Chapter 11 Present
Fluorescent light spilled down the hallway, and Ry followed the red-patterned carpet to his room. He hummed and twirled his phone in his hands. The show tonight had been so damn good. Always good to end a tour on a high note.
Arend’s hotel door stood ajar. Voices, kept low, came from the room.
“—rehab and pretends it’s a career.”
“—Ry.” It sounded like Lon speaking.
“—bring you down—no, no, trust me.”
He edged closer to the opening, holding his breath.
“—seems different,” Lon said.
Arend said, “—think of it as damage control then.”
Shuffling fabric alerted Ry. He slipped into his room, his blood hammering in his ears. A soft click outside. Lon shook his head, but otherwise went to his room.
His skin itched, and his muscles burned.
More than anything, he wanted to talk to Lon.
Instead, he tore himself from the entryway and sat on the bed.
He shifted his shoulders, loosening his neck, and tried to recapture his earlier mood.
Alex had been slinging puns during the pre-show, calling himself “clef-er” for it. Ry’s lips twitched.
What had Lon and Arend been talking about?
The hallway stood empty. Ry looked around, patting his pocket for his room key before letting the door close behind him. Why am I sneaking around?
Standing taller, he knocked on Lon’s door. His friend opened the door, wearing pin-striped slacks with a matching vest, and a tank-top featuring a skull.
“Heya Ry,” Lon said, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Come in, what’s up?”
Ry walked in and sat on the chair Lon waved toward. “Slick outfit.”
“Thanks.” Lon gave a twirl. “Going out soon. Feeling fancy after the last couple shows. Man, we were good.”
Ry agreed. “Still celebrate the end of a tour the same way?”
Lon grinned, tipping an imaginary cowboy hat. “That’s right, partner. You wanna come with?”
If he wanted to know Arend’s scheme, he needed to go. Directly asking his friend would expose him.
“You know, why not? What? I don’t have to drink.”
Lon pumped his fist as if they were back in high school. “Fuck yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.”
Ry grinned. “I guess that means I need to put on different clothes.”
“Damn straight. Let’s go get you changed. Driver’ll be here in twenty.”
Lon picked his outfit: tight jeans, boots, a button-up, and a brocaded vest. His pulse quickened as Lon helped him with the last button. No backing out now. And didn’t his therapist say he should get out? Intel and therapy goals.
A black car waited for them outside the hotel. Lon made a few calls, but his hands flew over his phone, sending a flurry of messages. When Ry asked, Lon mentioned he had to update the plans.
They pulled up to a back alley, Lon leading the way. Music rolled from the building in front of them. A man came out, dressed in jeans and a dark shirt. He had an earpiece in one ear. Lon greeted the man with a handshake and a quick hug before introducing Ry.
In moments, they were in the club. Vibrations traveled up Ry’s legs, fighting against his internal rhythm, forcing his heart to dance.
The older man beckoned them to follow, leading them through well-lit rooms, up a flight of stairs, and into the dark, where strobe lights sliced through the blackness.
Sound cocooned Ry. Perfume and cologne hung in the air. He looked at the mass of people dancing wall-to-wall to the beat of the music. Sweat sprayed with each gyration. Lon pulled him away to introduce him to a few of his new friends and hangers-on.
Lon shouted over the thumping of the music.
“What?” Ry asked. There was no way he could even talk to Lon here.
Lon stuck his hand in his pocket and handed Ry two earplugs and motioned for him to put them in. The melody softened, yet the rhythmic pulse of the music continued to vibrate around him.
“These are new,” Ry said.
Lon tapped his head. “I figure if we are wearing them for our shows.” With the earplugs in, his muffled voice cut through the background noise. “Glad you could make it.”
“Thanks, me too.”
Lon then danced around the VIP lounge, talking to everyone briefly, touching an arm there, nodding at the right time. Ry, content to be alone for a moment, watched everyone. He nodded to a few of the local sound crew, but their sidelong glances and snickers kept him from approaching.
A waitress arrived, bearing a tray of full glasses. At this distance, she looked like Mindy. Lon said something to her, pointed to Ry, and then came over. Ry counted how many drinks she dropped off.
“She’s something, isn’t she?” Lon said, sighing.
Ry nodded. When her tray was empty, she sauntered to Lon. Her eyes flicked once to Ry, then back to her target. Her smile dazzled, and Ry could see why Lon liked her.
“Evangeline, this is Ry. Ry, Evangeline.”
“Call me, Eva,” she said, extending her arm, hand poised.
Ry took her hand and kissed it. “Enchanté, Eva.”
She giggled. “As am I.” She turned back to Lon and leaned against him. “And what can I get for you, the usual?”
Lon nodded. After a few long moments, she peeled off Lon and leaned toward him. “And for you?”
“Club soda, thank you.”
“Coming right up, boys,” she said, winking at them.
Lon clapped Ry on the back and then tugged him along.
Over the next hour, everyone in the VIPs had warmed up to him as he followed Lon from conversation to conversation. Nothing regarding Arend had come up. He drank his club soda, nodded along, and still no closer. How to get him alone and outside?
Lon entertained the group with an exaggerated drum solo to the music. Ry smiled, remembering how he would do much the same back in high school. Eva came into view, bringing a tray full of drinks. She set them on the low table and handed them out.
She handed one to Ry. “May I borrow Lon for a moment?” she said. Before Ry could say anything, she gently caressed Lon’s arm and beckoned him away. Shit. He sat back down. They slipped downstairs, and he couldn't bring himself to follow or risk witnessing them.
Ry brought the glass to his nose, inhaling the sharp, sweet scent of flavored vodka. He placed the glass on the table. The conversation had fractured, Lon's departure leaving a shift in the room.
His phone buzzed, a sharp, insistent vibration against his leg.
Furious messages from Arend flooded the screen, the harsh digital light glinting in Ry’s eyes.
A chill dread, a sickening lurch, twisted in his gut, leaving him lightheaded.
Arend's demands for a last-minute interview, laced with the cold, “nonattendance will incur penalties” message, felt like a physical blow.
Ry sank deeper into the couch, the worn cushions offering little comfort.
The hollow ache in his stomach intensified, morphing into a burning heat that spread through his chest. He gripped the phone, the smooth plastic a contrast to the inferno rising within him.
Ry's knuckles whitened; he almost hurled the device across the room.
Ry said, “Fucking Arend.”
Without thinking, Ry tossed back the drink in front of him. He downed the one meant for Lon, too. Fire burned his tight throat, a sudden, searing heat, his eyes wide with a prickle of panic. Then a familiar, comforting warmth spread through his limbs, like a soft blanket settling over him.
He pushed off the couch, angry at Arend, angry at himself. His phone buzzed again, Arend’s ugly face lighting up the screen. His blood boiled, though a chill slithered along his veins. He ignored the call and looked for Lon. The fire settled in his belly, the frayed edges of his skin soothed.
His friend was nowhere to be seen. A young woman came up to him, her smile shy. “I really like your music.”
Ry almost groaned, but kept his face neutral. “Thanks.”
“Come hang out with us,” she said, her eyes pleading with him. “You’re so tense, and we can help you relax.”
“Not interested,” Ry brushed past her, heading outside.
In a moment, fresh, damp air slapped against him.
A prickling itch, like a thousand tiny needles, spread across his arms. Though he was utterly alone, the unnerving feeling of unseen eyes raking over him made his scalp tingle.
His chest tightened, a vise squeezing his lungs, and his thoughts raced in a dizzying, blinding kaleidoscope.
A hot, acidic wave surged up his throat.
Breath became jagged and shallow. His hands searched his pockets for the Xanax but found nothing. His knuckles rapped, a sharp, uneven rhythm against the metal until the heavy door creaked open, revealing the older man who’d let them in. He couldn’t breathe.
“Xanax?” he rasped
“You okay?” The man guided him in and sat him at a table that appeared to be a breakroom.
“Be back,” he said. Ry squeezed his eyes shut, a sharp, involuntary clench rippling through his hands.
A strange, electric tingles, crawled across his skin; his thoughts a heavy, churning mire.
Alex and him, a promise, then a cold surge of terror.
The man returned with pills and a glass, offering Ry a lifeline.
Ry stared at the small white discs, his hands shaking as he turned the pills, his mind recognizing them.
A vise closed around his ribs; his vision narrowed.
One, two. Numbers blurred, and his arms felt like rubber.
His heart thundered in time to the music.
Can’t. Promised. He pinched the small white pill, his fingers trembling as they met the smooth surface.
He lifted it, his hand wobbling slightly as he brought it to his lips.
His breath, shallow and raspy, brushed against his fingertips like a ghostly whisper.
Closing his eyes, a grimace twisting his face, he dropped the pill, the faint click lost in the sharp, metallic taste of the water as he gulped it down. Then he waited.
Minutes dripped by like thick, warm molasses. The crushing vise around him eased, and his thoughts, once sharp, softened and unraveled into a sluggish liquid. The man looked up from his phone.
“Better?” he asked.
Ry pushed himself up, the plastic biting into his palms, but the world spun, a dizzying blur of shadows and light.
He collapsed onto the floor. A deep rumble, the man’s voice, reached him, thick and indistinct, then, like a sudden spotlight piercing darkness, Lon’s face swam into view, his features a stark landscape of shock and crushing grief.