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92
Ryan and I were having dinner at his house one night after a tough day at the studio when suddenly there was a noise outside.
Ryan was the first to notice. “What’s that?” he asked, frowning.
I stopped talking and listened.
It sounded like somebody singing.
A very
specific
somebody.
We walked from the kitchen to the front of the house and stopped in front of a window.
Derek was outside, standing on the three-foot-tall brick column that housed the mailbox by the driveway.
He was belting out “Take Me To Church” by Hozier.
Go listen to it. It’s an amazing song, dark and mesmerizing.
It’s also incredibly sexual.
Not something your boyfriend would want to hear your ex sing to you on your front lawn.
And, frankly, Derek was killing it. He didn’t have the backup choir or the sweeping orchestral sound, but his gravelly rumble was subbing in just fine. Every one of his little model / actress / wannabe fans would have given their left silicone implant just to hear him sing that to them.
“I’m going to kill him,” Ryan murmured, almost in shock that Derek would do something so audacious.
I thought it was kind of weird.
And… sweet. In a bizarre, slightly deranged way.
In other words,
exactly
the kind of thing Derek would do.
“Don’t go out there,” I pleaded, just imagining the two of them getting into it on the front lawn.
“Oh, I’m not, don’t worry,” Ryan snapped, and pulled out his cell. Within seconds he was on the line with neighborhood security. “Yeah, Ray? You let somebody in the neighborhood I pulled off the list. I need you to come get him. Yeah, he’s the one singing out on my front lawn.”
Two armed security guards showed up within two minutes. Derek held out his arm and waved them off until he hit the end, at which point we heard applause from several neighboring houses.
Derek took a little bow.
“Unbelievable,” Ryan muttered.
Before he stepped off the brick column, Derek shouted, “You sure do like getting people with guns to do your dirty work for you, Mr. Cowardly Bassist.”
Then he willingly let himself be ushered into the back of the black SUV and taken out of the neighborhood.
93
The next day at the studio, Ryan was angry, Miles was furious, and Derek just laughed it off like he always did.
I was a nervous wreck from all my conflicting feelings.
Killian dealt with the soap opera the same way he dealt with everything: by getting high.
The only person who surprised me was Riley.
I never heard a peep out of her anymore. She had long since stopped calling me Yoko; she even stopped talking to me. In fact, she stopped talking to
everyone.
She would show up to the studio and not say a word. She’d stay drunk in the corner, put every last ounce of energy she had into her drum parts… and then walk out without saying anything to anyone.
She was distant, placid, compliant.
In short, she wasn’t Riley.
Miles wasn’t complaining – he actually loved not having to do battle with her all the time – but the rest of us were concerned.
“Hey, mohawk – you still alive back there?” Derek said one day.
He got a drumstick thrown at him, but it was kind of halfhearted and easily dodged.
Ryan tried talking to her later. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Nothin’ to talk about.”
“You and Megan okay?”
“We’re great.”
“You haven’t been fighting?”
“No, she’s busy with classes, I’m recording… it’s fine.”
“Is it what’s going on with me and Derek?”
“Pfff, you assholes are just being assholes,” she said, which was the most Riley-like comment she’d made in days.
“You’d tell me if something’s wrong, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
She was about to turn away when he reached out and hugged her.
She didn’t have a reaction – she just let him hold her for a good five seconds – and then she shuffled off.
But I could have sworn that I heard crying later on from inside the locked women’s bathroom.
