“All I want is you.” His voice breaks. “Fuck the rest, Felicity. Tell me you’re mine and we’ll figure it out as we go. Tell me you’re in this, and I promise, we’ll make it work.” His eyes soften, just for a moment, and I see the love shining bright beneath the anger. “For once in your life, baby… don’t run. Stand and fight with me.”
My heart is thundering. In that moment, I want to do as he says. I want, so very much, to lean forward and crush my lips to his. To declare the allegiance of my heart from this moment until our last. To tell him nothing matters — not who we are, not where we’re headed.
Only us. Only this.
Him and me.
No past, no future.
I watched my mother live that life, tying her existence to a man who destroyed her, telling herself nothing else mattered, so long as she had him. I watched that choice ruin her, day by day. Watched her put herself in the crosshairs of despair and willingly take every bullet, so long as she could keep him.
I’m not that girl.
I can’t be.
Not now.
Not ever.
Ryder sees the answer on my face before the words find their way out of my mouth. His face closes down, hope vanishing in an instant.
“I can’t make that promise, Ryder. Not now. Not completely. Not before I know this is real, that it’s right — that it’s not just a residual hope we’re both harboring for a life we almost lived, or a fantasy that’s going to lead us both to more pain, when it falls apart again.”
“Bullshit.” The word flies from of his lips with vehemence. “You’ve had two years to sort out that emotional tangle. Two years of space and time to figure out what you want.” He laughs without a trace of humor, eyes flashing with pain. “You know exactly how you feel about me, Felicity. And it fucking terrifies you.”
“Ryder—”
“The truth is, you don’t want this to be real. Because if it’s real, you won’t have an excuse to keep pushing me away. You won’t be safe behind those walls you build a little higher every day.” His eyes are stormier than a winter sea. “You know what? I’ll save you the effort of figuring it out. I’m done. Done being friends. Done apologizing. Done trying to make you see that what we have, even if it’s broken and damaged, filled with mistakes and imperfect choices, is more real, more right, than what most people call love in their entire lifetimes.”
He takes a step back, and I feel it like a physical blow.
“I’ll deal with you on stage. I’ll put on a show. But other that than, I don’t want to keep pretending. Acting like…” His head shakes with disgust. “Like this is just some leftover lust boiling over between exes… It dishonors everything we have.” He pauses brutally. “Everything we had.”
Who would’ve thought something as simple as a change of verb tense could shatter my heart into pieces?
“Ryder, wait—” I call, taking three steps after him, watching the broad planes of his naked back disappear through the frame. The door shuts firmly, closing the path between our suites, and a heartbeat later I hear the sound of the dead-bolt being thrown shut.
Barring me from his room. Barring me from his life.
I sink to the floor in my pretty night-sky dress.
I don’t get up again.
Not when Carly finally comes back to the room at five in the morning and finds me lying there, eyes unblinking. Not when she curls up beside me on the carpet and strokes my hair. Not even when the sun starts to rise, announcing the arrival of a new day.
I blink against the pale shafts of light streaming through our windows.
Never in my life has a dawn felt so dark.
Chapter Twenty
ryder
I hate the five-star hotels with their six-dollar cashews in the mini-fridges I never fail to raid at two in the morning after a show, when I’m too miserable to sleep.
I hate the arenas with their endless string of identical dressing rooms and backstage suites, where I meet VIPs with a grin they somehow believe to be genuine.
I hate the tour bus with its messy surfaces, every nook and cranny littered by someone’s toothbrush or dirty socks or crumpled candy wrappers.
I hate the dark nights when I see the girl writing in the moonlight as we roll toward a new city, her pen scribbling furiously against the pages of a worn notebook.
I hate Linc with his cheeky goddamned grin.
I hate Aiden with his steady, solid confidence.
I hate Carly with her ever-cheerful smile.
I hate the stars in the sky that mock me with memories.
I hate the ache inside my chest that won’t let me rest.
I hate.
I hate.
I hate.
Everyone and everything.
Because the only person I want to hate… is the only one I can’t.
Chapter Twenty-One
felicity
Life on the road settles into a bleary routine of toll booths and refueling stops, motion sickness and impromptu jam-sessions. We arrange ourselves into unfamiliar patterns — weary travelers in a transient new existence, bouncing from city to city like nomads, living out of suitcases, never staying anywhere long enough to feel settled. Not completely.
Las Vegas
Tuscon
Albuquerque
Our bus driver, Alec, has been on the tour circuit for twenty-odd years and knows the best restaurants and things to see in every city we stop at, every state we wind through. We play shows in places I have never been before and, in all likelihood, will never be again. We meet strangers on the street who scream at the sight of our faces and backstage-pass super-fans who share beautiful stories about their connection to our lyrics.
Denver
Fargo
Minneapolis
The exhilarating high that happens after a show, when the house lights go down and our platform descends to riotous applause, always lasts a day — or, at the very least, until we wake up in a new city, parked outside some chic hotel or other. They’re always upscale and tastefully decorated, but after a while they all begin to blend together. One unending blur of loudly-patterned carpeting, tightly-tucked sheets, and tiny conditioner bottles Carly and I hoard like contraband.
Kansas City
Tulsa
Des Moines
Squinty-eyed strangers in uncharted territory, we step out of our air-conditioned coach and take in our short-term new home: aliens descending from another planet in a flurry of luggage and sound equipment, guitars and drum-sets. Carly confers with bellhops and crew members, we walk quickly through glossy lobbies with dark sunglasses over our eyes, trading the confines of a coach bus for penthouse penitentiaries. We go nowhere without Smith, York, Linden, and Stevens. We do nothing spontaneously or without unbelievable fanfare.
Dallas
Houston
New Orleans
The bus rolls on, and life with it. We carve our mark across the southwestern states, each show drawing more and more fans. They line the sidewalks with signs, scream our names outside the hotel, beg for selfies when they see us on the streets, popping in and out of local haunts with our security team in tow.
Tampa
Miami
Atlanta
By the time October rolls around, we’ve played sixteen shows in eight weeks, and we are all beginning to wear on each other’s last nerves. Lincoln and Aiden bicker during soundchecks. Ryder and I are more at odds than ever. Even Carly has been uncharacteristically pissy, snapping about everything from the ever-messy state of our bunks to the place Alec chose to pull off for road snacks.
We’re more than ready for a break — from the tour, from this bus, from each other — when we cross the city limits into Nashville. After so long on the road, it’s a welcome sight indeed.
It’s funny that this town, more than any other, feels like home to me. I only lived here a few short months. Still, there’s something about it that ensnared my senses from that very first day. Maybe it’s the conne
ction to Gran, maybe it’s the music spilling into the streets from the honky-tonks on Broadway, or the mobs of tourists in their new cowboy boots snapping pictures in front of the Ryman.
It doesn’t matter why — I just know, it’s good to be back.
We pull to a stop at a fancy downtown hotel, just a few blocks over from The Nightingale. I tuck my songwriting notebook into my bag and sling it over my shoulder, more than ready to get off the bus and have some time to myself. I’ve been avoiding Ryder’s glares and grunts since we boarded in Atlanta — not an easy feat, with him sitting five feet away, working on a chord progression for some new material he hasn’t shared with me.
I wonder if he’ll keep touring, after I leave.
Change the band name to Woods and carry on like I never existed at all.
“Anyone up for a visit to see Issac tomorrow night, before your show?” Carly asks, looking around at all of us. “I promised I’d drag the lot of you by The Nightingale when we came through town. And, not to lay on the guilt too thick or anything… but I’m sort of obligated to deliver on that promise, since he’s basically the best boss in the world for letting me leave my job on zero notice to join this rolling circus.”
“Guilt was plenty thick, if you ask me,” Aiden mutters.
She glares at him.
“Hell, I’m always up for a drink,” Linc agrees, shrugging.
“I’m in, too,” I murmur, setting my bag back down. “I haven’t seen Issac for years.”
“Prepare yourself — he’s got your picture up on the star wall.”
“What?”
“Right next to Elvis.” Her eyes gleam. “And Bethany Hayes, of course. Pretty prime location, if you ask me.”
I’m feeling suddenly choked up. “Which photo?”
“One of the whole band, from that photoshoot you did two years ago when you first signed with Route 66. It’s hanging behind the bar.”
“I fucking hate that photo,” Aiden mutters. “We look like a damn Old Navy advertisement.”
Ryder snorts. “The black-on-black ensembles were Francesca’s idea, were they not? I tried to tell her, Cash was the only one who could pull that shit off…”
“Speaking of the she-devil, is she coming to the show tonight?” Linc asks.
“Let me check…” Carly scrolls through her email. “Yep. In fact, she’s already at the hotel. Wants to meet you for a debriefing session in the lobby as soon as you arrive.”
Suddenly, no one looks as eager to leave the bus. The last thing any of us wants to deal with right now is someone from the record label.
“You know…” I clear my throat. “Maybe we can convince Issac to open a few hours early for us…”
Aiden slings an arm over my shoulder and squeezes. “That may be the best idea you’ve ever had, Wilde.”
The doors are unlocked, despite the fact that The Nightingale doesn’t open for several hours. Predictably, we hear a gruff bark from behind the bar as we step over the threshold.
“We’re closed, come back at five.”
“Even for a few old friends?” I call, stepping fully into view. My smile widens to a grin as Issac spots me, so surprised he drops the glass he was polishing with a clatter. His weathered face boasts a few more wrinkles, his temples are peppered with more gray than I remember, but his answering smile is exactly the same.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Felicity Wilde! Get over here, girl.”
I weave through a section of high top tables as he comes around the bar. We meet in the middle, and I’m immediately pulled into a bear hug. His steady presence washes over me like a tonic, smoothing away the feathers of anxiety that have been ruffling inside me for the past few weeks.
The first day we met, I recognized that his barrel-like chest and grumpy demeanor are a well-crafted disguise for the biggest heart in this city. Issac gave me a chance when no one else would have. Took me in when he easily could’ve tossed me out on the street.
“I’m so sorry about your grandmother,” he murmurs in my ear. “How you holding up?”
“Good days and bad days. I’m getting through it.”
“She’d be proud, you know.”
Pulling out of his hold, I blink back tears. When he sees them, he adopts a stern expression. “Ah, hell. None of that, now.”
“Stop being sweet and I’ll stop crying.”
“Perfect. I’ve just remembered I’m mad at you, anyway.”
“Oh?” I grin.
“Hell yeah. You poached my best stage manager right out from under me.” He surveys the rest of the group as they settle in on a row of barstools. “Carly! Where are you?”
“Here, boss!” The blonde pops up onto the balls of her feet, leans over the bar, and deposits a quick kiss on Issac’s cheek. “Good to see you.”
His glare intensifies, but can’t quite hide the blush creeping up his neck. “Don’t try to sweet talk me, missy.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You about ready to come back to work? Wade isn’t half as good as you are at handling the acts.”
“I guess that depends.” Carly’s eyes sweep the band, pausing a shade too long on Aiden. “Y’all were supposed to find a replacement for me by now.”
“Why would we do that?” Linc chuckles. “You’re far better looking than any of the contenders Francesca’s recommended.”
Aiden shoves his arm.
“And more importantly,” I say, narrowing my eyes at them. “She’s done a fantastic job managing everything. I doubt we’d be able to find anyone alive who could do it better.”
Carly beams. “Thanks, honey.”
“Take it this means you’re not back to work tomorrow?” Issac crosses his arms over his chest and glares at her.
“Guess not, boss.”
He sighs.
“I’d say I’m sorry, Issac, but I’m not.” My shoulders lift. “She’s pretty much indispensable.”
“Why do you think I tried so damn hard to keep her working here?” he grunts, reaching for four short tumblers and pouring a few fingers of whiskey into each. He slides one to each of the guys, then passes one my way.
I blink down at it. “I don’t drink.”
“Hell,” he mutters, grabbing another glass and swapping it out for a snifter of plain cranberry juice. He drains my portion of whiskey in a single gulp, then glares at all of us, standing there holding our glasses in confusion.
“Go on then.”
“What’s this for?” Aiden asks, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
“Everyone gets a shot on the house, when they sign their first record deal. Y’all are two years late in collecting on it, but the rules still apply.”
Linc grins and lifts his tumbler. “To The Nightingale — the first place we ever played that had fully-functioning toilets and a crowd that actually gave a shit about music.”
To the first place I ever felt safe, I add privately, raising my glass to clink against Linc and Aiden’s. When Ryder’s remains on the bar untouched, Issac shoots him a curious look.
“You too good for Jack, now?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “Way I remember it, you never met a whiskey you didn’t like.”
Ryder’s low laugh sends a ripple through me; it’s been so long since I last heard it. “Sober going on a year now. But I’ll happily take a seltzer, if you’ve got one.”
“Good for you.” As he fixes Ryder a glass, Issac’s eyes flicker to me. For whatever reason, he gives a short nod of approval. “I’m glad to hear you’re doing better, son.”
Carly’s hand darts over Ryder’s shoulder to snatch the extra whiskey off the bar. “I’ll take this!”
With a clink of glass, we all drink. Over the rim of my juice, my eyes meet Ryder’s. For the first time since we left Las Vegas, he doesn’t look away immediately. His gaze is steady… and saturated with memories. I suck in a sharp breath.
I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am: that this bar is where it all started. Where we started.<
br />
A conversation in an alley. A flare of eye contact across a crowd. A sad song after last call. A night of pain and passion in the dusty room upstairs.
The first chapters of our story were written inside these walls, I think, as he tears his gaze from mine, his expression empty once more. And, it would seem, the epilogue, too.
I look down at my hands before I can do something stupid, like start crying. For weeks, I’ve been a pillar of composure in his presence, clinging to scraps of shredded self-preservation like my very life depends on it. Besides a few glaring exceptions — the tear I let escape in Dallas, while we sang the final notes of Faded; the time he caught me writing in my notebook in the middle of the night, anguished words pouring from my pen-tip while tears poured from my eyes — I’ve been totally in control.
Don’t fall apart now, Felicity.
You’re so close.
Six more weeks.
Nine more shows.
Then… freedom.
Somehow, that promise doesn’t offer as much comfort as it once did. In fact, the assurance of freedom, of a life away from the small family we’ve become on the road, is starting to sound more like a punishment than an incentive with each passing day.
I drain the remnants of my juice, forcing a smile as Issac catches us up on all the Nashville gossip we’ve missed, these past few years.
Maybe freedom is just another word for lonely.
Before we head back to the hotel, I slip away from the group and find my way into the back parking lot, up the rickety wooden steps to the room above the bar. I sense someone behind me, Stevens or York, but I don’t turn around to look. I’m totally focused on the door in front of me, the screech of the hinges as it swings inward. I step over the threshold, my eyes devouring the sanctuary I once called home.
It looks so small, now.
Unfaded (Faded Duet Book 2) Page 17