Chapter 14 Past
The city's relentless orange glow drowned out the stars.
Ry sank into the saggy, faded lawn chair, its cheap plastic digging into his legs, a relic from Craigslist, a reminder of their fresh start in this new house.
A hushed quiet, unusual for Hollywood near midnight, settled around him, broken only by the distant hum of traffic.
The air, thick and warm, clung to Ry's skin, an unfamiliar embrace.
Tonight he rested in the evening’s stillness from the hectic schedule they’d maintained the last few months.
An opening in Boise, then a full show in Portland, followed by Seattle over two days had been brutal.
Only the promise of a return home to greet his old fans had given him the energy to make it through.
This type of overnight success should have ushered in a new life, one where he was great all the time and everything was perfect.
In a way, he wished it had never happened.
Through the tour, Arend had hounded him about the contract, hammering home the clause about him and Alex being affectionate with each other in public.
Maybe it would have been different without Arend. Without Efreet Records.
The back door opened, and he shivered though the night was warm. Alex’s accusing footsteps cracked and crunched the dirt in the backyard, then he hunkered in the chair next to him, the seat creaking under his weight. Ry ground his teeth together.
A car started in their driveway, pulling out into the street. Brand and Lon leaving.
“Ry,” Alex said, his voice flat and quiet.
A sickening lurch twisted his stomach. He stared at the ground until faces emerged from the stones and tufts of grass.
Arend’s remarks echoed in his mind: don’t touch him, don’t stand next to him, don’t look at him, don’t even think about him.
The betrayal in Alex’s eyes, the deep pleading, and the fights.
In Tempe, Ry had screamed and sobbed. In Raleigh, Alex had pounded the wall of the motel so hard that he broke the towel rack.
“What?” he said.
“Look at me.”
Ry obeyed. Alex looked oversized and awkward, as if squeezed into a child’s chair.
The scar stood ugly and red on his flushed face.
Damp patches stained the tank top that clung to his skin.
Bruised circles shadowed his eyes, like the ones Ry had in Nashville when he couldn’t wake up and missed their flight.
Rough stubble grew on his chin. His eyes, rimmed in red, held a haunted, distant look.
His lips parted, a silent plea or perhaps a confession about to escape, then snapped shut.
A white cat moved behind Alex, leaping onto the coarse, pockmarked concrete wall, a blur in the dim light.
Air conditioners droned from the building next door.
Ry clenched his arms tightly across his chest. Such a shit.
Quitting was impossible, not with the weight of responsibility.
He slammed his worn boot against a loose stone, sending it skittering across the sun-baked lawn.
“What do you want, Alex? To berate me again?”
Alex shifted his weight. “No.” Alex sighed. The grit of the earth crunched beneath his feet. “I can’t do this forever. It’s killing me.”
Ry’s throat constricted, and he pinched his eyes shut. “It’s only a few more years, and if we’re smart about it, we’ll come out better.”
Alex stiffened in his chair, his hands clenched on the edge of the armrests. His voice was quiet. “God, Ry, I’m talking about us, not this stupid thing again.”
“That’s the whole thing! Alex, we can be ourselves in private.”
“Privacy? Efreet dictates our every movement. Hell, half the time we don’t even get the same room. But when we do, you never want to touch me.”
“We have time right now, for the next week. This has to be enough.” Ry reached out, but Alex ignored his hand. “What about Ella or Lon’s mom?”
“Don’t.” Trembling, Alex stood and brushed his shorts, his face distorted in the dim light. Alex loomed over him. “This isn’t enough.”
“Alex,” Ry pleaded. “Just chill, it’s going to be fine. We have this week.”
“Sure.” Alex’s fist clenched. “You can’t even see—”
Ry stared at the pair of boots in front of him. A thin coat of fine dust coated the otherwise black boots. Ry crossed his arms, his throat a vise. “Alex, stop being so clingy.”
A mocking sound ripped from Alex’s throat, his eyes wild. “You narcissistic asshole! You don’t give a fuck about any of us. All you care about is groveling to Arend and expecting to live off the scraps.”
Ry thrust himself up to meet Alex, leaving a tangle of metal behind in his rush. An ugly, burning heat seared through him. “Oh yeah, uh-huh. Well, fuck you, too. Caring about people, like your sister, makes me a narcissist. You don’t own me, Alex.”
Alex frowned. “If we’re all saying it, maybe it’s true.”
“Great.” Ry stood taller, his arms crossed. “So what? You just want to throw it all away then?”
“You’re the one throwing everything away, Orion. You’re the one treating me like dog shit.”
“Fuck. You. Asshole!” He jabbed Alex hard in the chest, the impact pushing the behemoth backward.
Alex’s scar twisted as he sneered. “Don’t even think about touching me again.” He stormed toward the back door.
Ry trailed behind, a magnetism pulling him forward. A flush spread across his cheeks, and his arms trembled uncontrollably. An acrid taste flooded his mouth, and the words erupted from his throat, rough and choked. “Fine, walk away like you always do. Coward.”
“You never cared.” Without turning around, Alex flipped him off, slamming the door shut behind him.
Ry stomped, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He kicked pieces of loose concrete, the sharp clack echoing as they ricocheted off the wall bordering the property.
Grabbing the flimsy folding lawn chair, he hurled it with a grunt; it landed with a rattle, breaking against the ground.
He let out guttural screams, raw and ragged, the sound tearing from his throat.
The rumbling traffic, distant conversations, the cacophony of the surrounding neighborhood drowned out Ry’s low sobs.
The chains constricting around him tightened, his breath shallow and uneven.
Without Alex, this had to be easier, right?
Arend couldn’t push him, force him, prod him into any more suffocating corners.
A breeze, carrying salt-scent, drifted through the yard, burying itself into his chest. He sat back on his heels, his eyes wet, his legs numb. With the help of a nearby rock, he pushed himself up and stumbled toward the house, each step needles in his feet.
Inside, only the indistinct whoosh of the fans disturbed the emptiness. Garbage cascaded from the trash can, dirty dishes filled the sink, and the cold remains of dinner sat on the table.
He moved through the hollow rooms. Everyone had vacated.
Back in the kitchen, Ry's gaze swept over the shelves, the dim light glinting off the rows of bottles.
His fingers wrapped around the cool, half-empty vodka bottle, its weight a comfort as he rotated it, staring at the way the light danced within.
At the kitchen table, the sticky surface of the placemat was rough as he pushed it aside.
He set the vodka down with a soft thud. No shot glass.
The sharp twist of the lid promised oblivion.
His eyes fell to the floor, the worn, ugly linoleum peeling up in the corners.
He tilted the bottle and took a long, burning swig.
The cheap liquor, acrid and pungent, scraped his throat through the frigid ache in his chest, only to land as a dull warmth in his belly.
The bottle’s emptiness echoed the specious, vacant silence, broken only by the faint clink of glass.
Ry drank again, the fire a meager flicker against the vast, barren wasteland within.
He drank more, the room beginning to shimmer, the table legs blurring, the entire kitchen swaying and spinning.
Then the world faded away, his vision darkening into a soft blackness that muffled all light.