Whiskey Lullaby

by Keren Hughes

  Brent standing before me looking like a wall of solid, taut muscle, eclipsing the sun from my view. Brent’s smile and how it lights even the darkest of nights. Brent standing naked and wet in my shower. Brent worshipping my body and making me tingle all over. When did my thoughts end up in the gutter?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Brent

  It’s been a week since I saw Caleigh, and what a painful week it’s been. Having nothing to do with my time, I’ve sat by the bay window, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. I’ve gone to the shop so much that I have a fridge full of milk, just because I hoped I might see her in the street. But it’s all been to no avail.

  Today is release day for the new album, and yet I can’t find it in me to be excited. Asher texted me earlier to say I should listen to the radio—which I did—because they were hyping up the album and talking about it possibly being our best yet. But then they mentioned the one thing I wish they hadn’t: my departure from the band. That doused any excitement I might have felt.

  With that news being broken, it was only an hour before articles popped up online from trashy magazines speculating over my reasons for leaving. Did I have a falling out with the others? Did I get fired by Gordon over leaving mid-tour?

  I pull Google alerts up on my phone and delete them. I was stupid enough to have one for any time my name was mentioned, and my phone has been going haywire since the announcement on Country FM. They aren’t the only radio station to be broadcasting about it either. It’s now mainstream. Bloody typical. One station gets the jump on announcing it and the others jump on the bandwagon.

  I don’t even know how they found out. Ash promised that the boys hadn’t said a word to anyone. And we might have had our differences recently, but I can’t believe it would be Gordon. Can I?

  Gordon called and promised to quash the speculation, but then he asked me if I’d give an interview to the press, saying it would likely be the best way to pour water on the flames. I declined, but when my phone started blowing up with notifications, I texted him and said I’d consider it, but I wanted to sleep on it. I asked if he knew who told them, and he promised to call me back when he found out.

  An hour later and he told me it was one of the guys at the recording studio. Not very professional of them, I thought as I listened to him ranting.

  He asked if I wanted to sue, but I told him not to be stupid. What’s done is done now. They were bound to find out at some point, I just wish it has been when Gordon was meant to have told them. He was going to tell them that I just felt the draw of home and there was no falling out with anyone involved. But if he says that now, it just looks like he’s trying to cover something up.

  Maybe I should give an interview. That way, people might think I’m telling the truth. However, there’s always the chance that they would believe me as much as they’d believe a statement from anyone after the fact. It looks like we’re trying to cover our asses. Hell, I don’t know!

  Deciding I need some fresh air, I lock up and take a walk.

  My phone rings and I frown as I see Gordon’s name on the screen. What does he want now?

  “Hey, Gordon, what’s up?”

  “Hey, Brent. So, this might sound a bit weird, but would you be open to coming back as a one-night-only thing to perform ‘The One That Got Away’?”

  “What? When? I didn’t think the guys were touring again so soon.”

  “They’re not; we were just spit-balling ideas for promo of the new album, and I threw out the idea of a one-night-only reunion of all band members.”

  “Gordon, I’m not being funny, but I only left a few weeks ago, and you know why I left, so I really don’t want to do something that thrusts me back into the limelight I was so desperate to escape in the first place.”

  “Fair enough, son. I just thought you might want her to hear you sing it.”

  “She wouldn’t come to one of our gigs. Not now, anyway. She hates me.”

  “And how would you know that, boy? Women are hard to figure out sometimes. You never know how she feels unless she tells you direct.”

  Or she avoids you in the street, knowing full well you live somewhere between her and her son’s school, I think to myself.

  “I just know, Gordon. Now, I’m sorry, but I’m actually on my way out somewhere.”

  “Okay, son, don’t forget to give me an answer with regards to an interview.”

  “I will. I’m just getting in the car, so I have to go. Sorry,” I rush to say, in a bid to get rid of him sooner.

  “Speak soon, kid.”

  I get in the car with no fixed destination in mind. Driving around, I finally spot a small café and stop for a coffee. The barista recognises me, so I sign an autograph for her and pose for a selfie. She’s so excited that she gives me my coffee and a muffin on the house. She refuses my money when I try to hand it over, saying she’d like to buy Brent Ryder a coffee. Probably something she’ll tell her friends about later.

  Sitting in a booth at the back of the café, I pull my hood up and turn my back to the window. Maybe today wasn’t the best day to come out. What do I do if I’m asked why I left the band? Jeez, I hope not many people in Brookhaven even know who I am. Maybe it would have been better if I’d moved to an even smaller town.

  As the evening settles in, I find myself parking the car randomly and getting out to walk about, just to see what’s around. I hear music and it’s like my feet take me to the source of it on autopilot. It’s a relatively decent sized place from the looks of it. The sign in the window reads Open Mic Night.

  I walk in, order a whiskey sour and sit at the bar. The bartender smiles at me and asks if I’m new around here. At least one person doesn’t know who I am. I think. I just smile and say yes before turning to watch the singer on stage. She’s belting out the lyrics to a hauntingly beautiful song by the amazing Evanescence, a song that brings tears to my eyes: “My Immortal”.

  This woman has some serious balls taking on a song sung by Amy Lee of all people, but she’s goddamn talented, I’ll give her that.

  The room erupts into applause as the song comes to an end, and the pretty brunette smiles shyly, as if she doesn’t know her own talent.

  Talent scouts would eat her up. She’d be offered recording contracts left, right and centre. But of all people, I know that everything that glitters isn’t gold. And if she really is as shy as she looks, then fame and fortune would eat her alive, chew her up and spit out only her bones. They don’t give you fair warning before you sign your name on the dotted line. And if you’re young, all you see is the money and the women, the partying, the booze, and drugs if that’s your scene, which it isn’t mine. You don’t see it ever getting old. You think you’ll always want the same things. But one day, you’ll find fame and fortune isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

  Maybe that day will come when you first fall from grace, for example you get caught snorting blow and get arrested, and that makes front page news. Oh, not of the newspapers maybe, but the place where it counts most for “celebrities”: trashy magazines and online outlets. Or maybe you cheat and get someone else pregnant—again, front pages of those magazines. Perhaps it’s a “kiss and tell all” kind of situation: you sleep with someone and they sell their story to those magazines. It’s not like any of those things will break you, but the sparkle of fame will begin to wear off. The more you do, the duller the shine becomes, until one day there’s none left at all.

  Nobody tells you that life in the limelight brings its share of problems, even if you are squeaky clean. I’m talking anxiety, depression, suicidal thoughts and more besides. I should know, after all the doctor Gordon brought in told me it was anxiety at first, then it was depression, for which he stuck me on some happy slappy pills that I didn’t think I needed. Turns out I was wrong though, not about the depression, but the anxiety. Yeah, that sucked. Having panic attacks and having to hide them from my bandmates, my brothers, because I thought they’d be disappointed in me, maybe look for a r
eplacement.

  Of course, when I actually told them, they weren’t disappointed in me at all. They helped me overcome it—yet another reason I stuck with them for as long as I did; I didn’t want to leave them after all they’d done for me to get me to overcome my fears, some rational, some not so.

  I listen as the next person up, a good-looking young lad that reminds me of a younger Evan, sings his heart out to a song I love: “Where Your Road Leads”.

  Hearing the lyrics, I’m struck with the kind of pain I only thought possible for other people, the kind that makes you feel like you’ve been eviscerated. It’s not that it’s a sad song; it’s actually a beautiful song. It’s more that the words remind me of all I would have done for Caleigh.

  As if that didn’t pour enough salt in the wound, the next singer gives his rendition of “The Only One Who Gets Me”. Man, Charles Kelley has more talent in his little finger than I do my whole body. And he’s a damn cool guy, too. I’ve met him, Dave and Hillary several times now, and they’ve always been so cool, so open, so friendly.

  The love that man has for his wife is written there in song. So honest, raw, real. The guy on stage must have as much heart as Charles, must love someone the same way, because his version is enough to bring him to his knees.

  I watch as he kneels down, and a woman from the audience brings her hands to her face, covering her mouth, as he holds out a hand. In that palm is a box, an open ring box. The stage lights glint off whatever stone is at the centre of it and the woman furiously nods her head.

  That’s the kind of love I want. Honest, real, full of raw emotion. I want passion, I want laughter, tears—the happy kind. I want it all. Even the arguments over silly things, the hot, angry, make-up sex. I want to experience every aspect of an all-consuming love.

  An idea comes to mind, so I finish my drink and make my way outside to my car. I only had the one drink, so I’m not over the legal limit to drive. Thank goodness for that, too, because I have somewhere to be, some planning to do.

  Shit, Caleigh might hate me, especially as she told me last time we slept together that it was a mistake. But maybe that was just her pride talking. Maybe there’s some sliver of hope, even if it’s only a tiny one. And that’s a chance I’ll have to take.

  ***

  I’ve been back and forth between planning. I have nothing but time on my hands, so I am giving this plan my all. It’s coming together slowly, I think.

  I’ve been back to the open mic night, hearing more people give it their all, but no more proposals. Not yet, at least.

  It got me to thinking, though. If Charles Kelley could lay his heart on the line and have a song recorded about the love of his life, then why can’t I?

  Gordon sent me the full version of the album, including my song, as Vox Records decided to have enough copies made for the band and a few to give away to fans. I have yet to listen to it, but knowing that Caleigh’s song is out there for the world to hear doesn’t scare me as much as it did at first.

  Last time I was at open mic night, I met a girl. Her name was Rhiannon. She was shocked to see Brent Ryder in the flesh, and she stared daggers at me for a while before approaching me. We ended up exchanging numbers, and she’s told me exactly where Caleigh lives. For part of my plan, I needed to know her address, so stumbling across a friend of hers was really very convenient. I would have probably been seen as a stalker if I’d found out my own way.

  “Do you want to pick a card for the flowers, sir?” the lady arranging the flowers for me asks.

  Caleigh loves flowers. She says they make the world a brighter place. But the one time I bought her flowers when we were together, she said that she doesn’t like that they die.

  I remember telling her they die in the wild, just as often as they do in vases. That memory is what sparked my idea.

  I choose a card and she offers me a pen. I write my message before tucking it neatly into an envelope and paying for the flowers.

  “And these are for delivery today, sir?”

  “If you think you can manage it, yes.”

  “You’re lucky; it’s a quiet day. Wednesdays always are, for some reason. And the house is close by, so I can deliver and be back relatively quickly.”

  “Well, thank you, I appreciate it.”

  “Let me get this right. I’m to deliver the flowers, and if asked, I am to say they were paid for in cash and I have no idea who sent them?”

  “She’ll know it’s me anyway, unless she has more than one admirer. But, yes, that’s what I need you to say. I know it’s a little white lie, but you wouldn’t let that stand between a man and the woman he loves, would you?”

  “No sir. Call me a hopeless romantic. I just love love.”

  “Thank you,” I reply as I hand over the money and a tip for her helping me with phase one of the plan.

  After I leave, I head into town and hit the gym. I’ve been getting myself more in shape recently. Not that I was in bad shape exactly, but because I want to be more toned. Plus, the gym helps me burn off the nagging doubts about the plan.

  I’ve been past the building that Caleigh rents for her studio. I know it’s hers, because I’ve seen her in passing as I head to the gym. After that, I found a new route to the gym so that I wouldn’t run in there and profess my love for her, and because I know she’s avoiding me, so I don’t want to piss her off.

  The name of her studio made me do a double take. I literally had no idea what it meant, so I googled it on the way to the gym that day.

  If I’d walked past it when Caleigh wasn’t around, I would have had no clue what they did there, but I get it now. Savasana is a yoga term. Now it makes sense. And I’m guessing that any potential clients would be familiar with the meaning of the word.

  My phone chimes as I get to the front door of the gym, so I pull it out of my pocket.

  >Any ideas what you’re going to do to try and win Caleigh back?

  I type out a reply to Ash.

  >Who said I wanted her back?.

  >Umm…everyone. You, Jude, Gordon … And Evan in particular is under the impression you are going to try.

  >You’re a bunch of nosy fuckers, aren’t you? I have an idea. It’s a 3-step plan.

  >What’s step one?

  >Well, I’m having a bouquet of flowers delivered today.

  >Flowers? Man, let me tell you. I know nothing about love, but you better be upping your game after flowers. After what you did … yeah, flowers aren’t winning her back anytime soon.

  >Alright you nosy little shit. I’ve been talking to a friend of hers, who helped me plan steps 2 and 3. But the card with the flowers is more important than the flowers themselves. Look, please don’t be telling anyone I’m a sentimental little sap, but there is one artificial flower. It looks as real as the others, so it won’t stick out like a sore thumb. The card reads: I will keep loving you until the last petal falls. It’s a play on her love of Disney, and the fact that artificial petals don’t fall.

  >What’s the Disney reference? I don’t get it.

  >Neither did I until she made me watch the live action Beauty and The Beast with her. That’s where it’s from.

  >Oh, cool. Well, it sounds sappy to me, but if that’s her favourite film or whatever, she’ll be touched by the reference. Sounds like a better first step than I thought.

  >Oh, I’m so glad I get your seal of approval :P Anyway, heading into the gym now. Catch you later.

  >Later dude.

  With that, I finish pulling my top on and head into the gym, ready to bust some serious ass in this workout.

  ***

  I can’t help but wonder if Caleigh threw the flowers out. I didn’t sign my name, but I’m certain she knows they’re from me. If she threw them out, she won’t understand the reference on the card. She’s meant to watch all the other flowers die and then realise that there’s still one too-perfectly healthy one left.

  Pacing the floor will only burn a hole in the carpet and drive me crazy, so I sit down
and try to absorb myself in the book I’ve been reading.

  What I’ve learned so far is that George R. R. Martin is the one author I’ve read that’s capable and comfortable enough to kill off his main characters without batting an eyelid.

  I saw the show and didn’t like the ending much. It’s like it was a bit too rushed, but that’s a controversial opinion. I’ve had plenty of time on my hands to get caught up with all the popular shows people are raving about. But if you ask me, The Witcher was better than Game of Thrones. Not the earlier seasons, maybe, but certainly the latter. I have a love-hate relationship with The Walking Dead, to the point I quit watching around season seven.

  I watched Stranger Things for the first time. I don’t know why I waited so long. Maybe because I was too busy and maybe because there was so much hype about it that I thought it couldn’t all be true. But much to my delight, it’s as amazing as people say. I binged the whole three seasons over the weekend. Now I’m on tenterhooks for season four.

  The truth is, it appealed to me because of its whole eighties vibe as well as the inexplicable things that were happening. The Duffer Brothers have hit the jackpot there, that’s for sure.

  As I finish the end of the book, I hear my doorbell ring. I use my phone to access the camera to see who it is. The last thing I need is someone trying to sell me something and I can’t get them off the doorstep for half an hour.

  I see Jessa stood at the door, and as I look further beyond her, I see Evan and Julia at the car.

  Scrambling to get up and to my door as fast as my feet will carry me, I almost trip over the rug, but manage to right my balance and rush to the door.

  “Jessa, baby, hi.”