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“I need a moment to think, okay?” I murmur, focusing on the road ahead but feeling the weight of the choice bearing down on me. Knowing how my friend thinks, I add, “At least until I talk to Dad’s old friend.”
“Well, they expect an answer within the next couple of hours,” Blythe replies. “If we agree, they’ll have their people check the premises and add security.”
I let out a long exhale. It’s a big decision with little time. But the center is everything. Our dream, our purpose, and it helps so many people. But . . . “Security?” I repeat, wondering who exactly is trying to get our services.
I don’t tell Blythe that the house has some sort of security system already. It’s from the time when . . . why does it seem like the past is trying to come back? Ever since Dad died, the memories are more vivid, even my dreams.
This, having a celebrity in that house feels so familiar and daunting. What if I can’t handle it? But do we have any other option? I pray that we do. Should I tell Blythe why it’d be best not to do this? I love her dearly, but there are things I haven’t told anyone about my family’s past. It’s best if they remain buried.
“Honestly, I don’t know if it’s such a good idea to have anyone in that house,” I say, trying to figure out if there’s another place we can put this person. We have plenty of available rooms in the main building. I don’t understand why we have to make special arrangements for them.
“Well maybe, it’s because a famous person might create a commotion, and that will disturb our other clients,” she states sarcastically.
“Why don’t you skim through the news to figure out who this person is? Could it be a politician or an ambassador who had an accident?” I suggest. “I see the potential here, but I can’t just dive in without knowing more before we decide to sign the NDA.”
“You really need to learn to trust more,” she fires back. Her voice crackles with impatience through the car’s speakers.
“May I remind you that the people I loved weren’t honest with me—we’re fixing the crap my father pulled,” I tell her as I switch lanes.
“So there’s more to it than your father, huh?” she says suspiciously. “Why haven’t I heard more about this before? I’m your best friend.”
I scoff, the old wounds aching just as the new ones still bleed. Mom said she was okay after . . . but that past doesn’t matter. We don’t discuss Mom, or anything that happened before it was just Dad and me. Instead, I end the call and hope my father’s friend can give me a hand.
Somehow, I have the feeling that letting someone into the old house might be a bad idea and probably the beginning of another tragedy. But we’re out of options . . . and out of time. What choice do I have but to take a leap of faith? I pray that I find it soon.
Chapter Two
Brahms
I’m part of an eccentric family.
They call my brothers and I music royalty. We’re the sons of Roger Ehrenberg. Yes, the famous frontman for Crimson Odyssey, one of the most notorious bands during the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s.
Our mother opened for Crimson Odyssey when her band was starting—that’s how she and Dad fell madly in love with each other despite the almost fifteen year age difference between them.
My maternal grandfather was also a musician, a classical composer who scored major motion pictures back when people paid for exclusive film scores.
My older brothers were part of a boy band in the 2000s—Metro 5 was pathetic, but their legions of fans remain fiercely loyal. They’re still waiting for a comeback, but I doubt it’ll ever happen. We don’t speak about those years, unless it’s to make fun of them. We might even pretend to know their ridiculous choreographies.
See, music royalty through and through.
Music is in my veins. I learned to play the piano around the same time I was saying my first words. I could read musical notes before I could spell out my name—Brahms. The ‘h’ is silent, and yes, I’m named after Johannes Brahms, the famous pianist and composer.
It didn’t surprise anyone when I started a band at sixteen with my best friends. Cascade Midnight was born during a camping trip. We blend indie rock, punk rock, and add ambient soundscapes complemented by introspective lyrics that back then came from what we thought were life experiences. Don’t judge us, at that age we thought we were old souls and knew everything there was about the world—we were wrong. Our unique style quickly caught the attention of local radio and indie music blogs.
I know what you’re thinking—this asshole rose to the top because of the usual nepotism. But no, we hid my family ties until we started playing more serious venues around the age of twenty. That was maybe the only time when I didn’t use my father’s name to get what I needed or wanted.
After that, well there was an accident that screwed up our lives . . . and since then, I let everyone do whatever the fuck they think is convenient to save face.There’s a rumor that I’m a PR nightmare. Okay, it’s not a rumor. I don’t give a fuck about anything and with every breath I break something.
Everyone thinks I’m a spoiled thirty-some year old who can get away with everything—even murder. But there’s a lot more to it. Secrets I will take to my grave . . . if I ever get to fucking die. I’m either a cat with more than nine lives, or the Grim Reaper is playing with me—he pulls me to the door, and just when I’m about to leave this life, I’m shoved back into what I now consider hell.
There’s no other way to describe my life.
Is it wrong that I use painkillers and alcohol to try to numb my mind and soul? Not when I have to carry the guilt, grief, and pain of everything that’s happened to me within the past seven years—or is it nine? It doesn’t matter. It feels like two eternities ago.
The memories haunt me daily: the crash, the flames, the friends I couldn’t save. I survived while they perished. Why me? Sometimes I wish I had died too. The survivor’s guilt eats away at me. Recovering from the accident was long and painful, but I had hope.
The hope stopped when I lost her.
