Chapter Twenty-Six
Ryden
“… and it’s the final show, don’t you see? We were always meant to be, even in the thick of dismay –”
Arc hands touching up my face, covering blemishes, scars buried deep in my skin from times past…
Was this who I was?
This… this portrait of a rock star. A painting for other people to stare at?
Guess so, people pay good money to see you (fail).
Shut up. Not today.
I felt the moisture building in the cracks of my palm. “Can I have a towel, please?”
Two were placed in my hands, one hot, one cold.
Quick as a drum.
“Hair’s all done, Octo.” Belinda, I think her name was. “Not a single strand out of place.” And she was out the door before I could say thank you.
I… I would’ve, by the way.
I would’ve said thank you.
People weren’t used to the niceties. They didn’t expect it.
I just wish I could be the one to throw them off their game, give them some semblance of kindness. Even if it’s not worth much.
In an industry like this, I’d say it’s worth everything.
“I really must insist he tries on the vest, Octo.” A designer, stylist, I don’t fucking know, said from my left.
Vest. I never wore vests. Jaw & Lion wore black and that was that.
Rolling my eyes, I glanced at Octavius in the mirror, hoping for help.
“You’ve been here for,” he held up his watch, “ten seconds. You don’t get to demand what a rock star wears.”
With that, the designer/stylist ducked out of the room, a huff of curse words training his wake.
I bumped his fist. “Thanks, Octo. Or should I say, award winning makeup artist of the year.”
He smiled, a row of pearly white teeth against fuchsia lipstick. “Flatter me more, I insist.”
“Ah, let’s see… Forbes makings-of-a-millionaire, top five in the world of highest demand…”
“The list goes on,” he waved, roughing up my hair. “You look like a spectacle, Mr. Spectre. In the best way, of course.”
“Thanks to your magic hands,” I teased.
“And yet,” his eyes narrowed, “something bothers you.”
My smile faded as I caught his gaze in the mirror, attempting to hide the shame.
I tried, so help me fucking fuck I tried, willing the corners of my lips to raise. They didn’t move.
Was I making it that obvious? Did it really show?
What the fuck’s wrong with me?
Why couldn’t I be fucking grateful? For a second. One SECOND.
LOOK –
WHERE –
YOU –
ARE.
I cleared my throat. “Ah, nothing. Really,” I smiled, “just ready for the tour to be over.”
“Tired?” he asked.
“Blessed, don’t get me wrong, I just – “
He held up a finger. “Nooooo, no, no,” clicking his tongue, “none of that. You are a hit in the stars right now, Mr. Spectre. You can be tired, you can be overwhelmed, you can be whoever you want to be as long as you’re happy.”
Happy, right.
But what did that mean?
Happy with what? My hobbies?
I knew what I liked – music, (booze), music, (drugs), music –
Forgetting.
Why? Why did I like those things?
My therapist Rachel taught me to do this shadow work technique of asking questions to your questions. I thought it was bullshit, but the anxiety was driving at one-sixty so fuck it, give it a shot.
Why do you like these things, Ryden?
I mean… I never used to be this way, addicted to the feeling of floating – miles away from the life I craved for so long.
When did this all change?
I never used to drink, I didn’t smoke, I promise. I didn’t abuse substances the way I assaulted them now.
So what led you to this?
I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.
It haunted me like a chorus, cranked in my brain.
Your dream.
Your dream led you to this.
This is what you wanted.
And it ruined you.
“Mr. Spectre?”
“Christ,” I jolted, slapping my face. A veil of creamy paste coloured the inside of my palm. “Sorry? Sorry. Octo, honestly, I don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me right now.”
He set down his brush, one hand on his hip. “This is your night. Sing for the people who love you, not for the people who pretend to.”
I held my breath, repeating those words. “Sing for the people who love you, not for the people who pretend to.”
“That’s what I said, and that’s what I meant.” He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder before exiting, leaving me alone with a Radio City sized hole in my chest.
Sing for the people who love you, not for the people who pretend to.
I’ll try. I’ll try.
Familiar voices howled in the hallway, echoing, seeping underneath the crack of my door. “He better be dressed,” one said. “He better be naked,” another responded.
I couldn’t help but smile.
Any minute now…
“WHO’S READY TO SELL OUT RADIO CITY????” The door flew open, banging against the wall as Donny threw himself over my head, strangling the shit out of my neck.
“It’s been sold out, dumbass,” Derek muttered.
“Ease up, that face sells millions.” Dean leaned against the clothing rack, popping a blue pill into his mouth.
Ever so relaxed, always a wonder why.
My tongue tingled at the thought of the taste.
“All our faces,” Derek corrected, shaking out a few pills of his own. “All our faces sell those albums.”
“Dunno Spindly,” Donny shrugged, “the new mullet’s been pussy repellent.”
He popped three. “Yours or mine?”
“We got it at the same time, dip fuck.”
“So you’re inadvertently also calling yourself pussy repellent,” Dean chuckled lowly.
It was silent for a moment until it wasn’t, the lot of us erupting in laughter, the tension in my shoulders easing slowly, ever so slowly.
This.
This side was also my life.
The laughter, the jokes.
These boys. This band.
This legacy.
I couldn’t forget that. It was the only thing keeping me going.
Well that and –
“Where’s Scarlett?” I asked, unable to help myself.
Last night was a haze, the warmth of her holding me a memory within itself. I couldn’t call her, not without Tav and the band hounding me at the tip of dawn to clock in for soundcheck.
Clock in, like it was a fucking chore.
It was what I loved most.
But where was my other half?
“Pretty sure she’s out with Abe,” Derek slung his arm over the clothing rack, smug, antagonizing.
Alright, fuck no. “Come again?”
“He’s just messing with you,” Dean scoffed. “Abe’s long gone.”
“Am I messing with you? Or did I poke a nerve?” Derek prodded. “Come on, tell us. What’s she like?”
“They put something in your pills, Spindly?” I stood, shaking the clothing rack he was hanging on to. “Seem pretty fucking out of it right now.”
He flinched, moving back. “All good.”
Nah, not all good. “Don’t need to be putting out drummer ads in the paper now, do I?”
His throat bobbed, “Swear, just having some fun before the show.”
“Been having too much fun lately,” Donny grumbled, fisting my shirt. “Fuck off with this bullshit, man. Are we ready to do this? End the tour right in our FUCKING hometown???”
Smile, Ryden.
Put on a goddamn smile.
“Yep,” I said, drawing them in. “We good?” I glanced at Derek. He nodded, crossing his heart. “Well, alright. Gather up boys.”
With our arms slung around each other’s shoulders, I looked them dead in the eye, Jaw & Lion, my chosen brothers. “Radio City?”
Their grins were wide, hair untidy, hearts unified. “Radio City,” they chanted, “Radio City, Radio FUCKING City!”
“Radio City,” I repeated. And there we stood, linked together like an immovable force.
A sold out tour.
A charting album.
A legacy I created –
With the people I chose.
And when the lyrics burn, the Eagle grows wings. “Let’s do what we were born to do.”
***
Spectre! Spectre! Spectre!
My people, voices howling like banshees, an electric wave of fireworks exploding through the venue.
Spectre! Spectre! Spectre!
Faces, faces all around me held out towels, water, flasks – that I’d remember later, those faces. It was cause for celebration, so what? The final night I could let loose (like you do every night), but I earned this.
I fucking earned this.
“Mr. Spectre, is there anything else you require –”
Everything fades out around her.
Because I was already dead set on what I needed, decked in all black, ruby lipstick like an alarm calling me home.
Scarlett stood just before the stage, earpiece and dice in hand.
Her hair was lava against the beams, bright smile a glistening pearl white. “Our ritual.”
“For a second, I thought you’d forgotten.” I gripped onto her other hand, leaning forward. “It’s bad luck not to see the rock star before a show.”
“Well here I am,” she pursed those full fucking lips at me, “I’m looking at you.”
I smirked, “Give me the dice.”
We came up with this little ritual before my first ever show ten years ago. It was a dingy bar back home, I’d barely grazed twenty, and no one could keep me off stage once I gripped that mic. The bar had a thing called secret shots, where each number correlated with a mystery drink.
She pocketed the dice and handed it to me after I performed my first ever song, Grey Heights.
“I thought we could roll it one day and take a vacation for as many days as the dice gives us,” she’d said, “after I heard you sing, I knew that one day these numbers would take us to the Maldives. You earned it,” she’d folded them in my palm, “we earned it.”
A decade later and we kept the same practice. From breaking into movie theatres and midnight chats on the jungle gym, we really did end up going to the Maldives.
We really did end up earning it.
“What number do you think we’ll get?” she asked.
“Hoping for twelve,” I winked. “One bedroom this time.”
“Pfft, relax.” But her gaze lingered with humour and temptation as she held out her hand, and I threw the dice.
Our foreheads brushed as we peered down to look. “Nine,” I breathed.
“Nine,” she repeated. Probably couldn’t hear me. The crowd swallowed our voices. Something to be grateful for.
I glanced up, ready to pull her in for a hug, but it was her eyes that drew me in instead.
God, we were really fucking close. Too fucking close.
Her perfect, pouty lips and hazelnut irises stared deep and determined.
Firelight danced inside them, willing me to say the words. “Where would you like to go, Dove?”
Her throat bobbed. “The Maldives.”
I was entranced by her. “We’ve been.”
And she, me. “Not like this.”
Spectre! Spectre! Spectre!
“Mr. Spectre, you’re on in ten –” A stage manager pulled my arm, the rest of my band shooing me to the curtain, vibrating with elation.
Not like this. “What do you mean by –”
But I was already being dragged away, Harley handed off to me by Dean, and I could only see her once.
Once more.
And her smile confirmed all that I knew.
Not like this.
Something’s changed.
“Fly, Ryden!” she yelled, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Fucking fly!”
And I stumbled onto stage,
Lights in rays –
Thousands, thousands, thousands,
of voices yelling my name,
SPECTRE, SPECTRE, SPECTRE!!!!
But I could only hear hers, a mantra in my head, Fly, Ryden, as I sauntered to the mic.
This is who you are. I fit my earpiece in.
This is what you do. I wrapped my fingers around the mic.
Here –
We –
Go.
“HOW’S EVERYBODY DOING TONIGHT?” My voice was that of an eagle – powerful, commanding.
The uproar was contagious, joy – so much joy – filling every corner, every crack in my heart.
Ecstasy. This was ecstasy in the rawest form.
Music. Melodies.
Moments.
Ablaze began to play – my go-to headliner – Derek hopping onto beat, Dean strumming a C Major, Donny tapping his bass.
You should be so proud, a voice whispered in my head.
It was unrecognisable, disoriented, low.
But only before a show could I pinpoint the kindness.
You should be so proud, it repeated, as I hummed in tune with the rhythm.
That voice, the only voice, that ever showed me kindness before the opening of my shows…
Was mine.
Let me thank you, I thought back.
And I began to sing.