I extend my hand out, and he twines his fingers with mine. Together, we walk out the back door and up an overgrown, grassy path, ducking our heads against the wind. It takes a few moments to climb to the top of the bluffs — the highest point of my property, a windswept cliff overlooking the ocean with a thin cluster of trees and bushes. There, embedded in the hard-packed earth, lies a marble tombstone.
Ryder’s hand tightens fiercely on mine as we approach. Neither of us says anything as we look down at the simple grave marker, leaning on each other as the wind whips around us.
“I named him Apollo,” I whisper, winding my arms around Ryder’s waist. “After the ancient god of music, who chased the sun across the sky each day in a chariot of fiery horses. He brought light to the world.” I can barely speak around the growing lump in my throat. “He had the power to move the sun… to move the stars.”
Ryder’s eyes are red as they lock on mine. “Long may he shine.”
We pull the white sheet off my couch and curl up together beneath a dusty blanket. My head is on his chest, listening to every heartbeat. His hands are in my hair, stroking rhythmically.
“Felicity.”
“Mmm?”
“We haven’t talked about it.”
I crane my neck to meet his eyes. “About what, love?”
“About what we’re going to do, now that the tour’s over,” he says gently. “If this is where you want to be — we can stay.”
My brows go up. “Here?”
He nods.
“You’d stay here with me, in this tiny little cottage, so far off the grid even the paparazzi won’t be able to find us?”
“Felicity. If you asked, I’d live inside a fucking volcano.”
I grin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I’m being serious. If this is where you want to be, if this is the life you want… we can do it. We can stay here. Walk away from everything.”
“How could you do that?” I ask. “You love being in the spotlight, Ryder. You were born to be on stage.”
“I was born to be with you,” he corrects, leaning down to brush his mouth against mine. “I have no interest in being on a stage unless you’re standing on it by my side.”
I blink back tears, weighing my words carefully. “You know… much as I love this crappy little cottage… I don’t want to start our life here. This place… it was what I needed, back then. But I’m not the same girl who ran away to the edge of the world, trying to escape her life. The thing is, I like our life. Actually… I love our life.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I smile at him. “I have a different spot in mind for our house…”
His brows lift.
“As it turns out… I inherited a pretty sizable chunk of land, not too long ago. About forty acres, to be exact.”
There’s a long beat of silence as he stares at me, a slow smile stretching across his face.
“Nashville?” he asks.
“Nashville,” I confirm, grinning.
He kisses me with the promise of a lifetime’s worth of bliss. When he’s finished, I’m out of breath, every atom of my body buzzing with desire. I roll more firmly onto his chest, so my hair falls around us in a curtain, and drop a kiss onto the tip of his nose.
“Ryder?”
“Mmm?”
“How does this sound: six bedrooms, four bathrooms, an in-ground pool, a recording studio, maybe some stables if we want horses someday…”
“Felicity.”
“Mmmm?” I hum innocently.
“Repeat what you just said.”
“About the pool?”
“No.”
“The stables?”
His head shakes sternly.
“Oh, you mean the recording studio?” I laugh at the look on his face. “Yeah, well, we’re going to need somewhere to rehearse, dummy. The second Wildwood album isn’t going to write itself.”
“You mean…” He trails off, expression alight with sudden hope.
“I already talked to Lincoln and Aiden. As soon as the paint is dry on our new place, they’ll be there.” I brush a kiss across his lips. “Why do you think we need so many bedrooms?”
His mismatched eyes gleam brightly. “I can think of a few reasons, baby.”
THE END
Full Lyrics
FADED
Saw you in the crowd the other day
You were ten years older, ten years colder
When your gaze wandered my way…
Wish that I could tell you that you’re hated
All those tears I cried, ‘cause you never tried
And still, for years, I waited…
’Cause love don’t burn out, even though you’re gone
And hate don’t come just ‘cause you write it in a song…
Sure it’s sad but it isn’t complicated…
You’re my only memory that never faded…
You never faded… Oh…
NINETEEN
Lying here, this empty bed
Broken crown upon my head
The king, he’s gone
Our realm in ruins
Wish you’d listened when I said…
I never wanted to be queen
Never wanted anything but you
Now the kingdom’s torn up at the seams
And this is too much pain, too much pain
For nineteen…
Crying here, the world aflame
No one but ourselves to blame
A heart of holes
A soul of sorrow
No amount of time can tame…
I never wanted to be queen
Never wanted anything but you
Now the kingdom’s torn up at the seams
And this is too much pain, too much pain
For nineteen…
Dying here, can’t make a sound
No trace of our crowns around
Cursed my throne
Since that day I
Buried our heir in the ground
MOVE THE STARS
Had I known when I walked out that door
I’d never see your face no more
Would’ve stayed in bed and held you
A little longer
Had someone told me that same night
I’d lose the light of my whole life
Would’ve never left your side
Without a warning
Hindsight’s twenty-twenty, but love is blind
I’d go back honey, but I can’t change time
So here’s the note I should’ve left
The note I would’ve left…
If I could move the stars
ORBIT
You’re the moon, I’m the sun, stuck in distant skies
I’d gladly burn out, to see the light in your eyes
Now we’re dancing in circles
Trapped in this orbit
No use fighting fate
Consider this my forfeit
You’re the break in my voice, the corner of my mind
I’m the tear in your eye, the love you left behind
Now we’re falling again
Caught in this circuit
No use running scared
Can’t break out of your orbit
You’re the eye of my storm, a short burst of sun
If I thought you’d listen, I’d tell you to run
Dancing in circles…
Caught in this circuit…
Oh, baby, please
Let me out of your orbit
Let me out…
Curious about Ryder’s life in the two years between FADED and UNFADED? Did you know he appears as a secondary character in my other duet?
*gasps*
Pick up THE GIRL DUET — an angsty, emotional new story set in Los Angeles about Kat Firestone, a struggling actress who lands the role of a lifetime… and Grayson Dunn, Hollywood’s hottest action-hero… who just so happens to be her new co-star…
PART ONE: THE MO
NDAY GIRL
PART TWO: THE SOMEDAY GIRL
Both parts of the duet now available for purchase and FREE to read with your Kindle Unlimited subscription.
Keep reading for an excerpt at the back of this book!
Playlist
The Hardest Part — Nina Nesbitt
She’s Broken — Billie Eilish
Hurts Like Hell — Fleurie
Happier — Ed Sheeran
You Don’t Know — Katelyn Carver
But We Lost It — P!nk
Run to You — Lea Michelle
This Is On Me — Ben Abrahams (feat. Sara Bareilles)
Don’t Let Me Let You Go — Jamie Lawson
You Will Find Me — Alex and Sierra
You Are The Reason — Leona Lewis and Calum Scott
Also by Julie Johnson
STANDALONE NOVELS:
LIKE GRAVITY
SAY THE WORD
ERASING FAITH
THE BOSTON LOVE STORIES:
NOT YOU IT’S ME
CROSS THE LINE
ONE GOOD REASON
TAKE YOUR TIME
THE GIRL DUET:
THE MONDAY GIRL
THE SOMEDAY GIRL
UNCHARTED
Acknowledgments
Of all the couples I’ve ever written, of all the stories I’ve ever penned…
FADED has carved out its own special place in my heart.
I had such an amazing experience writing this duet. For months, I lived between these pages — my heart beating in musical notes, my breaths pulsing to the rhythm of this tortured love story, my dreams suffused with harsh stage spotlights and dark, dusty storage closets.
I know, even as I write these words, that I’m going to have difficulty saying goodbye to Felicity and Ryder. To Lincoln, Aiden, and Carly. To the lyrics.
To Wildwood.
It’s more than a little magical that I get to write for a living. And, for that, I just want to say thank you.
For reading. For supporting my books. For loving my characters as much as I do. For leaving reviews on Amazon and Goodreads. For sending me messages. For telling your friends.
To my parents — I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your support, your advice, and your love. Thanks for keeping me grounded.
To my friends — I’m sorry you haven’t seen me for five months. Please send all complaints to Ryder Woods & Felicity Wilde.
And to everyone else — whether you’re a reader, a book blogger, a fellow author, or a Johnson Junkie… I hope you know that even though you don’t stand up on stage singing your heart out in front of seventy-fudging-thousand people every week… to me, you’re a rockstar all the same.
About the Author
JULIE JOHNSON is a twenty-something Boston native suffering from an extreme case of Peter Pan Syndrome. When she's not writing, Julie can most often be found adding stamps to her passport, drinking too much coffee, striving to conquer her Netflix queue, and Instagramming pictures of her dog. (Follow her: @author_julie)
She published her debut novel LIKE GRAVITY in August 2013, just before her senior year of college, and she's never looked back. Since, she has published five more novels, including the bestselling BOSTON LOVE STORY series. Her books have appeared on Kindle and iTunes Bestseller lists around the world, as well as in AdWeek, Publishers Weekly, and USA Today.
You can find Julie on Facebook or contact her on her website www.juliejohnsonbooks.com. Sometimes, when she can figure out how Twitter works, she tweets from @AuthorJulie. For major book news and updates, subscribe to Julie's newsletter: http://eepurl.com/bnWtHH
Connect with Julie:
www.juliejohnsonbooks.com
[email protected]
THE MONDAY GIRL: Excerpt
Chapter One
“I’m just not looking for anything serious right now.”
- A guy who’s about to start a long-term relationship… with someone else.
I sit alone in the darkness, watching bugs fly one by one into the glowing fluorescent zapper machine my neighbors installed to keep the mosquitos away from their balcony. Every few seconds, like clockwork, the pervasive quiet that seems to wrap the world in wool at three in the morning is interspersed by the unsettling buzz of tiny winged kamikaze pilots meeting their maker.
Zap, zap, zap.
I am transfixed, entranced by the sudden flare of the bulb each time it claims a new victim. There is something morbidly fascinating about these insects, drawn against all natural instinct to their deaths by the lure of this warm, bright killer. Can’t they see their brothers and sisters before them, incinerated like birds flying too close to the sun? Don’t they recognize danger as they sail straight toward it?
Zap.
Apparently not.
I press the damp surface of my beer bottle against my cheek, closing my eyes at the cool sensation. It’s humid tonight. Sticky heat. The kind that makes you sweat through your clothes just sitting there still as a statue, doing nothing more exerting than pulling breath into your lungs.
The sprawl of downtown is a distant glow from out here on my narrow cement balcony, which overlooks a parking lot full of crappy old cars and cracked asphalt. This neighborhood is about as far from the glitz and glamour of the Hills as you can get while still calling Los Angeles home. Cynthia, my mother, hates that I live here almost as much as I hated living under the roof she pays for with an overly-generous alimony stipend from her third husband. Moving out last year with nothing but the thin wad of cash in my wallet, my broken-down Honda, and whatever clothes I managed to stuff into a duffle bag in the hour-long interval she vacated her beach-front condo in Manhattan Beach for her yogalates class was the best decision I ever made, even if she refused to speak to me for six months after she realized I’d gone.
Cynthia — which, for the record, is what she’s asked me to call her since I was in diapers— still hasn’t quite forgiven me for maneuvering my way out from under her thumb, but she can’t shut me out completely. After all, I’m the star on which she has pinned her every hope and dream for fame and financial security. And a trainer doesn’t let their prized racehorse just quit. Not before they’ve won the damn Kentucky Derby — or at the very least been turned into glue for profit. I’ll be auctioned off for parts before she willingly loses her return on investment.
I did not pay for fifteen years of dance and vocal lessons to have you flush it all down the toilet.
Bringing the bottle to my lips, I drain the dregs of my beer in one long gulp. I set it beside the six other empties lined up like fallen soldiers at my feet and tilt my head up to look at the faint stars overhead. They swim before my eyes like fireflies in the hazy LA heat.
Everything is a bit fuzzy around the edges.
Maybe I shouldn’t be drinking by myself, but I live alone and right now not drinking is not an option. I could call Harper, but she’s got work in the morning and dragging her out of bed to deal with my drama in the middle of the night would only make me feel worse. I sure as shit can’t call Cynthia. She’ll never let me hear the end of it.
Drinking on the night before your big audition? You’ll have bags under your eyes! You’re competing with perfect little seventeen-year-old sluts for this part. We can’t afford mistakes like this, Katharine.
If my ancient twenty-two-year-old ass can’t land this shitty part because of a few beers, I’m sure my darling mother will still manage to spin it to our advantage. She’s a pro at it. I’ll be enrolled in rehab for a nonexistent drinking problem before I can blink, in some elaborate scheme to rebrand me as a bad girl and “broaden my image” — something she reminds me at least twice a week is in severe need of a makeover if I want to land any kind of steady role during pilot season.
I snort at the thought and lean back on my elbows.
There’s very little allure in the prospect of securing the lead as a teenage airhead on some vacuous new network television show — a last-gasp effort at appealing to a generation much
more inclined to binge-watch on their laptops than tune in every Tuesday at eight for yet another vampire show. That’s not my dream — hell, that stopped being my dream about six years ago, when I realized my stint on a short-lived kids’ show called Busy Bees was not going to impress the casting directors of edgy indie films or big Hollywood blockbusters.
Frankly, I’d like nothing more than to fade quietly into my mid-twenties, working nights as a bartender at Balthazar, the trendy nightclub downtown where I regularly serve bottles of champagne that cost more than my rent, and slowly scraping together enough money for college tuition.
Unfortunately, Cynthia is not quite so eager to relinquish her dreams of stardom. Despite my apathy, she remains doggedly determined to make her only daughter into an A-list celebrity, come hell or high water. Hence the audition tomorrow.
Another role I won’t get, another disappointment she’ll bear with all the grace of a blunt battle axe.
If you’d just smile more enthusiastically, Katharine…
If you’d just put in a bit more effort, Katharine…
If you’d just…
If you’d just…
Unfaded (Faded Duet Book 2) Page 24