Chapter Two
Scarlett
“fight fire with gasoline”
“Mr. Turner, allow me to apologize once more for the late cancellation.”
I wasn’t sorry. And I sure as shit shouldn’t have been the one saving face for Ryden’s carelessness again.
“Simply put Ms. Blake, if Mr. Spectre cancels on another interview, there will be no further postponing. Understood?”
Abe Turner was the head organizer at GQ for public relations and marketing. I’d spoken to him a handful of times to ensure Ryden’s article landed a top spot in the Fall Flavour column, and simply put, he was a complete jackass.
Despite the fact, that jackass would have wired thousands into Ryden’s bank account for a single hour of his time.
“Emory-Blake, Mr. Turner.”
“We mustn’t scatter ourselves with the specifics, Ms. Blake.”
Like I said. Jackass.
“… It’s today at noon or veto the deal.”
Clamping my phone between my shoulder and ear, I lodged my key into the lock of Ryden’s suite and pushed inside, spotting him within seconds.
I let out a long, dragged out sigh. “This again,” I muttered, barely a whisper. Every fibre of my being fought against the urge to sack him, flayed out limbs on the cashmere carpet, a garden of lipstick painting his torso like rose petals.
Something burned inside of me and I doused it in gasoline, relishing in the sting as the red flames ignited, a match against my scarlet hair.
“Jesus,” I puffed. These fucking messes he’d create. The bad decisions he couldn’t stop making. When would it end?
My stilettos speared the hardwood floor, clinking like knives against a cutting board. I expected him to flinch, but naturally he didn’t move.
“Noon is perfect,” I hissed through teeth. “I’ll have Ryden sign the agreement now.”
The line died before I could say my goodbyes. Fuck that, to hell with formality. Abe Turner may have been a scumbag, but I happened to have an even bigger one lifeless in front of me.
A bucket of melted ice sat atop the glass table beside the green velvet couch, tempting.
I didn’t think twice.
“Down came the rain,” I hummed, watching his limp body jolt out of paralysis. “And washed the spider out.”
“WHAT THE FU –” he bit his tongue, realizing who he was talking to. “Oh, Scar. Hey.”
I threw the bucket to the side. “Did I wake you?”
His arms were the first to stretch out, wobbly as he attempted to steady himself upright. “Could’ve called.”
“Where’s your phone?”
“It’s uh –” he blinked, searching the chaos of last night’s frenzy. “It should be…” His mischievous eyes met mine, defeated. “You’re a lovely singer, Dove. Should come up on stage with me sometime.”
I scoffed, watching him fall out of disorientation. It was sad, truly. Seeing as he wasn’t always like this, that life had been kind then unkind to someone who did not deserve it. I was familiar with the feeling, acquainted with it since birth.
With each passing day, I spun my wheels searching for a solution, anything to help him out of the hole in his head. But that wasn’t me. Coddling created cowardice.
Pain was a right of passage for some, a requirement to claw through their own decaying mind before facing reality.
Unfortunately, he was one of those people.
“Can you uh…” Dark locks draped over his forehead, shielding the guilt in his eyes. “Can you get me some clothes?”
I crossed my arms. “Any groupies I need to be made aware of before I find a half-naked model camping in your closet?”
He glanced down at the lipstick marks all over his torso. “No groupies, Dove. Just me.”
“Huh,” I tutted, “slow night, then.”
His soft laughter trailed behind me as I moved towards the dresser, sifting through an array of black and white fabric. Most were wrinkled, save for an oversized Led Zeppelin tee signed by Robert Plant himself. I tossed him the shirt.
“Abe’s pissed at you.” I thumbed through my emails, skimming the revised GQ agreement. “I’m pissed at you.”
“I’m pissed at myself,” he shook his head, “you have no idea, Scarlett.”
Scarlett. He never calls me Scarlett.
“It’s like I’m programmed to be a bad person.” The ink across his muscles stretched as he lifted the fabric over his head, letting it curtain over his body.
“You’re not a bad person, Ry.”
“Yeah? Then what do you call this?” He waved at the room: the ripped love seats and stained carpets, wet with substances I couldn’t stomach questioning. “What do you call me?”
The flashbacks of our youth washed over me.
Once upon a time, I was enamoured by Ryden Spectre. A time where I thought he could carry the weight of the world on his shoulders even as a stalky, scrawny, thirteen-year-old boy.
We’d been through so much together. Him and I. Dove and Eagle, side by side.
When we made the decision to run away from Slater Street over a decade ago, I never looked back. But Ryden…
That’s all he ever did.
No matter the money, the fame, the PTs or chefs or unyielding fans… Christ, underneath all that, Ryden was a –
“Fucking mess. I’m such a fucking mess, Scar.”
Come back to life, I wanted to say. Come back to me. Instead, I responded with brutal honesty. “I won’t deny it.”
“Want to know how much I did?”
I turned on my heels. “I never do.”
“Two lines,” he choked. “Two lines and I stopped. But then a few fans found me at the club and I got to drinking and then I did another line and –”
I held up a hand, moving towards him. Sometimes, you get so used to disappointment that you expect it. “Look at me.”
And he did, those wild, green eyes glassy with repentance.
“There you are,” I whispered, resisting the pull to caress his cheek, kiss his forehead, love him like he once used to love himself.
He was everything, once. A son, a friend, a partner…
An eagle.
I missed the way he looked at me with treasure and hope. Promise for a better future, a better life. Promises that were broken after he signed his life away to the music industry. First Avenue Records, now Arc & Sheild. Making money out of monsters…
I stepped back.
“You said I’m a mess,” he whispered, defeated. “Say it again.”
The words lodged in my throat. “I won’t do that.”
“Say it, Scar. Just say it.”
Touch him –
Help him –
HEAL him.
But I couldn’t. I can’t. “Once is enough.”
He gave up the fight, nodding in shameful silence. There was nothing left to say.
Steadily, I placed a firm hand on his shoulder, catching a whiff of his actions last night.
“Bathe. Now.” I commanded, steering him to the ensuite washroom. “You’re not bailing on another interview, Ryden. You’ve got an hour.”
He sniffed at his armpit. “Is it really that bad?”
“Concerningly.” I twisted the showerhead. “Did you fuck in a barn?”
That low, hoarse laugh pasted a grin on my face. No matter the circumstance, his laugh made me laugh. Ryden’s happiness was rare nowadays, so I savoured the chances I got to see it.
“Better than the Four Seasons,” he winked.
I shoved him into the bathroom. “Did it come with robes and slippers, too?”
“Even better,” he smirked, “hay bales and hogties.”
“Oh my God, just get in.” I swatted his arm, shutting the door before he could see me smile.
When I decided to become my best friend’s manager long ago, it came with a laundry list of boundaries I never dared cross. I had to stay strong, tough…
Unbreakable.
Between the two of us, he was more fragile. He wore the armour, I was the shield. Everything that got us here, well, that scarred us both. But I couldn’t stop running. I couldn’t slow the pace. We needed out. I got us out.
Vigilant, impenetrable –
Untouchable.
Ryden’s quiet hums misted through the doorway, the voice that captured the hearts of millions across the world:
“My town, my town… My town and you –
My town and you, and a… big red… shoe?”
Laughter escaped my throat before I could bury it.
I sunk to the floor with weak knees, and let myself break where Ryden couldn’t see.