Chapter 10 Past
Bright afternoon sunlight, rare for Portland, splashed across the words and numbers of the sign, making it hard to read. Ry squinted, a smile playing on his lips.
Tonight, he’d see it in neon lights. The Libra Theatre may not have been the biggest or best location in the world, or hell, in Portland, but it was a start. Ghostfire finally had a place to play. A real fucking venue.
Ry spent weeks negotiating a contract with the manager, eventually setting up a door-split with them, which meant more promotion. He’d also been the one to pay the deposit.
Alex came up behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder. Ry relaxed against his boyfriend, soaking in the warmth from the sun.
“What do you think?” Ry said.
“I can barely read it,” Alex said, teasing. “What’s it say?”
“It say’s ‘Alex owes Ry a bj.’ See?”
“Oh? Interesting. So all those meetings were only to hire the marquee? We definitely need a manager if that’s your best.”
Ry glared at Alex.
“Okay, okay,” Alex chuckled. “Never seen our name as a headliner. Kinda surreal, no? Always thought it would be cool—didn’t expect to hit like this.”
Ry turned around and softly kissed his boyfriend before pulling him into a firm embrace. He nuzzled into Alex’s chest, a faint scent of leather and orange lingering on his shirt.
“Whatcha thinking about?” Alex murmured to the top of his head.
“How we met. How everything so far has led us here. And I wouldn’t change a damn thing.”
Alex grinned, the scar above his eye twisted, only making him look even more adorable. Ry traced the blemish down to the sharp line of his jaw.
“Stop with your face,” he said to Alex.
“I can’t help that you think it’s cute, babe.”
“Thought I would find you two here.” Brand’s voice brought him back to the moment, the sign there, still real. His hair waved in the breeze, his glasses shining in the light as he pushed them up his nose. “Impressive, isn’t it?”
“Sure is,” Ry said, his tone soft.
“Yeah!” Lon pulled out his camera, snapping photos left and right of them, the venue, the surroundings, and then demanded a collective selfie in front of the sign for their fourteen loyal Instagram fans.
“Our first actual gig. And we get paid.”
Ry’s cheeks hurt, but he grinned right along with Lon. He experienced a lightness, as if he might float off. Ry laughed. “I know! Step one, complete!”
He wrapped them all in a group hug—which was more like everyone hugging Alex—squeezing as tightly as possible. Lon reeked of hairspray and weed. In contrast, Brand had a fragrance of linen and whiskey.
After a moment, they pulled away.
“Schedule master,” Ry said. “How long until sound check?”
“About two hours,” Brand replied. “What are you thinking?”
Ry shook himself out. Lon took a picture of him flailing around, his own way of dealing with nerves.
“Three Sisters?” Alex suggested. “Grab a couple beers to celebrate. We will throw down after Sunday.”
“Agreed,” Brand said.
Ry leaned on his wall of a man. “Solid plan. And Lon can see his fair maiden.”
“Aye, m’lord,” Lon said, swooning. “’Tis the Lady Mindy I seek.”
“Yeah,” Alex said, ruffling Ry’s hair.
“Such a romantic,” Lon said, snapping pictures of them. “Work for the camera!”
Alex rolled his eyes, but humored them as they walked.
The Three Sisters, situated a block from the Libra, had been their regular haunt over the past few months.
The bar, dim against the daylight, had a few patrons sitting at the counter, a few others at tables eating.
A couple guys played pool. They had gotten to know Mindy, the bartender, and Lon had been smitten at first sight.
Lon only talked about her beautiful curly hair or her glowing dark skin.
“So, did y’all save me a seat?” she said, setting out the third beer once they’d made their way to her.
“Of course,” Lon said, stepping forward. He brandished a piece of paper. “You’re my personal VIP.” He slipped her a ticket, then gave Ry a knowing glance.
“I’ll be there, cheering y’all on!” She winked at Lon and handed him the last drink.
Alex grabbed the other pool table and began setting up the match.
Brand picked up a couple of cues, giving them a test spin.
Lon sat on a barstool, and Ry leaned against his friend.
Ry watched a few games, losing more than a few others, nursing his beer.
Mindy gave them another round, “For luck.” After the second drink, Ry relaxed into the rhythm of the game.
Not long after Ry made his first win of the night, Brand announced they had to leave. “We’ve got thirty minutes until sound check and still have to move gear. Let’s go.”
Once at the Libra, Brand assumed control, dictating placement, checking equipment, and verifying all the inputs with the house engineer.
Ry followed Brand’s lead on the logistics.
He’d been the guru for all the shows thus far.
Alex did all the heavy lifting, and Lon made most of the finer adjustments.
After the initial tests, each took turns at their mic.
Ry sipped water, the heat of the lights making the space stuffy.
After the full band played and front-of-house gave the all-clear, Ry and the others headed to the green room to get ready. He changed into his uniform: a black skull shirt, black skin-tight jeans, and black boots. Alex had told him he looked damn good in those pants multiple times.
Alex put on dark jeans and a tank which showed off his thick arms. Lon donned his black cross tee, gray jeans, and red Converse. Brand wore his signature button-up and dark slacks.
Ry paced the small area, his chest tight and his limbs stiff.
He shook himself. Alex lounged on the couch.
He beckoned Ry with a smile, then kissed him once he was on his lap.
Lon patted his face, gazing into the mirror.
Brand muttered to himself, wriggling his fingers on an imaginary piano. Alex strummed Ry’s arm.
The stage manager poked her head in. “You’ve got five minutes to places.”
“We can handle this,” Ry said, standing up.
They all turned their eyes toward him. “By the end of the night, they’ll want all records we make.”
“Damn straight.” Alex nodded.
Lon grinned, and Brand agreed.
“Let’s kick ass.”
Then they were on the stage. A quiet hush had fallen. Ry took a deep breath and scanned the audience. Damn near every seat was full. His mouth dried and his hands shook as he reached for the mic.
The opening song on the set list was “The Heretic and the Broken Man.” The words slipped his mind until Alex hit the first notes on the guitar. Ry blinked his eyes shut, the swell of the music building around him.
Mirrored glass across a beating heart
shattered hour frosting my view
your red eyes find mine, storm intensifies
it batters ribs, tastes of salt and loss
Lon smashed the cymbals and snares, his foot thumping the beat. Alex and Brand balanced the melody and harmonies along with Ry’s vocals. Vibrations blurred up his legs.
Shelter in the chest of a broken man
In cold, dark chambers, we strike a rebel flame
light of the heretic, our only plan
Ry danced over to Alex, the song they’d written together after the horrible storm over a year ago flowing around them, through them. Leather and sweat filled him before the next words.
Wake, the heretic cupped in my palm
Seeds within your eyes faded and lost
you shudder in my arms and cling to life
you wash my shores with blood and rising tide
You are the heretic; I, the broken man
A beacon in the battering storm of night
The wall of music paused, leaving Alex alone in the spotlight, the chords softer for a moment. Sweltering cascades of air washed over him; the lyrics icy in his mouth.
Cold devours the rain, bends the wind,
When your ship calls out, no harbor answers
I struggle to reach you—my wayward route
Navigate by your pull
The chorus swelled again, and Ry danced on the stage, falling to his knees, inviting the crowd to the battle for survival.
Without you I desiccate—I’ll staunch
your salted tears with the steady pulse of me.
Ry gazed out at the audience, their vague shapes undulating to the music.
the dark horizon takes the tongue of night
the broken man slips under blessed heretic’s light.
Ry stopped, opened his arms wide and fell back as Alex caught him in one arm. Ry looked up into those green eyes and grinned. Alex returned his smile. They’d nailed it for the first song.
?
Ry leaned against the railing of the loading dock behind the Libra. A light breeze swished through the trees, stirring warmth from the asphalt. After three sold-out shows, three glorious nights, they’d finally packed up their equipment.
Lon took pictures of them, the bay, the dumpster—everything. “Ugh, these are terrible.”
Ry would bet he’d see a couple of them up on their social media by the end of the night.
Brand cleaned his glasses and sipped coffee from a can—how he could sleep afterward was consistently an exercise in mental gymnastics.
Alex gazed toward Mt. Hood, absently thumbing a pick he constantly had on him.
A wide, irrepressible grin spread across Ry’s face. Tonight’s show had been so precise. A bubbly lightness spread through his chest. He whooped. With a sharp glance, the rest of the band and a couple techs turned to look at him.
“Three nights in a row, and we only got better.” Ry motioned them all closer. “Paid shows. A full house, with real people, every night. We crushed it.”
Lon leaped to his feet. “I know! When the crowd—right after the tempo thing—and their hands were all wavy. Brand—and Alex, and Ry and like we—all of us, you know, like one together.” Lon turned red. “Can’t even talk!”
Alex clapped him on the back. “Never seen us so on point. This proves we belong here.”
Brand, ever deadpan, smiled as well. He pushed up his glasses and looked thoughtful. “We fucking rocked.”
And Ry laughed. Brand cursing was a rare treat.