Chapter 6 130 Decibels
DYLAN
The Drug In Me Is You By Falling In Reverse
The flash of cameras catches me off guard.
I raise a hand to shield my eyes, hearing the rapid-fire clicks and shouts from the paparazzi.
They’re not here for me but for Ivy Nova, who stands beside me with her platinum blonde hair in a high ponytail.
She’s fashionable as ever in a chic designer outfit, poised and confident, clearly accustomed to the attention yet not entirely immune to it.
“Ivy! Over here!”
“Is it true you’re signing with Stonewall?”
“Ivy! Are you and Dylan dating?”
Without hesitation, she steps closer, leaning subtly into me as her hand lightly grips my arm. She’s fully aware of the effect this small gesture has—the cameras explode around us with renewed frenzy.
I tilt my head down slightly toward her, amused despite myself. “You really know how to make headlines, don’t you?”
Her eyes glitter playfully as she looks up at me, lips curving into a mischievous smile. “It’s all part of the job, right? Besides, a little drama keeps things interesting.”
I take in her perfectly coordinated outfit; every element carefully selected. “Your whole persona is crafted, down to the last detail, isn’t it?”
She gives a small shrug, unapologetic. “The music gets them in the door, but the aesthetic keeps them talking.”
I think of Morgan’s sketches I’d glimpsed at Left Turn—the fluid lines, the innovative silhouettes. Morgan has an eye for design that could create something truly spectacular for someone like Ivy. The thought surprises me, this instinct to connect them somehow. I file it away for later.
The valet pulls up with my car.
Ivy turns toward me. “It was really nice meeting you tonight—even if you were a party crasher,” she teases, eyes sparkling with humor.
“Party crasher?” I say in mock outrage as I lean back. “I was invited.” I wink. I don’t tell her the hostess at the restaurant invited me and not the editor of the magazine hosting the event.
Ivy laughs, a melodic sound perfectly matched to her carefully crafted public persona. I guide her gently to the sleek black SUV pulled up to the curb. She pauses briefly, turning to face me fully.
“I hope you’ll consider my offer,” I say. Stonewall needs a breakthrough artist with crossover appeal, and Ivy’s the perfect candidate. The duet I’m proposing between her and Felix from Velvet Drift would boost both their profiles.
“I’ll be in touch, and we can meet to go over the details,” she confirms, and I resist the urge to fist pump in front of her.
I close the door behind her gently, muffling the lingering questions from the paparazzi.
Sliding into my own car, I run a hand through my hair and lean back against the seat, replaying our interaction. Ivy Nova has exactly the charisma and talent Stonewall Records needs right now.
The kind of success that would prove to the board I’m more than capable of running Stonewall without their constant supervision.
Their last quarterly meeting still stings—the thinly veiled suggestions I might not be ready, the pointed inquiries about our artist acquisition strategy, the not-so-subtle comparisons to my fathers’ early successes.
I start the car to head home, but I find myself heading toward the studio instead.
The streets of L.A. flow past, a blur of neon and shadows.
The security guard waves me through. It’s late, but there are still a few cars scattered around—music never sleeps in this city.
I head in the direction of Jesse’s usual rehearsal space, surprised to hear music still playing.
Through the glass, I can see Jesse sitting on a stool, his sister Hayley cross-legged on the couch nearby, both of them intently listening to something through the studio monitors.
They don’t notice me until I knock on the door frame.
“Hey,” he says, looking up with a nod. “Didn’t expect to see you here this late.”
“Need to let off some steam,” I reply, stepping inside. “Mind if I join?”
“Be my guest.” He gestures to the drum kit in the corner. “Your timing is perfect—I need a second opinion from someone who isn’t related to me.” He shoots a pointed look at Hayley.
She waves and dramatically rolls her eyes. “Dylan! Thank God. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. He’s recorded twelve tracks of pure genius and refuses to perform any of it live.”
“I haven’t refused,” Jesse protests, plucking absently at his guitar strings. “I’m just… considering my options.”
“For what, the next decade?” Hayley quips.
I drop into the chair by the mixing board. “Let me guess—Jack O’Donnell’s son is afraid of living in daddy’s shadow?”
“Screw you, man,” Jesse says, but there’s no heat in it. He tosses a guitar pick at my head, which I catch with practiced ease.
“Hey, I call it like I see it,” I reply, spinning the pick between my fingers. “The board’s been asking about your album for months now. They want to see some return on investment.”
Jesse’s expression tightens slightly. I know it’s a sore spot. He’s been signed to Stonewall for almost two years with nothing to show for it publicly. As much as I want to protect him as a friend, I’ve got business obligations too.
“Now play me something from this allegedly genius album.”
Jesse hesitates, then sighs. Hayley leans forward and hits a button on the console.
The melody filling the studio starts with a haunting piano line before exploding into a wall of distorted guitars and atmospheric synths.
Jesse’s voice, heavily processed through what sounds like a vocoder effect, shifts from ghostly whispers to soaring, powerful choruses.
The contrast between the ethereal, almost religious-sounding passages and the crushing heaviness creates something that feels both ancient and futuristic at once.
When the last note fades, there’s a beat of silence.
“Holy shit,” I finally say. “That’s… incredible.”
“Told you,” Hayley says triumphantly, adjusting some settings on the mixing board. “The choir sample in the bridge and the layered voice modulation took it to another level.”
I nod in agreement. Hayley’s production skills are great, the way she can take Jesse’s raw talent and elevate it into something otherworldly. The siblings make a formidable creative team when they’re not at each other’s throats.
“The low-end distortion hits perfectly,” I add, genuinely impressed. “The production is half of what makes this work.”
Jesse sets the guitar down, running a hand through his hair. “It’s different in a studio. No eyes watching, no expectations. The second I step on a stage—”
“People will be comparing you to Jack,” I finish for him. “Trust me, I get it. Wade and Adam aren’t exactly unknowns either.”
“Having O’Donnell as a last name is like walking around with a neon sign over my head every time I play,” Jesse says with a grimace.
“Fair point,” I concede, leaning back in my chair. “But you can’t hide in here forever. This music deserves to be heard.”
“It’s not about hiding,” he says quietly, his fingers absently tracing patterns on the guitar’s body. “When I’m playing, everything else goes quiet. It’s the only time my mind settles.” There’s something vulnerable in his admission.
I nod, understanding more than he realizes. Music has always been a sanctuary for both of us.
“I might have a solution.”
Jesse perks up.
“You’d wear a mask. No one would know it’s you.”
Jesse rolls his eyes. “Are you fucking serious? A mask?” He looks at me like this is the most ridiculous idea ever.
A grin spreads across my face. “Not like, a Batman mask, but something more artistic. Leave the lower half of your face exposed so you can still sing.”
“Hmm, that’s not a bad idea,” Hayley says, folding her arms over her chest.
“You can’t be serious,” he groans, but there’s a flicker of interest in his eyes.
“I mean, think about it,” I continue, warming to the idea. “It would be weird, but weird can be good. Weird gets attention.”
“Weird gets mocked,” Jesse counters.
“Or it becomes your trademark,” I challenge. “A hook that lets people focus on the music instead of the name.”
Jesse’s expression shifts from skepticism to contemplation. “So what, I show up in a mask and hope they don’t laugh me off stage?”
I tap my fingers against the mixing board, going through the conversation I had with Morgan. “Not just a mask. An entire persona. Something mysterious. The Silent Revenant,” I suggest after a moment, the concept suddenly clear.
Jesse laughs, but not dismissively. “You’re actually serious about this.”
“Deadly,” I confirm. “The mystery would be part of the appeal.”
Jesse strums a few contemplative chords. “And the mask?”
“With sound waves or music notes etched into it,” I muse. “Or… a face half-hidden by musical notation flowing across it, like the music is literally part of you.”
“That’s… actually not terrible,” he admits, a spark of interest in his eyes.
“Well, I can’t take full credit,” I say sheepishly. “It was Morgan’s idea.”
“Morgan? How am I gonna be anonymous if everyone knows?” He throws his hands up.
“Relax, she doesn’t know it was you. But that brings up a good point. We’d have to keep this close, only those that need to know, keeps it from getting out,” I say, contemplating how logistics would work.
Jesse looks to Hayley and she nods. “Could work.”
“Stella and the guys might actually go for this,” Jesse says thoughtfully. “We’ve only been playing together officially for what, six months? It’s not like we have some established image to protect.”
“The board would eat it up too,” I add, thinking of the marketing possibilities. “Mystery sells, and it solves our problem—you get to play without the pressure of being Jack’s son, and Stonewall gets a potentially viral new act.”