by Lauryn Dyan
“I don’t predict he’s going to help you,” she sneers. “Now, I’d like to pick up where we left off the other night. I just visited poor Rickly. His comatose ass won’t be intervening.” Before I can react, she leaps on my bed and traps me underneath her. I struggle, trying to claw at her or any of my monitoring cords. If I can pull one, someone at the nurses’ station should get an alarm. I have to hope they arrive in time because I’m too drugged and weak to hold her off for long.
She grabs my wrists and stops me before I can find the right wire. We fight until she’s got each of my hands pinned under her knees and my thighs locked under her weight rendering my legs useless. Once I’m well restrained, she reaches into her shirt pocket for her trusty syringe. “You evil fucking bitch!” I scream, while thrashing, hoping I’ll rock her off balance or draw the attention of someone other than fake security. She just laughs at my ineffectual tantrum.
I’m making such a racket, I’m sure you can hear my antics echoing down the hall. Samantha raises the needle high in both hands ready to make her final move when a loud slam against my window startles us both. The uproar isn’t just me, there’s shouting outside my room. The outline through the blinds of Davey standing guard is now missing, and I pray he was the bang we heard a moment ago and is now on the floor.
Suddenly, the door bursts open and a tall, lanky blonde figure in a hospital gown with an arm wrapped in white bounds in. He dives at Samantha, without hesitation, using his cast like a battering ram, knocking her clear off the bed and landing on top of her. The syringe flies from her hand as her head makes contact with the unforgiving floor with a sickening thunk.
Rickly scrambles to stand, panting, over Samantha’s unconscious figure.
“I told you I’d fucking stop you this time.”
He turns and practically faints into my waiting arms as hospital security and a slew of nurses storm in.
“I’m so sorry. I love you,” I whisper, as I hold him as tightly as I can.
“I told you I’d be there when you fall. I’ll always save you,” he murmurs, as my tears well in relief.
Epilogue
“Hell yes! Thank you, San Diego!” I shout, as the final chords of our last song fade with the setting sun. The cheers and claps of the crowd fill the open air of the sold-out music festival. I grab my water bottle that holds exactly what it was intended for and jog off the stage so the crew can begin breaking down our equipment to set-up for the headliner. I smile from ear-to-ear exhilarated to be back doing what I love.
This is my first show since that last, fateful performance in New York that sent my life spiraling off course. My return hasn’t been instantaneous. It’s taken me months to get back on my feet, re-acclimating to my world after being released from the hospital and, subsequently, the asylum. I’m like a rehabilitated animal returning to the wild. I thought being on the outside trying to find my place again would be daunting, but I felt strong walking out those glass psych ward doors. The relief of finally having answers for what happened to me and a better self-awareness from facing my demons, both internal and external, invigorated me. No one is stopping me from living the life I want, and that life is with my band.
I bound backstage and find them waiting for me beaming.
“That was awesome!” Oli shouts, over the still rumbling applause of the crowd.
“Fuck yeah!” Jack affirms, all goofy grins.
Sonny has no words, her bright eyes saying it all. She throws her arms around me and hugs me in a long and tight embrace, much like she did the first time we met after my release. That reunion was emotional and tear-filled.
“I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I let you down,” she’d sobbed. We’d stayed up the whole night talking, alternating between the kind of laughter where you can’t catch your breath and misty-eyed confessions.
“I couldn’t come see you,” she’d admitted. “I tried once but, after I started writing for the new album with Davey, I was riddled with guilt. I knew it wasn’t right, but I was caught up in it. In making Davey happy. In keeping the label happy.”
I’d forgiven her more easily than I thought. After talking with everyone in the band, and with the executives at Orphan, I realized Samantha was fooling more than just me. Yes, the label had wanted the band to continue making progress on the next record, but the direness was exaggerated by Sam to force the group into believing they had no choice. Apparently, she and Davey really worked Sonny over, pouring on pressure with scare tactics and a healthy dose of flirting.
“I’m a dumbass girl, duped by a guy,” she’d half-joked, half whimpered.
“You’re not,” I’d told her. “In a way, it’s partially my fault, too. I was so caught up with Rickly, I missed half of what was really going on. Love can be blinding.”
Ultimately, I’d decided her mistakes were not worth throwing away our friendship. I knew as soon as I saw her again that I needed her in my life, and in this band, for me. She is my support system when I’m away from home. In return, I’m going to help her be a better judge of potential boyfriends.
“They all have to pass my rigorous, anti-psycho test,” I’d laughed. She’d easily agreed.
Sonny releases me from her hold and our newest member, Stephen, offers me a high-five. Stephen played guitar in another Arizona band we’d befriended before our band got signed. When his group broke up not long after we started looking for Davey’s replacement, it seemed like a no brainer. We’re still building our rapport, but I’ve got a good feeling about it.
Davey, a.k.a. the shithead, and Samantha, a.k.a. the two-faced bitch, are in jail. With Rickly and I both coherent and mentally sound, we were able to recount our story. At first, everyone was skeptical, but once the police began investigating, there was undeniable evidence. There was security footage of ‘Ben’ traipsing around the asylum, lurking outside my room. When Samantha was taken out of the equation as the middleman between the band and the label, the information each side had didn’t line up. Then there were the dozen or so falsified prescriptions, both past and waiting to be filled, that were found in Samantha’s apartment. When the cops put the screws to them, they turned on each other, the little narks. It’s too bad they can’t be together in jail; they’re a match made in hell. I hope to never see their evil faces again.
As I make my way further through the white tents serving as the backstage, I find the person I’m most anxious for: Rickly.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says. I throw my arms around him and we kiss like there aren’t a hundred people bustling around us. I love him so much. He sets me down not letting his hand leave my body as it slides across my back and arm to entwine with mine. We aren’t wasting one precious second we have together.
We’ve obviously reconciled but our relationship is now long distance. Sheltered did get signed after our tour, just on a different label. They recently finished recording their first album and we were lucky enough that both our bands got booked for this festival before their next tour begins. We’ve been enjoying the true face time, rather than our usual iPhone FaceTime.
I’ll never stop being grateful that he didn’t give up on me. After that night in New York, he vowed to figure out what had gone wrong.
“I just had this weird sense there was someone behind it after I saw how quickly Samantha shipped you off.” Sheltered’s new label is in Los Angeles like ours, so he started poking around when Tracing Stars was in and out of town to work on our second album. When he caught Davey and Samantha sneaking around and hooking up, he knew they were keeping at least one secret. He decided to follow them. Unfortunately, Davey was hard to keep tabs on with his constant disappearing at odd hours of the night, but Samantha was easy prey due to her nicotine addiction. During her frequent, outdoor, smoke breaks, he caught snippets of her phone conversations about someone nicknamed ‘the train wreck’ she needed to keep locked away. It became obvious she was one of my villains, but he lacked evidence to prove it. Plus, he wasn’t clear if Davey was her acco
mplice or just a friend with benefits. The day of the storm, he overheard her plotting to go to the institution that night to finish it. He knew however freaked out I’d be to see him, he had to risk it to confirm his suspicions and save me. Thank God for that.
“Does it feel good to be back?” he asks, with a grin.
“You have no goddamn idea.”
***
“I’d like to ask some friends to come up on stage with us,” the singer stats into the mic. I smile a face-splitting grin as I’m waved back out. “These guys are our best friends in this industry, and they’ve been through hell. Let’s show them some fucking love!”
Tracing Stars and I run onto the stage and I skip to the mic, to Ace who gives me a quick hug to the hollers of the crowd before we start playing “Predator Never Prey.” Run Before You Walk is the headliner tonight. After New York, the label decided to let them carry the Canadian shows without us. It was a risk for Orphan, but turns out it was the best thing for RBYW. They exploded after that and ended up playing another string of shows with JaxsonTheSavvy. Now that Trecia is dating Jaxson, I predict an intertwined future for those two bands. I’m proud of their success. At least one good thing came out of me losing my mind.
That’s not the only thing though. As I face the small crowd of friends and family in the barricaded VIP area by the stage, I think again how everything happens for a reason. My dad beams proudly, despite his inability to clap along correctly to the beat. When I left the asylum, I’d decided for once Craig was wrong and that I didn’t have to choose sides. Instead, I chose to split my time between home in Arizona and living with my dad in LA. I’ve been staying with him on and off ever since, more so now since we’re recording our real second record in the city. It sucks this was the only way to reunite with him but I wouldn’t give back the pain I went through if it meant losing him again.
Our reunion has been good for my sister, too. Helena bounces next to him flirting with some tattooed guy that’s way too old for her, and I chuckle at my dad’s disapproving stare. It’s nice to have a relatively normal, family dynamic. He and my mother have worked through their awkwardness, mostly, and remain in contact when it comes to us girls. She would have been here tonight, but she’s on a cruise with a man she’s been dating from church. He’s kind of a goober but I couldn’t be happier for her.
The song hits the chorus and Sheltered storms the stage.
“Don’t forget about us!” Rickly jokes as he joins us at the mic. I scoot closer to Ace so I can form the middle of our lead singer sandwich and Rickly puts a hand on my back. The cheers in the VIP section get louder as Rickly’s brother and sister go crazy. It’s good to see Jared on his feet. His cancer is currently in remission, but he’s got several years to go before they consider him cancer free. Getting to meet him and the rest of Rickly’s family after he and I got back together felt like the perfect way to validate our relationship. We’re not just a fling, this is real.
As we finish the bridge, I spy our new manager cheering us on from the side of the stage. Lita. After I got out, I looked her up. I hadn’t realized when we were in the institution that she was a publicist. The band and I interviewed about a million different manager replacements, some the label recommended, some we found, but none fit. One night at dinner with Lita she mentioned she wasn’t sure what to do next.
“I split with my fiancé and now I’m jobless, manless and looking for a change.” The idea to bring her on just struck me. There’s been a bit of a learning curve, but I expect she’s going to be perfect. She already agreed no tan curtains in our next tour bus.
So, as I sing the last few lines of the chorus, I realize that the hell I experienced wasn’t for nothing. It somehow allowed me to construct this world around me that is even better than before. Sure, I go to therapy now once a week and keep my drinking to a minimum, but I’m a fucking rock star. A rock star with a great life.
About Lauryn Dyan
Lauryn Dyan is a marketing professional by day, an author and designer by evening, and a black-eyeliner-wearing-jumping-bean that loves to sing her lungs out at concerts by night. When not busy with her husband or triplets–yes, triplets–she is continually working on, or at least thinking about, her next great novel that will keep you guessing. To stay informed on her upcoming releases, visit her website www.lauryndyan.com.
Acknowledgments
I have a lot of thank yous, but it wouldn’t be right if the first didn’t go to my first reader, fan, editor, late-night-confidant, friend, and sister-in-law, Amy Raines. You’ve been with me nearly every step of the way as I’ve navigated this writer thing, and I’d still probably have a super-secret manuscript hidden on my iPad without your encouragement.
For nurse Traci Raines who answered all my bizarre psychiatric hospital questions so I didn’t trap Kennedy in a season of American Horror Story. And to the Berklee School of Music for offering an online class in song writing that helped me better understand the art of music so I could create the original song lyrics in this book.
For my older sister, Kat Adickes, and my best friend, Lori Glenn, whose shenanigans and this is who I am attitudes inspired me to make Kennedy a strong willed badass.
To my husband, Jeff Walker, who as practical as he is, never made me feel silly for giving this whole author thing a shot, and is wrestling with our children now so I can have time to write this.
For my three amazing kids who happened to all be born at once creating a rare window for me to escape the corporate world to put fingers to keys to write this novel while they slept. I hope you are very, very old when you read it!
To the family members who had no idea they were helping support my writing career when they watched the tiny terrors angels to let me work. My mom, Amy Baugh, and mother-in-law, Nancy Walker, in particular.
For my awesome beta readers, Taylor Lowe and Lindsey Albright, who balanced critique with praise in a way that made me think I could really do this. And to my other betas who crushed my soul a little bit with each comment but ultimately made my writing better.
To fellow author, Mercedes Yardley, for kindly sharing her expertise with me as I tried to find a home for this story while simultaneously scaring the bejeezus out of me with her creepy tales.
For Solstice Publishing for seeing something in my writing worth taking a chance on.
And finally, to every musician, signed or aspiring, for not giving up on making music that becomes a part of you. I would have been a very different person without the songs that have created the soundtrack of my life. This novel, in many ways, is my way of honoring every band member who has been my best friend or therapist, even if he or she didn’t know it.
And if music means just as much to you, I hope it guides you through the light times and the dark. But if one day you lose that teether, please don’t shy away from asking for help. As stubborn as Kenndy is, in the end, she finally realized that therapy was something she desperately needed regardless of how she got there.
