Unfaded (Faded Duet Book 2)

by Julie Johnson

  These very well could be my final hours of anonymity. I revel in them, knowing every second of freedom is numbered. As soon as Francesca arranges the tour — which she will, because that woman has never yet faced a challenge she couldn’t conquer — this life I’ve spent so long running from will start all over again. The press circuits and the interviews. The late nights and the screaming fans and the music.

  Oh, god, the music.

  I miss it like an amputated limb, like some vital organ that’s been removed from my body, leaving me incomplete and aching. It’s been ages since I’ve played. Ages since I’ve felt my fingers on the strings, since my mouth has formed those melodies I once wrote for him, sung the notes that used to swirl though every corner of my mind.

  Stopping wasn’t a choice — it was a mechanism of survival. Because every time I’ve tried to sing lately, every time I’ve so much as strummed a chord, memories have crashed over me in a wave, threatening to drag me to the depths of despair. And so, for months, my guitar has been collecting dust in a closet, a leftover prop from a role I’m no longer fit to play.

  I stroll the boardwalk for a long while before I head back to my hotel, taking in the sights. Last time I was here, I hated LA almost on principle, mostly because it wasn’t Nashville — too big, too bright. Packed to the brim with vain, materialistic people pursuing vain, materialistic careers. But tonight, as I wander in the dark, slipping through the lively crowds unnoticed, I recognize a side I didn’t last time. A side I either couldn’t see or didn’t want to see.

  There’s a certain beauty here, in the madness. In the wild waves that crash along the beach, so different from the Atlantic’s rocky shores; in the slender-necked palm trees that line the path like eternal soldiers guarding the gates of Old Hollywood; in the constant streams of tourists and locals alike, buying food from shouting vendors, bustling in and out of storefronts, their arms laden with packages.

  I drift along, breathing deep gulps of salty summer air. Just one more stranger in a sea of rollerbladers and speed walkers, moms with strollers and chirpy teens on cellphones. I can’t deny there’s an undeniable rush in this city, like nowhere else I’ve ever stepped foot. Not even my beloved Nashville.

  After the quiet isolation of my cottage, it should be overwhelming. A shock to the system. But something inside me seems to stir awake as I walk, totally immersed in the vigor electrifying the very air around me. Something that’s been slumbering for a long, long time.

  Maybe Francesca was right.

  Maybe I really have changed.

  My whole life, I’ve craved safety. Stability. After a childhood like mine… I thought it would be better to avoid being around anyone at all, to keep my walls so high no one could ever scale them. Because, to me, safety and solitude have always been co-dependent states.

  And yet… for the past two years, I’ve been nothing but alone. Nothing but safe in that new life of silent anonymity, living as Joy Winters.

  Off the grid.

  Unreachable, untouchable.

  For the first time in my life, I’ve been accountable to no one but myself. I do not shudder in fear at the slamming of a door or feel my pulse race at the prospect of a little white pill and its mighty consequences.

  Totally, completely safe.

  And totally, completely alone.

  It’s what I always wanted. What I spent years hoping for, living for, dreaming for.

  So… why does it feel so empty?

  Why have I spent so many nights sitting out on my porch with my head craned back to the stars, seeking out Scorpius in the summer skies? Why does my breath puff the chilled winter air as I stand in the dark, searching for Orion on those distant celestial horizons?

  Their everlasting chase, orbits always at odds.

  Never in the same sky at once.

  My eyes are suddenly glassy as I turn down the street that will bring me back to my hotel.

  Maybe I was wrong.

  Maybe being totally safe, with only your own light to brighten the dark sky around you, is wholly overrated.

  I’ve been back in my hotel room all of three minutes when the phone rings. I brace myself for the words I know are coming as soon as I lift the receiver to my ear and say hello.

  “They gave the green light,” Francesca says, sounding smug. “Four months. Twenty-five cities.”

  I’m silent.

  “Felicity?” she prompts.

  “When?”

  “Assuming all variables behave in accordance with the estimates I’ve put together, everything could be in place as early as next month. Six weeks from now, by my best guess.”

  So soon.

  The breath goes out of my lungs in a single whoosh of air. “I didn’t think it would happen this quickly.”

  “I know. But the higher-ups are eager to get the tour underway after all this time. Plus, we already did all the preliminary planning back when your album first dropped. It’s just a matter of reconfirming dates with the venues and putting the tickets up for purchase, which I don’t foresee as a problem — your sales are still incredibly strong, considering you haven’t put out a new album in nearly two years. After a few strategic press announcements, perhaps a comeback interview on The Eileen Show and musical guest slot on one of the late night programs… your fans will be clamoring to see you play live.”

  “Musical guest slot? Francesca, I haven’t rehearsed in ages and I definitely didn’t agree to—”

  “You know publicity comes with the territory. Don’t worry, Felicity. We’ll make sure you’re rehearsed and ready before we send you out on any stages.”

  This is all moving at hyper-speed. “But, Francesca—”

  “I have someone attempting to locate Ryder as we speak…”

  Attempting to locate him? Where the hell is he, on Pluto? Or is he on another bender, drugged out and hazy in some perfect model’s bed? Snorting lines of coke off an ample chest at a music festival in the desert? Making more headline-fodder for the tabloids to exploit?

  I bite my tongue to keep from asking, close my eyes to keep from conjuring any more images of his past exploits.

  “My assistant has already been in touch with Aiden and Lincoln,” Francesca tells me, though I’m only half-listening. My mind is still stuck on thoughts of Ryder — and the realization that I’m going to be face to face with him in a matter of days. “They’ve been playing backup on another tour for the past few months, but I’ll pull some strings, get them swapped out so you’ll have them at your disposal for rehearsals and, of course, once you head out on the road.”

  It took so long to piece myself back together.

  So long.

  How am I going to see him without shattering all over again?

  “Felicity? Are you listening to a word I’m saying?”

  “Yes.” I jolt back into reality. “I’m listening.”

  “Great, because we have a lot to do in the next few weeks and I need you operating at one hundred percent. In fact, don’t go to sleep — start packing your things. The arrangements are all made and I’m coming over to discuss logistics in person. See you in one hour.”

  “What? Why should I pack? Francesca? Francesca!”

  She’s already hung up.

  Chapter Five

  ryder

  Sprawled on one of the lounge chairs beside the infinity pool, I’m dozing in the sun with a cigarette hanging from the corner of my mouth when a sudden splash hits me out of nowhere. I’m doused instantly from head to toe.

  “Fuck!” I sit bolt upright, water streaming off me. My eyes fly to the pool, where the source of the unexpected cannonball has just broken through the surface, a huge grin plastered on his dripping face. “Was that really necessary, Dunn?” I bark.

  Grayson Dunn — Hollywood’s biggest action-movie heartthrob and, for the past two years, my only friend in Los Angeles. The bastard always has to make a fucking entrance, whether it’s at the hottest nightclub in Beverly Hills or here, in his own goddamned sw
imming pool.

  “I take it you’re surprised to see me?” he asks, hopping out of the water. He grabs a towel and rubs it over his mop of messy black hair, which has paid for at least three separate multimillion-dollar shampoo campaigns by last count.

  “You put out my cigarette,” I grumble, settling back against the lounger and lighting a fresh one.

  “Ornery as ever, Woods.” He throws his body on the chair beside mine, the eight-pack that paid for his Bugatti on full display. “God, I forgot how humid it is in Hawaii. Makes LA’s heat waves seem almost reasonable.”

  “Dunn, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Last I checked, I owned this treehouse you’re so happily crashing in.” He gestures around vaguely.

  True enough.

  Hanging on the side of a remote cliff on Oahu’s western shore, the modern villa isn’t massive, but it’s totally secluded on a private acre of land… which makes it the perfect place for hiding out from the world. The incredible views, infinity pool, and perpetually-stocked refrigerator aren’t bad perks either.

  “Am I not allowed to visit my own property?”

  “I just didn’t know you were coming.” I shrug. “You never spend any time here.”

  “But I could,” he says, green eyes gleaming. “That’s the beauty of collecting houses all over the world.”

  “Not all of us are obscenely wealthy, Dunn. How much was your last contract? Seven figures?”

  “Eight.” He chuckles. “You know, if you got off your ass and made a new album, you could buy a place — or five — of your own.”

  “You want me out of here, say the word.”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” He glances at me. “Stay as long as you want. Like you said, I’m never here.”

  We’re silent for a while, staring at the nearby waterfall thundering down in a cloud of mist. The green cliffs all around us are lush with life — full of tropical birds calling to each other in a medley of contradictory harmonies. The sun hovers high in the sky overhead, deepening my tan to an even darker bronze.

  “Why’d you buy this place, anyway?” I ask, brow furrowing. Compared to his other places — the modern mansion in Malibu, the upscale ski chalet in the Alps, the penthouse in Tokyo — it’s pretty rustic.

  “You know I filmed that plane-crash movie out here last year. With Kat.” Grayson’s eyes flash with memories at the mention of his former co-star. “I don’t know, I thought… maybe, if I bought a place here, I could hold onto the feeling I had when we were…” He breaks off. His cheeks look uncharacteristically flushed. I chalk it up to sun exposure — Grayson Dunn doesn’t do embarrassed. It’s not in his DNA.

  He clears his throat hard. “You know what? Never mind. I really don’t know why I bought this place. Call it an impulse purchase.”

  I don’t push him. I’m in no position to call him out for being in denial over a woman, for holding onto something he should’ve let go a long time ago.

  “Can I bum one of those?” he asks, eyes flickering to my cigarettes.

  I toss the box at his chest, watching as he lights up and inhales deeply. “Thank god you didn’t give up all your vices, Woods.”

  A ghost of a smile twists my mouth. “I’ve got far too many to ever be a true choir boy.”

  “Amen, motherfucker.”

  “So, you plan on telling me why you’re really here, Grayson?”

  “Eventually.” He blows out a stream of smoke. “Can I ask you something first?”

  I shrug.

  “This life.” He gestures around. “This solitary mountain man shit you’ve been doing for the past six months…”

  “Still waiting for a question.”

  “Are you happy?” he asks bluntly.

  “What kind of shit question is that?”

  “Guess that’s my answer.” Smirking, he holds up his hands in surrender. “I’ll rephrase. If you could have your life in LA back — not the partying, not the drinking… but your life, the way things were before it all went to shit. The tour. The album. The way it should’ve played out, before she…”

  My glare is lethal.

  He smartly swallows whatever he was about say in regard to my ex and pushes on. “If you could have that life back… Would you still want it?”

  I shove to my feet and stalk to the railing, not answering him as I take another long drag of my cigarette.

  “Woods?”

  “Where’s this coming from? Emotional bonding sessions aren’t your style, Grayson.”

  “Just answer the damn question.”

  “That life you’re talking about — it’s never going to happen,” I grit out. My free hand curls around the deck rail so hard I’m surprised I don’t indent the wood. “No use thinking about it or talking about it.”

  “What if—”

  “What if is a damn good way to torture yourself, nothing more.”

  I hear him heave a deep sigh and a second later, his wry tones reach my ears. “So, you wouldn’t want to know that the tour is back on, then.”

  My voice is a growl. “Look, if Francesca sent you out here to try and convince me to do the tour alone, you can get on your damn jet, fly back to LA, and disappoint her once again. Because, as I’ve told her a dozen times in the past two years: I will never do a Wildwood tour without…” The word breaks in my throat. “Without her.”

  Grayson scoffs. “I shouldn’t even tell you, you stubborn bastard. You hardly deserve the truth.”

  I turn to look at him, spine rigid. “Just say what you came here to say, Dunn. I’m not paying you by the word.”

  “You’re not paying me, period.”

  I glare at him in stony silence.

  “Fine.” He stares at me from the lounger, his typically cheerful features set in a somber mask. “The tour — you wouldn’t be doing it alone. She’s back.”

  There’s a moment of absolute silence. Even the birds seem to hold their breath.

  “What did you say?”

  “She’s back. Felicity is back. She’s agreed to do the tour and— Hey! Ryder! Where the hell are you going?”

  I don’t answer. I don’t stop.

  I’m already running.

  Two years underwater — a muffled world of dim color and sound where things like light and hope and music cannot penetrate — and with two little words, my head finally breaks the surface. They ring in my ears, startling in their clarity as I swipe the Wrangler keys off the counter, overriding Dunn’s shouts as I run for the door.

  She’s back.

  Chapter Six

  felicity

  Three weeks later, every nerve ending in my body feels frayed and raw as I pace back and forth inside the glass sound booth. It’s my first day in the studios — and my first day back in Los Angeles after agreeing to do the tour. Despite Francesca’s objections about leaving and Jerry’s insistence he could handle all of Gran’s affairs without me, I flew home to close up my cottage and tie up the loose ends of my life before finally surrendering myself to Route 66’s authority a few hours ago.

  Mercifully, I’ve kept myself too busy to think about the upcoming tour… or the man I’ll come face to face with tomorrow morning, during our first official band rehearsal.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  I glance through the glass wall, into the sound mixing room where a bank of dark equipment waits at the ready. The clock on the wall informs me it’s almost midnight, but I have no desire to go up to the penthouse apartment Francesca arranged for me use while we rehearse for the tour. The fact that only a short elevator ride separates me from my bed would make me happier if I knew there was any chance at all I’d be able to sleep once I crawl into it.

  The Route 66 main offices are downtown, but their state-of-the-art recording studios occupy a sleek glass building smack dab in the center of Hollywood Boulevard, a stone’s throw from the Walk of Fame, the Dolby Theater, and several rival record labels. The streets outside are sure to be bustling with life e
ven at this hour, but everyone else in the studio has gone home for the night — from the sound technicians in the production box to the maintenance staff who clean the equipment.

  I guess they got tired of watching me pace.

  My solo session today, which was supposed to ease me back into things in a no-pressure — read: no-Ryder — environment, was a total failure. Six straight hours of silent frustration that I’m nearly positive drove Francesca to drink.

  It’s not that I didn’t try to sing. I stood at the mic as they piped a familiar Wildwood instrumental track through the headphones, counted down the familiar beats until my intro, opened my mouth and…

  Nothing.

  Not a single note came out.

  Yanking the headphones down to dangle around my neck, I run my hands through my messy blonde hair. It’s finally getting long again. Two years ago, when I first dyed it, I also chopped it to my chin — a severe bob I detested as soon as I set down the scissors. But now, almost without my noticing, it’s crept back past my shoulders. Long enough to braid.

  I know I’ll have to dye it dark prior to the start of the tour, restoring my Wildwood image before I step on any stages or am inevitably caught on camera by the paparazzi. Francesca has offered to make me an appointment with her personal stylist at least three times, her tone sharpening from suggestion to demand with each successive inquiry.

  I’m not sure why I’m resisting — maybe it’s some misguided way to exert control over a destiny which has effectively been taken out of my hands. One last shred of resistance before I’m forced back into this life I thought I’d left behind for good. But if an unflattering hair color with outgrown roots is my only line of defense…

  I’m pretty much screwed.

  A few minutes from now, it’ll be tomorrow. And tomorrow, I cannot fall apart. I cannot break down. I cannot stand in silence at the mic, lyrics lodged in my throat.

  Tomorrow, I have to make music again, even if it kills me.