Chapter 26 Doyle
DOYLE
I’m regretting my life choices all over again. Every fucking day there’s some new scheme, a new twist to bring more subscribers to our channel.
I never should have allowed Ren to pull me into his juvenile rock-star shenanigans.
This was supposed to be a therapeutic solution to his CPTSD. Not become an all-consuming social media monster. But he simply can’t do anything small or quiet. He’s always gotta be the star of the show.
That’s not fair. I sigh out a long breath and hold it a few seconds. Then breathe in deeply, regulating my own emotions like a fucking adult.
He’s the star—because he’s so fucking talented and charismatic he can’t do anything less than shine. He can’t play small. It’s physically impossible. I knew that going into this gig, but he promised we’d keep everything on the down low.
I just never dreamed a fucking YouTube channel would blow up like this.
Now we have music groupies who don’t even know the history of our Gustafson Hotshot or the Mighty Zon.
Ren might eat up fame and attention, but I couldn’t care less.
In fact, I care literally zero. I don’t want anyone to attach my face and name to the mysterious masked drummer for Ice Vessel.
Or worse, ask my kid about it. She’d probably die of embarrassment if she knew.
Which is why I’m so pissed to find someone here outside of our little circle.
I haven’t told Alyssa about this gig. I don’t want her to hear about it from some unknown third party.
Her low opinion of me was formed from an early age—and rightfully so.
I wasn’t around for her and her mother. I was gone all the time, working around the clock through residency.
When Bethany got sick, I barely even noticed. Until it was too late.
I changed my whole life to get back in my daughter’s good graces. I refuse to allow some silly groupie to ruin what I’ve worked so hard to rebuild.
Damn, though. Henrik’s got a girl. That’s the last thing I ever expected. I feel a twinge of guilt for immediately leaping to it being Ren’s fault a strange woman is up here, but the man’s done shit like that all his life. Henrik? Never in a million years.
I’m still suspicious. Ren said he picked her up in the storm, which was just a day ago. Yet Henrik’s in “love” and bringing her up to the Ice? Yeah right.
She’s worth keeping a close eye on for sure. Something doesn’t smell right, and my nose never lies.
DARBY
I’m not clear on all their friend-group dynamics but it’s obvious the fourth guy, Doyle, isn’t too pleased I’m here.
I almost walk back to the snowmobile so they can do their ice show thingy in peace, but it’s freezing and dark.
I could probably go inside Ren’s house to stay warm, but that seems presumptuous without him.
Plus I’d probably snoop. I can’t resist. Which is even more presumptuous.
So I keep my seat on the log, watching Henrik’s reactions to see if I really need to be concerned or not. He didn’t like the guy calling me broad, but when Doyle asked if I was his…
Henrik turned and met my gaze, his eyes smoldering and heavy, just like his fingers on my nape. “Damned straight.”
So fucking hot.
I guess they’re about to get started because Leland comes out of the control booth and picks up his guitar too.
They’re both wearing black hockey outfits with masks pushed back on top of their heads.
Now that they’re on the stage, they tip the masks down over their faces, and chills creep down my spine.
I’m picking up the Friday the 13th vibe now.
The older style hockey masks are white but marked with scuffs and scrapes like they’ve taken a beating in the past. The lights shift to a deep blue, creating more shadows around the stage.
Henrik’s a broad, dark shape now, a looming hulk blending into the darkness except for the gleaming white mask.
Leland starts everything with a slow strummed melody that is oddly haunting.
Almost like the strains of a lullaby, or something you’d hear playing in an abandoned Victorian mansion.
The notes hang in the air for several long seconds like a held breath, before the drums crash and Henrik’s bass guitar thunders, making me jump.
Skadi runs over and sits at my feet, leaning against my leg for comfort.
A little scared but also intrigued, her ears flickering. Me too.
I don’t even see Ren walk out, but a white light suddenly shines up from the floor, illuminating his tall, lean figure in the center of the stage.
His mask is even more alarming with what looks like blood dripping from the eyes and mouth holes.
He’s wearing a long shapeless partially zipped hoodie over the hockey jersey.
The hood covers his distinctive hair style and tattoos. The hoodie disguises his body shape, making him look bulkier. Even his hands wrapped around the microphone stand are covered with thin black gloves to hide his tattoos.
His voice is rich, starting low and soft, a hushed whisper that still somehow carries above the instruments.
His range is impressive, moving from a low register to a higher falsetto effortlessly, though he lets emotion crack through his words.
I can only stare, transfixed, trying to catch the lyrics.
Stunned that he wrote the song. The musical notes.
Everything. And his voice soars and drops, dragging me along with him in a mournful song.
The loss of hope. Numbness setting in. Cold and empty. Hollowed out and barren. It’s so sad that tears fill my eyes. Even if I didn’t know anything about his past, I’d feel the same resonance in my own past.
The sleepless nights. The empty days. Wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life.
Everything seems so pointless and colorless.
Then add the cold. The fucking wind slicing through me.
Day after day, having to clean off my car and warm it up so I can drive to work and sit in my cubicle and stare at spreadsheets.
“Where did it all go wrong?” He sings. “When did I go to sleep and never wake up?”
I jump again as he screams, “Will someone wake me up?” The drums and guitars pound and scream with him. With me.
I didn’t know music could be so emotional.
Evidently I’ve been listening to the wrong music my whole life.
Leland plays a solo while Ren starts to dance across the stage. No, he glides on skates, stepping out onto the ice like a black swan, graceful but also strange, his arms and legs too long, moving in angular, jerky movements to the beat instead of flowing like an ice skater or ballet dancer.
Then he’s coming straight at me. Bending down to snag me up against him.
Sheer panic squeezes my throat. I clutch handfuls of his shirt, fighting the urge to squawk out loud in case he’s wearing a microphone. I’m not even wearing the skates. No one said to change, but it wouldn’t matter anyway. I don’t know how to skate!
In a low, soft voice, he sings, “Now I’ve got you.”
Assuring me that he does in fact have me.
My feet aren’t even touching the ice, so it doesn’t matter whether I can skate or not.
He holds me in his arms like we’re slow dancing, though he’s carrying me across the ice, gliding effortlessly in swoops and swirls that make my head spin.
The other guys are still playing but I can hear the cutting sound of steel on the ice over the music.
He whips side to side, deliberately adding the slicing sounds to the song.
Cutting back hard, his skates dig into the ice, sending white chips flying.
Then he sets me down on the ice and slips away into the shadows, avoiding the lights. I can still hear the cutting glides of his skates.
His voice rises again, breaking with emotion. “The ever-creeping cold sucks me down. Crawling on ice, hard shattered blades cut to the bone. At least the blood is warm.”
Suddenly he throws himself down on his knees, gliding toward me in a soft rush. He wraps his arms around my legs, his head against my thighs. Clinging to me, like I’m the rope keeping him from the abyss.
“Will you melt the ice in me? Will you melt the ice in me? Will you melt the ice in me?”
I hear the glide of steel behind me, warning someone else has stepped onto the ice.
My heart pounds. It’s Henrik. I know it.
I can feel the weight of his intent, the grim, silent lumberjack emerging from the woods.
Though he’s not the lumberjack now. He circles us in a slow, deadly waltz, skating backward like it’s no big deal, moving easily and lightly despite his size.
The sound of something dropping echoes off the ice. A distinctive sound I can’t quite place. Immediately, Ren surges to his feet and sweeps me around, pulling me with him. This time my feet are still on the ice but he’s supporting me, keeping me from falling as we slide.
He dodges side to side, pushing me along in front of him, and it dawns on me.
I’m the puck. His body’s the stick, his hands moving me subtly back and forth while still somehow keeping me on my feet. I can’t really see where Henrik is until we slip past him. Ren moves me outward, keeping me out of Henrik’s reach, putting his body between us.
We whirl around again, his hands turning me forward so I can see. Though now I don’t want to see. Trees whiz past us, crazy close as he pushes me along the outer edge of the makeshift rink. His hands are on my hips, his fingers digging into my waist. Tightening, telling me something is coming.
Faster, he cuts back toward Henrik, who’s crouched a little, making himself broader, his body swaying back and forth slightly on the skates.
The goalie, protecting the net. We’re moving so fast the air makes my eyes water as we zigzag back and forth.
I lift my hands, reaching out for Henrik as we get close, assuming Ren’s going to shove me toward him.
But at the last possible second, he twists away again, putting me on his opposite side. My right leg shoots out faster than my left leg, and suddenly I’m baby Bambi on the ice. My feet are going in opposite directions, and we’re going too fast for me to control it.
I’m going to fall. Or do the splits. Or break something. My skull, probably.
Ren lifts me off my feet, tosses me around in front of him like I weigh next to nothing, and snags me against his chest. Too far. Too hard. We’re both falling now.
Time seems to slow. His eyes glitter behind the mask, focused on my face. Fearless, even as he falls backward toward the ice. He’s not wearing a helmet. I’ve got time to worry about concussions and head wounds. Don’t they bleed like crazy? Red ice. “At least it’s warm,” the line from his song.
Doyle’s a doctor. Right?
A dark blur glides low like a swooping raven, beneath Ren, catching him before he hits the ice. Lifting, righting us both. Mighty arms enfold us to his bear-like chest.
Henrik. Always there, protecting the net—or his teammate.
Or me, if I’ll let him. That’s what his body says to mine as he spins us around in tight circles, building up momentum.
Ren whips away, his skates loud in the silence.
The music has stopped. Part of the act? Or is there a problem? I have no idea.
Henrik tosses me up over his shoulder, one arm tucked around my hips, his hand locked on my inner thigh.
He takes a leisurely loop around the small rink, spinning in slow, gentle circles.
Enough to show off—without making me dizzy.
Then he deposits me back on the log, presses a hard, quick kiss on my lips, and he’s gone, gliding away into the dimming lights.
My chest heaves but I feel breathless. Giddy with adrenaline but also shaky. The music starts again, Leland and Doyle playing. Ren belts out another screamy line I can’t understand, though I feel the emotion throbbing through me.
At the edge of the ice near the stage, Henrik bends down in the shadows, fixing something on his skates.
Then he’s calmly picking up his bass guitar again just in time to start playing a solo.
His fingers fly up and down the long instrument, rhythmic strums but also making it rise in pitch along with Ren’s voice.
Henrik arches, sways, moves to the music, almost like the goalie again but more intimate. Almost like…
Gulp. He meets my gaze, his head tipped down a little. I can’t see his eyes this far, and the mask hides his expression, but I can almost feel his hands playing me.
He doesn’t say a word, but I hear the promise.
He’s going to play me the exact same way. Until I scream tonight.