesus,” Ry said. “He really did it.”
“Did what?” Alex handed him the tabloid.
“Arend said they’d believe anything he told them.”
“Well, it happened.”
“The recovery being an act,” Ry said.
Alex nodded. “Make it tough for him, then. Are you returning?
“You’re right,” Ry said. “He just …. Going back where?”
Alex chuckled. “To rehab.”
“Oh,” Ry said. “I don’t see any other way. ‘Slip-ups can happen to anyone.’ Guess I have more work to do.”
Brand knocked lightly on the doorframe, dressed as usual: his clothes immaculate and freshly pressed. He looked weary. Lon followed up behind him, lingering in the doorway.
“Ry,” Brand said, entering the room. “You are up. Any improvement?”
“Better than earlier.”
“Good.” Brand headed over to the other side of the bed. “So, what happened?”
With a resigned sigh, Ry steeled himself.
He owed them the truth. He squirmed under the weight of Lon’s gaze as he brought up the overheard conversation.
Saw Brand frown when he spoke of the texts from Arend.
Alex shook his head at downing two drinks back to back.
The explanation of the panic attack, that overwhelming need for relief that drove him to pills.
He ended with the decision to return to Rosewood.
“I see,” Brand said, adjusting his glasses. “I agree rehab is the best option.”
“With the contract, we have another album that needs to be released,” Ry mentioned. “And an additional tour.”
“Take care of yourself first,” Lon said.
Alex agreed. “We will have to make it work.”
“We aren’t expected in the studio for at least a couple months,” Brand said. “You’ll have the time you need to get better.”
Ry said, “I wish I hadn’t ruined everyone’s life.”
“We decided on our paths too, you know.” Brand adjusted his cuffs.
Alex nodded.
“It has been rough, seeing us grow apart and fight,” Brand added. “But I think we will be stronger for it. No matter the situation, we made our choices and we must live by them, good or bad.”
“I’m so tired,” Ry said.
“We should let you get some rest then,” Alex said, standing. He herded Lon out the exit.
Brand paused, squeezing Ry’s hand. “I understand,” he continued. “Why you fell apart.” With a last pat, he too left the room.
As the door clicked shut, a familiar, suffocating black cloud descended, a cold weight settling in his chest. How would he get through this?
Instead of fighting it, he let it wash over him.
He turned from the empty doorway and let loose the pent-up ache that had been churning since morning. When had the dream become a nightmare?
A part of him whispered that death was preferable, told him that his friends would be more fortunate, but he screamed and commanded that thought to fuck off. When his face had dried, he slipped into sleep again.