The Heretic and the Broken Man

Chapter 1 Present

Ry stared at the bottle of Jack Daniels and wondered if he should take a swig to numb the brewing headache.

And the subsequent heartache sure to follow.

How long had he been living this half-life?

Three years? Four? After each concert, Ry had little enough strength to make it through grueling press days, let alone sing again. He wanted it to end.

But that wasn’t in the fucking contract.

That piece of shit thing he signed, along with the rest of the band, dictated his life. If he could take everything back, he’d never have signed it.

A little voice whispered that he deserved every moment of suffering, every single bit of self-hatred. It was your choice. It was you who wanted it. You. You are the one who ended everything.

“Stop!” He threw the hotel lamp within reach. It flopped over the end table, not breaking, and dangled limp, knocking against the side. No dent in the wood. Not the catharsis he wanted. He sat on the edge of the bed.

Ry’s cell phone rang. He stared at the device with sudden hatred for the piercing wail of the ringer, snatching it.

Brand. Ignoring the phone, he rubbed his eyes and face, encountering dry, rough skin.

A deep malaise settled over him, accompanied by a sinking heaviness.

The sheets reeked, still damp from night sweats.

“Gross.”

Instead of getting up, he flopped backward, then regretted that choice as the room spun. The phone rang again. Again, he hung up.

A sharp knock came at the door, followed by a muffled voice.

“Go away.”

The door opened. Ry knew the man before he could see him. Before he said anything. Arend wore his usual dark green suit, a hat perched on his auburn curls.

“Orion. You look terrible. Though I would be ashamed to see you in such a state, I’m worried for you instead. I’m glad I’m here to shield this from the public. How your poor devoted fans would wring themselves to a frenzy.”

Ry said nothing, instead glaring at his manager. The asshole who locked them all in a shitty contract. He stood there pouting, as if Ry had disappointed him and deserved a scolding or punishment.

Arend clicked his tongue. He took a whiff. “I suppose I should have brought a handkerchief.”

“What do you want?”

“Well, Orion.” Arend bowed. “I fear we have a problem. We have a press call in ten minutes, and you appear as if you aren’t quite ready.

Of course, I can cover for you, but that’ll be most disappointing to your adoring fans.

They love you, you know. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to break their hearts. ”

Ry gritted his teeth. A moment later, Brand entered the room.

“Ry!” But he stopped cold in his tracks as if he ran into a brick wall when he saw Arend standing there like he was holding court.

How many more years do I have in this fucking contract?

“Ah.” Brand stood straighter. “I suppose we should get ready for the call, Arend?”

“Of course, Ry said he’d be most pleased to join us, didn’t he? Though not required, please shower.”

A please that implied something nasty if he didn’t.

“I’ll expect you in my suite in a few minutes. I know they always clamor for more of the lead singer of Ghostfire. Not to say our sweet Brit doesn’t have his share of admirers, but you seem to captivate the young and impressionable.”

Ry tossed off the sheets and eyed the bottle of Jack like it might save him. Brand stood there with his arms crossed, the only barrier between him and the exit. Whether his friend, if he still was, was mad at him was to be seen.

“You aren’t helping things, you know,” Brand said. “Just . . . I tried to warn you.”

Ry stumbled to the bathroom shower and turned the water to hot, not even bothering to shut the door behind him. The room door clicked shut, and he took a deep breath against the beginnings of a headache.

The bathroom, with its gilded fixtures, could have easily fit into the opulent state palaces he’d visited as a child traveling alongside his father.

But that it was something he’d “earned” didn’t make it anymore welcoming.

Instead, it felt like gilded trash. Like he’d sold his soul to the devil and lived in hell instead.

Hell might have been a better place. And warmer.

He stepped under the cascade of water, the heat searing his flesh, washing away the filth from the previous night.

Should the tabloids learn how he lived, Arend might finally stop hounding him to find a young, beautiful woman to accompany him.

He hated the heterosexual lie the most. Could all the women the label had thrown at him forgive him if the truth came out?

The heat seeped into him, and he relaxed under the massaging rain of the showerhead.

He soaped up and cleaned himself off, trying hard to forget the memories that tried to crop up every time he took a shower in a hotel room, in the early days before signing with a label.

They’d been broke, but happy. Now they were rich and miserable.

He dried off and looked at himself in the mirror, not recognizing the gaunt, haunted man in the mirror.

That look made the fans fall in love. They could save him.

He grabbed the bottle of pills—for his anxiety—and took his usual dose, hoping it would help with the inevitable hangover.

It went with the all-black wardrobe and macabre lyrics. Which always fit his mood.

He grabbed the nearest clean “uniform” and stuffed himself into it. After checking his texts for the room number, he walked to Arend’s room. Taking a deep breath before knocking, he wanted the medication to take effect. Today was gonna be shit.

Thankfully, Lon answered the door, though even he’d changed over the past couple years. He wasn’t as happy-go-lucky since the private breakup that could have split the band. Lon needed this more than any of them. Ry could always return home—though he shuddered at the thought.

Ry took another deep breath and sat on a chair, desperate to channel the energy for this stupid press conference call with a shitty local DJ for a shitty radio station.

They were here, though. Ry’s mood was as black as his clothes. Lon fidgeted with his phone, flipping in back and forth, taking a couple pictures and deleting them. Brand still and composed as always. Arend, snake-like and slimy, his fake smile beaming.

And Alexander, in the corner, overlooked the city. Ry had forgotten where they were. He glanced at Brand, who rolled his eyes and mouthed, “Budapest.”

Ry nodded to acknowledge the answer, hoping the movement would not trigger a migraine.

“Well, shall we?” Arend asked. He toyed with the cell phone in his hands like it was a dagger instead of an electronic device. He tapped the screen twice. “Yes, thank you. We are ready. And you know the questions you cannot ask, correct? Very good. I’ll put you on speaker so they can all hear you.”

Arend motioned them closer. The sensual heat radiating from Alex reminded him of their shattered bond. Ry hated this part. Hated that he couldn’t touch him. Hated that he wanted it so bad. Hated that he didn’t seem to care anymore.

“Good morning fellas, how are you liking Budapest so far?” The thick-accented DJ host said, his voice smoky.

“It’s great,” Ry said, the first person to always speak. He stopped caring about lies and truth a long time ago. Part of the Arend charm rubbing off.

“It’s been a while, but having a great time,” Brand said, his tone cool and collected as it always was.

Lon affirmed, and Alexander said nothing.

“So glad you find our little city so wonderful! It’s great to have you playing here again. How have the crowds been?”

Ry hated these things. He used to dream of being interviewed on all the stations, speaking about important things and discussing music. But those dreams shattered fast. Arend had struck “Are you dating anyone?” from the list of acceptable questions—doing something that wasn’t shitty for once.

“Crowds are great,” Lon said. He liked these questions. Or had. Did he still? “Energetic and so, so awesome. It’s humbling to see how many of you all come to our shows. It’s why we added an extra one to make it three total here. We wanted to make sure everyone got a chance.”

“Right,” Ry said. He was required to participate. And sometimes he didn’t mind. It’s just . . . . “It means a lot to see you all out here having a good time with us.” The lies were easier to tell than in that first month. He felt sick lying all the time, though, like bathing in miasma.

“We love Ghostfire!” the host said. “I’ve been a fan for years, since the first album’s release. Such a classic. Can you tell us the song you like the most from that one?”

“Oh gosh,” Brand said. “I do quite like many of them, though perhaps my favorite is Walking Here Without You. The lyricism is gorgeous and, of course, the piano powerhouse chords are some of the first I loved writing.”

“I’m partial to Let Me Run,” Lon said. “Ry and I wrote the lyrics together a long time ago, and I remember we reworked them again and again for the studio version, and it’s just got such golden memories.”

Ry’s stock answer was always “Been There” just as Lon and Brand always chose those songs. Alexander always said “Angels and Demons.”

But Ry’s favorite was “The Heretic and The Broken Man.” He remembered the first love letters they’d written to each other.

Ry’s writing was flowery and saccharine.

And so full of clichés. Alex’s words had been stiff and romantic formal poetry.

The song worked from those letters, coming from their background. Coded gay romance emo music.

Ry knew it was also Alexander’s favorite song. Or had been.

But neither could say it was their favorite.

“Angels and Demons,” Alexander said. “Brand and I wrote the original verses, and then Ry came in to help solidify the tension present in the story.”

That extra tidbit was new. He had done that, but Alexander rarely mentioned Ry’s part in it. Ry glanced at him, but Alex’s eyes were on the phone. Arend didn’t miss that motion, though his dark hawk-eyes betrayed nothing.

Feeling more rebellious, Ry changed his answer for the first time. “I know I always say Been There, but being on tour again and having so many fans long to hear stuff off our first album. I’m going to say One More Life. It’s one of our less-played songs, but I like it.”

The change, unexpected, rendered the hotel room hushed. It was almost enough to give him the shivers. And it felt good.

“Always great to hear these!” the DJ said. Arend noticed the change even though the DJ couldn’t over the phone.

“We’ve got time for one more question,” Arend said, his fluid voice calm and composed as always. And it was time. “So much to do before the show this evening.”

“Alright,” the DJ said. “Million euro question: Are you working on anything new?”

Ry handled this question. Always. “Well.” He tried to play coy on this one. “We’re always working on new things. I can’t say for sure what will happen, but keep an ear out during our shows.” Which only meant they’d play random chords and people would read into them, which was the point.

“Thanks for your time. Listeners, you can catch Ghostfire—”

Arend hung up the phone.

“Well done,” he said. “Now, let me go over the schedule for the day. Before lunch at 12:45, I want you to eat and work out, looking your best. The sound check is at 3:00, and at 6:30, we’ll surprise them with an autograph signing before the show.

” Ry blocked out Arend’s ongoing narration concerning the rest of the day.

Besides, management sent his schedule to his phone every day, with reminders.

“Got it?” Arend asked.

Everyone nodded, and Ry joined in too. Then he got up to head back to his room so he could order something to eat, but Arend stopped him before he could do so much as leave.

“Orion.” Arend’s frosty voice carried a threat. “I dislike surprises in interviews.”

He shrugged. “Maybe my favorite song has changed.”

“Is that so? Go on, you have your fans to please. Don’t forget that.”

Ry headed a few doors down to his suite.

Had Alexander been trying to say something today?

A hand of peace? Of course they spoke and performed together, but it was too painful for Ry to think about.

This was the first time he’d heard his name out of the big guy’s mouth that wasn’t on stage—which was a different world altogether.

And it reminded him of when they’d first started.