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.
CHAPTER 12: PAST
Ry sat on the gritty patio, the condensation from his half-empty mixed drink leaving a damp ring on the worn wooden table.The distant hum of traffic and the clinking of glasses from inside the bar created a muted soundtrack to his stillness.He remained frozen.Across from him, Alex, Brand, and Lon mirrored his stunned silence, their faces shadowed in the evening light.
Alt 98.7 finished broadcasting “Angels and Demons,” the last chords faded into the quiet hum of the cheap speakers.Their conversation ceased the instant the first tinny notes, with their muted guitars, vibrated through the air.It sounded strange, yet undeniably their song playing on the radio, here in the sprawling heart of LA.
As the next track in rotation played, Ry cleared his throat.“Uh, so,” he stammered.“Does this mean we’ve made it?”
Lon’s laugh was a shaky, pained noise, betraying his nervousness.“We sound better than that, don’t we?”
Alex smiled as he gave Lon a hearty smack on the back.“Course we do.”
Brand lifted his craft beer.“Yes, gents, we have arrived.”
“Fuck.”Ry grinned.“Jesus, that’s crazy.Our song just played on the radio.”
Arend swooped in, a grin on his face.He wore burgundy corduroy pants, a button-up and vest, his signature short-brimmed velvet hat perched on his head.He gestured expansively.
“Well, my boys, certainly an improvement to be on the airwaves, wouldn't you say?But I’m afraid I only have better news.”He paused for dramatic effect, raising a finger.“I’ve booked Ghostfire at the Troubadour!Let me buy the first round to celebrate—after all, I like to ensure success.”
The Troubadour.Ry's breath hitched, his pulse rapid.So many legends had graced that stage, and now he would join them.The heat of the lights on his skin, the storied wood on which he would stand.His voice, the band’s music, echoing in history, spilling into the streets of Hollywood.
“Hell yeah!”Lon jumped up at the opportunity for another beverage.Ry stood and drained his glass in one gulp.Even Alex and Brand joined.
