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Faded (Faded Duet Book 1)

Page 8

by Julie Johnson


  The temptation is strong enough that I make it to the bottom step before I manage to stop myself.

  Romeo climbed that balcony, and they both wound up dead.

  I light a cigarette and inhale deeply, relishing the smoke as it swirls around in my lungs. The rush of nicotine is a soothing balm on the sharp blades still cutting me up inside. It’s merely a bandaid fix, a temporary numbing agent, but it’s better than nothing.

  I cut down a few side streets and start the twenty minute walk toward the river. It’s late — almost four — and the city is quiet this far from the main strip, which suits me fine. It’s always easier to brood alone in the dark.

  I’m relatively sober now, which is impressive given the amount of alcohol I consumed earlier. When I left Lacey after the Red Machine meeting, I proceeded to put a considerable dent in the bottle of whiskey we’d ordered for the booth. Lincoln and Aiden tried to get me to leave when they headed home, each with a groupie in tow, but I refused to budge. Hell, I felt so damn guilty for keeping them in the dark about the potential deal that I could barely meet their eyes.

  I’d be an idiot not to consider this opportunity. It’s the dream. Everything I’ve been working toward since I started playing music in this town, when I was a lanky sixteen year old kid with no idea what I was doing on the stage and even less off it.

  Record deal.

  Los Angeles.

  Freedom.

  They’ve been my goals for so long, I barely remember a time I wanted anything else. So, yeah. I’m considering it. I’d be crazy not to…. even if accepting it makes me the shittiest friend known to man.

  If you’re on the Titanic, post-iceberg, and there’s only one spot left in that lifeboat…

  Do you take it?

  Do you leave your friends to go down with the sinking ship, and save yourself?

  I asked myself these questions as I poured glass after glass of amber liquor down my throat, as if there might be answers lurking at the bottom of that bottle.

  There weren’t.

  I don’t remember passing out in the booth… but I’ll never forget waking up to the prettiest damn voice I’d ever heard in my life. Not thin and overly sharp, like Lacey’s soprano has a tendency to be. This voice reverberated along my senses, sunk into my nervous system and seized control. A stunning, rich alto that made my eyes spring wide, even before I recognized its owner.

  Felicity.

  I told her the song was good. It wasn’t good. It was un-fucking-believable. It was poetry and pain, the kind of music that grabs strangers by the heart the instant they hear it on the radio and squeezes until they’re bleeding internally, begging for mercy.

  Hearing her sing, knowing she’s a writer… it only makes this inexplicable pull I feel toward her stronger. Unfamiliar sensations tug at me as I walk along the Cumberland River, blowing smoke out my nostrils into the night sky.

  I want to make things with her — music she won’t sing, promises I can’t keep, love that won’t last.

  I want to know her. To unravel her secrets, layer by layer. To strip her bare.

  Not her clothes. Her goddamned soul.

  I stub out my cigarette and immediately reach for another, knowing full well that no amount of nicotine is enough to ease this ache inside me.

  When I finally let myself into our dark loft, hearing a chorus of snores through the thin walls of Aiden and Lincoln’s rooms, I crawl into my bed alone and I stare up at my ceiling, thinking about record execs with robotic smiles and friends who become enemies; cowards who hit women and songbirds who only sing without anyone around to hear.

  I’m still tossing and turning when the sun starts to rise.

  Chapter Eight

  felicity

  It’s scorching hot — nearing ninety degrees and it’s not even noon yet. The sun beats down on me like a heating lamp on day-old french fries, leaving me crispy and dehydrated as I sit on the bench waiting for my bus. Now that Dotty’s back working part-time at The Nightingale, I actually have my first full day off since I arrived here in Nashville. I don’t intend to waste it.

  A glance at my watch tells me the bus is now running twenty minutes behind schedule. I’d give up and walk the twelve miles if it weren’t so hot outside. Two hours in this heat, I’ll be dead on the side of the road before I make it halfway there. I uncross my sandaled feet so my thighs aren’t pressed together, then peel my sticky sundress away from my skin, fanning the material to create a breeze. It’s little help. My hair, still damp from my shower, is slowly starting to frizz. I should pull it up in a messy bun, but I want to look nice for her.

  It’s been more than two years since she last saw me.

  Another bead of sweat trickles from my hairline down my spine. At this rate, I’m going to look like I’m made of candle wax when I arrive. I shift uncomfortably on the hard bench, willing the bus to appear out of thin air and wishing for the hundredth time that I had access to a car. I know I probably could’ve begged Carly for a ride, but she’s working tonight and I’d hate to make her late for her shift if this takes longer than expected. My visit is far overdue. Partly because I haven’t had free time… but mostly because I’ve been avoiding going. I’ve been avoiding lots of things, lately.

  Dark-haired, devil-tongued musicians included.

  It’s been four days since I found Ryder sleeping at The Nightingale and in that time, I haven’t allowed myself to think about his eyes or his smile or the way he said my name. Much.

  Kiddo, I repeat to myself like a safe-word whenever I start slipping into dangerous territory. He called me kiddo.

  The thought is usually enough to pull me out of the spiral of obsession. To remind me that, no matter what I might feel, he’s clearly not interested. Guys who want to shove their tongues down your throat generally don’t think of you as a kiddo, unless they have some serious undiagnosed issues a trained psychiatric professional would be better suited to deal with. Somehow, I doubt that’s the problem here.

  He’s just not that into you, Felicity.

  Get over it.

  I wish I could banish him completely from my head but he’s lodged himself too firmly to shake, like a fragment of an annoying Top 40 hit you hear once and can’t stop singing, even though you don’t know most of the words.

  The woman waiting on the bench beside me climbs to her feet as an Uber pulls up at the curb.

  “Giving up?” I ask, scrunching my nose.

  “I checked the city public transport app — it says there are mechanical problems,” she tells me, tucking her phone back inside her purse. “Could be another hour before they get a bus down here, and I’ve got an appointment I can’t miss.”

  “Mother fudger,” I curse lowly.

  “Good luck!” She pulls open the door of the car service and climbs inside. A wave of cool air from the AC vents blasts out at me. I nearly moan. It’s gone as soon as the door closes, a faint wisp of relief snatched away by the oppressive heat.

  I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

  If I had a cellphone, I’d already have an Uber on the way. Relegated to more primitive options, I eye the payphone on the corner. I’m about to cave and use some of the hard-earned cash stashed away inside my bag to call for a taxi when a white utility van slows to a stop at the curb in front of my bench. It looks like something out of a B-rate PSA on child abduction.

  I can’t see through the dark tinted glass, but there’s an unfamiliar logo on the side: a tree inside a lightbulb. The stenciled letters beneath the sticker read WOODS ELECTRIC in capitals. I rise to my feet as the passenger window rolls down. I don’t know who I’m expecting to see behind the wheel, but it’s certainly not Ryder.

  Christ, the man is always popping up where I least expect him.

  I suppose that’s part of his charm.

  “Hey,” he calls, leaning over the center console.

  “I think your line is actually, want some candy, little girl?” I shake my head at him. “Try again, cree
py van guy.”

  I see a flash of his grin in the semi-dark cab. “You need a ride somewhere?”

  “No.”

  “Come on, you look half-baked out there.”

  “I’m fine.” I wipe sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. “The bus will be here any minute.”

  “Suit yourself.” He revs the engine lightly. “But you should know… I’ve got air conditioning. And a bag of fresh donuts.”

  My chin jerks up stubbornly even though my mouth is filling with saliva. It’s been ages since I had anything sweet.

  Ryder lifts the bag and shakes it tantalizingly.

  “What kind of donuts?” I ask before I can stop myself.

  “Just get in the damn van, Felicity.”

  “You don’t even know where I’m going,” I point out.

  “Is it within state lines?”

  I hesitate a beat, then nod.

  “Good. Get in the van.”

  My willpower fades away completely. I’m powerless in the face of donuts and cold air. Bending, I pick up my guitar, slide open the side door, and maneuver the case inside. The back of the van is full of all kinds of electrical equipment — cables and wires and techy gadgets I don’t recognize.

  “Just toss it in anywhere,” Ryder says, half-turned to watch me.

  I secure the guitar beside two crates of equipment, then climb into the passenger seat. As soon as the door slams closed, I lean back against the chilled cloth with a deep sigh. I feel more feverish than the time I ended up in the hospital with strep throat my junior year of high school. My internal temperature must be approaching triple digits.

  I hear Ryder fiddling with the AC buttons, turning them to the maximum cold setting. I’m reveling in the rush of chilled air when something lands in my lap.

  “Eat one of those. It’ll revitalize you.”

  My eyes crack open. I eagerly pull a donut from the bag and take a bite. The honey glaze hits my tongue, so sweet it could send you straight into a diabetic coma. To be honest, after weeks of granola bars and cold convenience-store sandwiches, it tastes so dang good the coma would be worth it.

  “Oh my god,” I say around a mouthful. “This is amazing.”

  Ryder chuckles lowly and shifts the van into gear. We drive half a block before we hit a red light and slow to a stop. He glances over as I polish off the last bite, my stomach rumbling with contentment.

  “Go for it,” he says lightly, when he catches me eyeing the white paper bag again.

  “Nah, I’m good. One’s my limit.”

  His brows go up.

  “Okay, two is my limit. But I’m not going to steal all your donuts.”

  “They’re never as good the next day.” He shrugs. “I’m happy to share.”

  I grab a second one with a bashful grin. “Thanks.”

  “So, where to?”

  “About twelve miles south on Route 65,” I say, still chewing. “The Elmwood Estates.”

  He looks curious, but doesn’t ask any questions as he plugs our destination into his GPS. We make a U-turn at the next intersection, following signs for the interstate.

  “I like the dress, by the way,” he says conversationally. “Never seen you in anything except your Nightingale uniform.”

  “I forgot how nice it feels to wear an article of clothing that doesn’t expose my entire stomach and cannot, under any circumstances, be described as booty shorts.”

  He laughs.

  “Speaking of uniforms…” I eye the white WOODS ELECTRIC logo embroidered on his black polo shirt. “What’s with the van?”

  “Oh, this? Only my glamorous day job.” His words are carefree, but there’s a touch of resentment in the lines around his eyes.

  “I’m not interrupting your work, am I?” I ask, suddenly worried.

  “Nah, I’m free and clear for the rest of the afternoon. I make my own hours, for the most part.”

  “You must have an understanding boss.”

  “Perks of working for the family business.” He drums a finger against the logo on his chest. “My dad’s a sound technician for a lot of the local bars, restaurants, and club venues. I started helping him out last summer after I graduated from Vandy.”

  “You went to Vanderbilt?”

  He shoots me a glance. “Any more surprise in your tone, I’d be insulted.”

  “I just figured you were all about the music. You don’t strike me as the college type.”

  “Honestly, I’m not the sound technician type either, but try telling that to my father. He’d like nothing more than to see me take the reins of his company in a few years, so he and my mother can retire to a golf community for other empty-nesters.”

  “And I’m guessing you’re not on board with that plan.”

  “You could say that.” He shakes his head. “I have nothing but respect for my father. He’s hardworking as hell, paid for my college education, built this business from scratch… but I’ve never wanted his life.”

  “You want to be on stage,” I murmur.

  He glances at me. “Bet you think that’s pretty stupid, huh?”

  “No! Of course not.”

  “I find that surprising, given your firm stance on never making an album of your own.”

  I unleash a low harrumph noise. “Leave my life choices out of this.”

  “If you explained why you’re so dead-set against performing, I might understand. I might even stop pestering you about it.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Try me.”

  “Maybe I have stage fright,” I hedge.

  “You? Miss Attitude?” He laughs. “I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe you don’t know me all that well.”

  “You know, if you ever talked about yourself, I’d know you better.”

  “Only narcissists talk about themselves all the time.”

  “I didn’t say all the time. I said ever.”

  “Okay, so, I’m not an open book.”

  “Felicity, you’re a closed book. Padlocked shut. Written in code, so in the off chance you do manage to pry it open, you need a cypher key to make sense of it all.”

  I roll my eyes. “What do you want from me, a round of twenty questions?”

  “Nah — two or three should suffice.” He pauses. “For now.”

  “I’m already regretting this.”

  “Too late. You agreed. No backing out and no lying.”

  “Fine.”

  “First question — and this is a real whopper, so brace yourself…” He drum-rolls his hands on the steering wheel.

  “Suspense effectively built,” I say impatiently.

  “Three favorites — cocktail, color, and position.” His eyes twinkle. “Sleeping position, that is.”

  Color floods my cheeks. “Of all the things you could ask, that’s what you want to know? “

  “I stand by my question.”

  “Fine.” I throw up my hands. “I don’t have a favorite cocktail because I don’t drink alcohol. Never have before, never plan to in the future.”

  “Intersting…”

  “Shh.” I shoot him a glare. “My favorite color doesn’t have a name, or if it does, I don’t know it. But it’s that shade the sky turns right before a big storm, when it’s all brooding and dark. Not black or green or blue or purple, but somehow all of them at once.” I tilt my head. “Oh, and my favorite sleeping position is on my side, preferably with the light on and the door barricaded.”

  His eyes get sharp, and I can tell he’s trying to figure out if I’m kidding. I’m not, but I don’t plan to let him in on that knowledge.

  “See, this is the problem with you,” he mutters. “I think asking questions is going to clarify things, but it only inspires more questions.”

  “That’s not my fault.”

  “Your favorite color is… gloom?” His head shakes. “Christ.”

  I try to suppress a laugh, but I can’t. “What’s your favorite color? Oh, is it something cliché, like the colo
r of the last pair of panties a girl left at your place?”

  He snorts. “Glad to hear your opinion of me is so high, but actually, my favorite color is black.”

  “Like your soul?”

  “No, like yours.”

  I laugh again. “Touché.”

  “Next question.” He clears his throat. “Who’s the song about? The one you sang the other night.”

  The laughter dies in my throat instantly. I glance out the window. “My parents.”

  The van is totally silent.

  “Ask me something else,” I plead after a moment.

  “Okay.” His voice is gentle. “If someone handed you a million dollar record deal tomorrow, would you take it?”

  “Is it so hard for you to believe I simply have no aspirations of becoming a star?”

  “With a voice like yours? Yes.” His head tilts, considering me. “It’s easier for me to believe you’ve at least got a good reason for denying the world your talent.”

  “What exactly constitutes a good reason in the Ryder Woods rule book?”

  “I don’t know.” His voice gets serious as he changes lanes, passing a car going about ten miles per hour. “Maybe you’re keeping a low profile. Maybe you’re hiding from something or someone. I’m guessing your name in neon lights would make that pretty damn difficult.”

  I feel all the blood drain from my face at his words. I don’t know if it was a lucky guess or pure intuition, but I’m suddenly feeling a bit lightheaded.

  “Nothing nearly so dramatic,” I say drolly, trying to keep a brave face, though I’m almost certain he sees straight through it. “I’m just a classic introvert. Give me my guitar, a pen, and a blank sheet of paper over an arena full of screaming fans any day. I’m happier writing songs than I’d ever be playing them for strangers.”

  “Have you ever tried?”

  “Tried what?”

  “Playing for strangers.” He glances at me. “Being up on stage — it’s a rush like you wouldn’t believe.”

 

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