Chapter 3Ronan
3
Ronan
H e woke up the next morning exhausted. He had stayed up entirely too late, deep-diving into Eden's songs while reading all of her lyrics. He was wholly immersed in Eden's music. Her songs had captivated him, and he was astounded to discover that she not only sang them but also penned every lyric herself. As if that was not impressive enough, she played a significant role in producing her tracks, lending them an ethereal quality that steadily built into something remarkable. Her songs were raw, usually alternative with heavy guitars and drums. By the time he tried to get to sleep, it was past 3 AM, and the little sleep he got was fitful.
After carefully reviewing and signing the contract, he sent it to his lawyer for a final look. Mr. Lopez wasted no time in reaching out once the terms were settled. BNN was eager to get started with the filming process as soon as humanly possible. He was now facing a tight deadline. The project had to be completed by the end of October. Two months might sound like ample time, but it felt overwhelmingly short to Ronan when tasked with delving into every facet of someone's life. BNN was insistent, wanting to release the documentary around the same time as Eden's upcoming album. Eden's last show of the tour was scheduled for tonight, and Ronan was scheduled to meet her and her bandmates at the music venue before the performance.
Ronan tried to quell his nerves. He paced around his apartment until he was sure he was wearing footprints on the hardwood floors. He exercised, showered, and ate, and then he counted the tiles on the ceilings. He attempted to take some deep breaths, but his chest felt heavy with unease. Despite his efforts to focus on anything else, his mind inevitably drifted back to the accident, anxiety spreading from his chest through his limbs.
He was right back to the blaring heat of the desert, the ringing in his ears after the landmine had been denoted, a voice screaming...a voice he then realized was his own. He saw blood pooling on the sand so vividly that he felt like he was back in Yemen. His palms became clammy, and he paced while rubbing his hands over his pants. A cold sweat broke over his forehead, and his thoughts went further into a whirlwind. He walked over to the counter and grabbed a sour candy, something his therapist had suggested. The sharp tang helped pull him back to the present, snapping him out of his head. His breathing slowed, and the sweat on his skin started to cool as he took a few deep breaths.
Looking at the clock, he realized it was time to head to the Hollywood Palladium for Eden's concert. BNN wasn't joking about starting filming immediately. He had just signed the contract that morning, and they wanted him at Eden's final concert of her tour within the next few hours. Desperate to start working again, he was jumping at the chance. He felt ready to have something else to focus on besides himself and his nonstop thoughts.
Packing his backpack with his camera, he also grabbed his motorcycle helmet. As he left the apartment, he glanced at himself in the mirror. His button-up white linen shirt was cleanly pressed, and his black pants hugged his form tightly. Lacing his black boots, he rolled his sleeves to his elbows. Something about long-sleeved shirts made him feel trapped in his own body.
He absentmindedly rubbed the stubble on his jaw—he’d been so caught up in his nerves he’d forgotten to shave. Shrugging it off, he grabbed his black leather jacket and stepped outside to his pride and joy: his Ducati Streetfighter. Running his fingers along the sleek black body, he let out a small sigh of satisfaction. Restoring this bike had been his escape over the past few months. Every bolt tightened and every part replaced had been a way to ground himself, a labor of love that gave the bike—and himself—a fresh start. Paired with therapy, it had been his way through the storm after coming back to the U.S.
After witnessing his colleague's leg torn away by an explosive right in front of him, BNN mandated therapy for Ronan. He hadn’t needed the order to know he was struggling—he’d never felt so powerless in his life. The memory of that day in the desert played on a relentless loop in his mind, stealing his sleep and gnawing at his sanity. When his therapist diagnosed him with PTSD, it felt unreal. His body was intact, after all. Sure, he’d landed awkwardly during the blast and still felt twinges of pain, but the real damage was in his mind.
His therapist explained that the trauma was extreme, something his brain and body were still trying to process. He’d made progress in the months since—big strides, even—but every day still felt like a fight to keep moving forward.
Ronan pulled on his helmet, swiftly swung his leg over the sleek motorcycle, and then knocked back the kickstand. As he revved the engine, the bike roared to life, the powerful rumble echoing in the air. He immediately felt more relaxed, the engines roaring, tuning out his mind's busy thoughts. His racing heartbeat began to steady. The weight of his anxiety slowly lifted, carried away by the wind that caressed his arms. His mind returned to Eden, and he couldn't help but wonder what she would be like. Would she be a typical party girl? Only worried about money and status like some celebrities in Los Angeles? He shook his head, attempting to clear his mind. He didn't want to make assumptions about her, and there was no point in wondering when he was minutes away from meeting her.
Before he knew it, he was at the venue. He parked his bike and headed for the door. After displaying his credentials, he was brought backstage by the security guard to the green room. He hovered near the door and swore he could hear muffled music. He knocked without any answer and hesitated a few more seconds before he put his hand on the doorknob.
As he opened the door, he saw the flurry of movement. He first heard the distinct chords of "Girls Just Want To Have Fun" blasting in his ears. A tall, tattooed man was gyrating on a coffee table with sunglasses on while two other men were pretending to play invisible instruments, maybe a guitar and drums? A brunette, who was unmistakably Eden, was to his right, mouthing the words passionately while swaying her hips with her hands up. Their eyes connected, and he thought there would be some shock or some form of embarrassment across her face, but instead, she motioned with her fingers in a come hither gesture without missing a beat. Ronan's eyebrows raised involuntarily, and she shimmed closer to him, then jumped up and down while screaming, "Girls just wanna have fun!"
Then the interlude started, and the tattooed man started aggressively air-playing the xylophone while Eden yelled, "Get it, Beck!" at the display. Eden moved her arm in the air to the song's beat in a sprinkler motion. By the end of the song, everyone in the room was panting. Ronan was still motionless, standing at the door. Whatever he had expected, this wasn't anything close to it.
"You must be Ronan!" Eden approached him with a bright smile on her face, and he stopped breathing for a second. The sheer beauty of her presence felt almost overwhelming, like gazing directly at the sun. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he blinked, if she would be etched behind his eyelids, or if he continued staring, would she momentarily blind him.
"I hope you enjoyed the dance break. We couldn’t stop—it’s our pre-gig ritual, and stopping midway would be bad luck. Can’t risk that!" His throat was dry as sandpaper. He tried to swallow but failed, his nerves getting the better of him. The irony wasn’t lost on him—he’d conducted interviews in war zones, dodging bullets and chaos, yet here he was, more rattled by a 5’6” brunette than he’d ever been in a combat zone.
"Yeah, the one time we didn't do it, my drumstick flew out of my hand and almost took out Eden's eyeball." The shirtless, tattooed man said as he gracefully flopped on the couch.
"The eyeball incident of 2019. Not pretty, I was a mere millimeter of head banging from losing my left eye." A shiver ran through her body at the memory. "Never again," she said, her eyes taking on a faraway look like she was reliving the incident.
"I'm Eden, by the way." She directed her eyes to Ronan, looking at him intently.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Ronan." He stretched his hand to give her a handshake. She met his hand and shook it firmly. He swore he felt a hum of energy when their hands touched. Her eyebrows turned down a fraction in what looked like confusion.
"This is Beck, our drummer." She pointed to the shirtless, tattooed man sprawled on the couch, donning sunglasses like he wasn't in a room with no windows. "Hey man, what's up?" the man said in greeting, tipping his head upwards.
"And that is Finn," Eden gestured to a tall man with a cascade of shaggy, blonde hair. "He's our bass player," she added proudly. Her attention then shifted to a shorter man with sleek black hair.
"And that's Reef, our lead guitarist," Both men offered a perfectly synchronized, almost eerie salute, their movements flawlessly mirroring each other.
"Hi everyone, nice to meet you all." Ronan scanned the room with a small smile as he pulled the strap of his backpack off his shoulder. "I am excited for the upcoming weeks. I thought we could get some footage of you getting ready before the show and maybe get into some questions."
"So, are you like David Attenborough?" Reef inquired, his attention divided between the Ronan and the snacks on the table lined against the room's far end.
"No, he doesn't have a British accent, dummy," Finn retorted with an eye roll. Ronan suppressed a laugh. He refrained from mentioning that he wasn't entirely on the same level as Attenborough, the man who essentially pioneered natural history documentaries.
"No, you morons. I think he's more of a 'Barbara Walters' type nowadays. Big fan, by the way. You are totally badass in the field," Beck said with a nod and Ronan nodded back in thanks.
"Yeah, Beck showed us some clips like a total fanboy. You have this clean-cut look with a freak-in-the-sheets energy. It's hot," Finn said with a smile as he leaned back into the couch. Ronan coughed slightly at the compliment, feeling out of his element. This was definitely different from the type of working environment he was used to.
"Don't hit on him, Finn. You can't screw my documentarian!" Eden glared at Finn as she walked to a long mirror propped against the wall. "Can't I have a single thing to myself?" she muttered as she sat on the floor in front of a mirror and started haphazardly digging through a makeup bag. Tubes of makeup began to roll on the floor, and Ronan held back his laughter as a rogue lip gloss almost hit Finn in the leg.
"He has an edge, is all I'm saying. It's rousing ." Finn muttered with a shrug. Reef started belly-laughing as he filled his plate with various snacks. Beck pressed his lips together and rubbed his face, covering his laugh from the couch.
"I'm glad you find my work rousing. It's meant to be rousing.. to the mind." Ronan said with a smile as he unzipped his backpack.
"Ew, that isn't the type of rousing I'm personally into," Finn said with a crinkled nose as he watched Ronan grab the body of his camera and methodically attach the lens.
"See? Did you see the way he just attached the camera lens? Rousing." Finn muttered quietly under his breath to Beck while Beck shook his head.
"Ignore them. They are basically 'The Three Stooges'." She spoke as she applied a steady line of eyeliner on her top lash line, then flicked the line into a wing. Ronan walked past the couch with his camera in hand and sat beside Eden on the floor. He could hear the three men calling dibs on whichever of 'The Three Stooges' they wanted to be, followed by Beck hitting Finn in the back of his head, saying, "What's the matter with you?" in a bad Mid-Atlantic accent.
"I'm going to start filming if that's okay?" Ronan asked Eden as she picked up a large puffy makeup brush and applied her blush.
"Sure, you have my permission to film me whenever you want. I want this documentary to be as genuine as possible. If I'm doing this, I want it to be honest." Her eyes were looking at him in the mirror, and he felt his palms dampen at her direct stare, her sharp, dark blue eyes cutting into him. Her gaze was penetrating, he felt like she could see directly through him. He pulled his camera up and aimed at her while holding her stare. She gave him an impish grin and then focused on swiping her mascara wand to her long eyelashes.
He pressed the record button, marveling at how the shadows danced over her cheekbones, how she blinked and wiggled her mascara wand into her eyelashes. Her full lips were slightly ajar while she concentrated on applying the perfect coat. He noticed that her bottom lip was slightly fuller than the top. He felt absorbed as if he could sit there all night and watch her every move. There was something undeniably enthralling about her. His eyes roamed her smooth forehead, her irises of sapphire blue, the gentle slope of her nose, and the curve of her full lips. The corners of her lips turned up, and her eyes locked onto him, and it felt as if he was the prey, pinned motionless by the gaze of a skilled hunter.
"As much as I love the attention, you should maybe start with some questions." Eden teased gently. Ronan cleared his throat and swallowed. Eden reassuringly tapped Ronan's boot as if she was saying don't worry .
"Of course." Ronan searched his mind for a question. He thought about his years working in the field and the rare occasions when he could find a whistleblower willing to talk. "Do you get nervous before you perform?" It was a weak question, but he had to start somewhere. From interviewing internationally, and usually in dangerous situations, he knew that you had to build trust to get an amazing interview.
"I used to, but I recently realized that even if I mess up during a performance, people are at my shows to have fun and let go. They don't care if I sing a flat note. They are there to scream at the top of their lungs, dance, and forget about life. The goal isn't for perfection. It's for inhibition." Eden said, then applied a layer of lip gloss.
"Do you get nervous for your interviews?" she inquired and met his eyes again, a thrill running up his spine at her attention. It was rare when anyone asked him questions. His career didn't lend itself to being a sharer. He had always been a good listener and observer. He was in front of the camera, but he was never the main object of interest. Her turning the question on him was disarming, to say the least.
"Depends on the person I'm interviewing," he smiled softly at her. Her eyes squinted mischievously, and the corner of her lip turned upwards slyly.
"How do you get ready for a show?"
"We have to do our pre-gig ritual, which involves dancing to "Girls Just Want to Have Fun." Then Finn insists on everyone revealing a secret about ourselves to get rid of any nerves, and of course, there's the essential task of me eating my weight in jelly beans." Ronan wrinkled his nose at the thought of jelly beans. Who the hell eats jelly beans willingly?
"I do," Eden said. He silently cursed himself; apparently, he had said that out loud without even realizing it.
"Are you okay? Is 'Jelly Belly' holding you hostage? Why would you voluntarily eat jelly beans when there are a myriad of other much better candies in the world?" Ronan couldn't stop the words from spilling out. Was it unprofessional to question someone's candy selection? Yes, but he couldn't understand the preference. The words kept coming.
"Those nasty speckled ones? You eat those of your own volition? Without someone holding a gun to your head?" Eden raised her eyebrows, and for a second, he had a moment of panic. What if she yelled at him to leave, that he had offended her, and the project was over. Then a peal of laughter rolled out of her, his lips twitching in response.
"I never realized jelly beans were so controversial! And those speckled ones are my favorite." A shudder ran through his body at the statement.
"I bet you like the buttered popcorn flavor too."
"Of course, I feel like I am Willy Wonka when I eat those. How do they do it?"
"Dark magic? They probably sacrifice poor, defenseless kidney beans to Satan to create those monstrosities."
"Time to get dressed, Eden." A voice spoke behind them. Ronan withdrew slightly, realizing he was leaning into her like a wilted flower to a warm and glowing sun. He shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts. He was beginning to realize this would be harder than he originally thought and for an entirely different reason.