Chapter Thirty-Nine
Ryden
Ten Years Ago
My palms have been sweaty before, but never like this.
To play in front of a few people, that was easy (unless it was in front of Scarlett).
But performing to a bar packed high with strangers – people who’ve seen the throws of life, people who came to swallow those memories with pints of poison – that…
That was impossible.
“I can’t do it, Dove,” I turned away from the stage, gripping Harley so hard my fingers throbbed. “What if they throw shit at me? Boo me off stage? What the hell was I thinking?”
She grabbed my face with both hands. “One day, you’ll be playing in front of thousands. Think of this as a… um, trial rehearsal?”
I chuckled. “A sound check?”
“YES! A sound check, yeah. That. Think of it as that. I’ll be right by the bar, hopefully talking some sense into Blaise Acton.”
Before she could leave, I grabbed her hand, swallowing the lump in my throat. “You sure… uh, Emory’s not coming?”
A fire lit in her eyes, dying out just as quickly. “No,” she snapped. “She’s out with Jared.”
It burned a little, it did. I wanted her to come.
I wanted her there. Yeah, she was closer to Scarlett, but we were a trio.
The three musketeers. We sang duets together, you know.
She made me feel comfortable in my voice, showed me that it wasn’t just Scarlett eager to listen.
She’d been a solid force since we met half a decade ago, supporting me through the loss of Mom leaving, helping me scout for our new place, easing my nerves when it came to putting myself out there.
I mean, man, I don’t know. I just thought she’d come sing with me tonight.
I wanted her there. That’s… that’s all.
But she was hardly ever around anymore, even when she was present. I could tell.
So could Scarlett.
She flipped out her phone, well – Sinead’s phone – and tried her number again. Voicemail.
The familiarity of that feeling cut deep.
That stinging pain of not knowing why someone important wasn’t showing up.
I shut my eyes, buried the sorrow alongside my music, and pulled Scar in for a hug. “This is it,” I whispered. “This could be our chance at something more.”
She tensed, then softened at my touch. A deer in the headlights, my Dove.
“This is our chance, dummy.” She pulled back. “Show the world who Ryden Spectre really is.”
I didn’t give myself another opportunity to back out.
I didn’t give myself another opportunity to break from fear.
I walked up on stage, the crowd still immersed in their own doings, while I set up my mic, testing the feedback.
No one heard me.
Not above the noise of other artists blazing through the speakers – Presley, Rose, Cash –
I’d be like them one day.
I’d be bigger.
“He – Hello,” I said. “I’m… Ryden Spectre.”
No one. Heard. Me.
“Hey,” I tried again, clearing my throat. I caught Scarlett’s eye, who was sitting by the bar like she promised, engaged in a conversation with Mr. Acton.
Even my Dove didn’t hear me.
There was nothing to hold on to.
Nothing to tie me to this life.
I didn’t exist.
I was invisible.
But it’s always the people who have nothing to lose that have everything to gain.
And I repeated that. Over and over I repeated that while I strapped Harley to my chest, taking in a deep breath, and began to strum the chords to the first song I ever wrote: Grey Heights.
Shutting my eyes, I thought about the mountain peaks we climbed – me, mom and dad – the only true memory I could look back on – before cancer found a home in his lungs.
“There was a sun that day, in the hazy grey…
The height so high, I can see them fly –
The birds they sing, and the tears they bring…
Is that why the raindrops fell?”
His hair was dark, I remember that, he had the same eyes as me. We were the same, I think. I’d like to believe that. He was good, I felt safe with him. With my mom.
“I called them the Grey Heights –
They stood tall with their might and I can’t lie –
I wanted the same, I wanted the rain, I wanted to be…
Strong and fly, strong and fly…”
My mom, she looked so happy then. When the light took him, the dark traded her in. I wanted to understand why she left. I wanted a reason. But this was a happy song, a happy boy, a happy time. He didn’t know what was going to happen.
He just wanted to fly.
“We ran around the green flowered slopes,
Running around with all our hope,
There was freedom, in being free –
And I stayed away in this reverie,
Soaring, flying, feeling free –
Feeling free, it was meant to be –
In the Grey Heights, we were all alone…
My wish, my wish, is we could call it home…”
Slowly, I opened my eyes, clutching onto Harley like a life preserver. A tear, then another, dripped down my cheek, like a sliver of glass pooling at my waterline.
There was… no noise.
I thought no one heard me.
But… everyone was watching, silent, drinks in hand, staring –
Staring at me with wide curiosity.
Big men, bared women, Scarlett –
Scarlett, Scarlett, Scarlett.
She was crying.
“I –” The words got caught in my throat. I could only see Scarlett. I could only focus on Scarlett.
No one else was moving.
And then…
And then –
A clap, so low and slow I could barely register. It came from the back of the bar, the right – I think, slow and low, slow and low.
Followed by another.
And another.
And another.
Then shouts, louder claps, raucous claps.
“WHO IS THIS KID?”
“MAN, HE’S GOT A VOICE THAT ONE.”
“HE IN A BAND?”
“Not yet!” Scarlett suddenly appeared, turning to the man who asked. “But he will be, and you can say you were the first to see him before he hit platinum.”
“Alright lady.” He turned to his friend, but Scarlett had already climbed up on stage, grabbing hold of my hands, my face.
“You…” she lost her words. “You –”
“I did it, Dove,” I cried, holding on to her elbows, inhaling the rush of the moment, the song, the feeling of performing.
The feeling of being noticed.
This…
I knew it then.
All of this – this life, it was mine.
Mine to breathe in.
Mine ‘til death’s end.
It belonged to me.
It was my purpose.
Scarlett was inaudible, reaching into her pocket, pulling out…
uh, dice? “The um,” she wiped tears, “the bar has this thing where if you roll these, you get a discount on mystery shots. I just had this idea, you know, I thought we could roll it one day and take a vacation for as many days as the dice gives us. And then you sang and,” her eyes met mine, “you sang and I knew that one day, these numbers would take us to the Maldives.” She folded the dice in my hands, “You earned it,” and squeezed, “we earned it.”
Before I could say anything, Mr. Acton approached the stage with another man. He was dressed in expensive clothing. I could tell by the design. I’d seen models wearing these kinds of collared shirts, leather shoes. Only in posters, but still.
“Ryden Spectre,” Mr. Acton said with a smile. “You’ve got a great voice for someone who grew up around here.”
A new wave of confidence found its way to my throat. “Not much to do except try, right?”
“Right.” He nodded, lips curving. “Well, this here is my friend Pierce Standley. He manages small bands for the label at Avenue Records, up in New York City.”
Scarlett pinched my wrist, but this time, I…
I couldn’t feel a fucking thing.
Nothing – nothing except excitement.
Raw.
Pure.
Adrenaline.
Was this… actually… happening?
Did I finally – did I finally get my big break?
It never happens this fast, surely this is a joke?
Is this really –
“HE HAS FOLLOWERS!” Scarlett butt in, shaking Pierce’s hand. “I’m Scarlett Blake, his manager. I’d like to pull you aside and show you that he’s not a no-name, and he’d make you very, very happy.”
Surprisingly, Pierce found this amusing, allowing Scarlett to lead him to a table in the back where she immediately swiped out her phone, presumably showing Pierce the YouTube page flooded with all my covers and originals.
It was too dark to see if he was impressed.
I was too high on the moment.
My vision blurred.
“Everything okay, Ryden?” Blaise nudged my shoulder. “You’re going to make a mark on this world. You’ve got something going for you, kid.”
“I… I didn’t even get to sing anything else,” I shook my head, the disbelief settling in. “I can sing more, I can show you – Pierce – more.”
But Blaise only laughed. “Talent like that, it boasts. You couldn’t ignore it if you tried.”
Talent like that, it boasts.
I knew I would never forget that.
“You know, I’d say luck’s on your side. Pierce was down for a wedding over in County Three. He just stopped in to see his old friend, and that old friend happened to own the best bar in town, with a showrunner he’d never expect.
We were all surprised, Ryden Spectre,” he pat my back. “It’s rare that good things come from this town.”
Scarlett came running to me, jumping up on my body. “May I borrow him, Mr. Acton?” She asked, practically yanking me away.
Before I could catch his response, she dragged me outside, showing me a phone number. “IT’S HIS. IT’S PIERCE STANLEY’S NUMBER. HE TOLD ME TO CALL HIM WHEN I SPOKE WITH YOU ABOUT A POTENTIAL PARTNERSHIP. YOU COULD BE SIGNED. YOU COULD BE FAMOUS. YOU COULD BE –”
Two police cars and an ambulance zipped by, going faster that I’d ever seen. A radio call had been made, I could hear it whizzing off through the patrol speakers. Television broadcasts flooded the inside of Cobalt Blues, illuminating the crowd in a hue of white.
I pressed my face to the glass, watching the news headline scroll across the screen in red tape:
FATAL CAR ACCIDENT ON HWY 790. TWO PRESUMED DECEASED.
I felt the bile rushing up my throat.
The photos of the deceased burning my retinas, a hollow cavity taking shape of a tombstone as I struggled to keep still.
I couldn’t look back.
[When did this happen?]
I couldn’t look at her.
[I need to leave.]
I knew she saw.
I know she’s watching.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can.t
This isn’t real.
This isn’t happening.
They aren’t –
“Poor kids,” someone muttered against the glass. “So young.”
Slowly, I turned.
She wasn’t… she wasn’t answering her phone.
Fuck.
Fucking fuck, fuck, fuck.
No, no, no. I looked back at the screen. Stared at the names. The red banner flashing like a siren.
The ambulance.
The cop cars.
Fatal.
Fatal.
Fatal.
Deceased.
No.
No.
“Scarlett…” I could barely speak. I couldn’t – I couldn’t hear my own voice. Blood thumped loudly in my ears.
When I finally met her eyes, they glittered like a black hole of obsidian stone.
Immobile.
Unmoving.
Empty.
Just the writing on the screen reflecting off her blank, lifeless stare.
Two Dead.
Fatal Accident.
Jared Barter.
… And Emory Maria Williams.