Shadows of a Dream

by Nicole Disney

  When Rainn went rogue from the life her mother wanted for her, she thought she’d have her brother by her side. Instead, his sudden death sent Rainn into a tailspin that has her living in an alley behind a bar. Her life might look like a train wreck, but nothing can distract her from making her rock band the Suicidal Angels a success. Then she meets Jaselle.

  A painter with an intrinsic understanding of art, Jaselle’s effortless connection to Rainn’s deepest thoughts and fears is intoxicating, and soon they’re falling into a love more powerful than anything Rainn has ever known. She’s never been happier, until Jaselle’s addiction to meth rages out of control, taking over both their lives.

  Rainn’s all-consuming need to salvage their relationship might cost her her friends, her band, her dream, and ultimately, herself.

  Shadows of a Dream

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  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

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  Shadows of a Dream

  © 2019 By Nicole Disney. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-599-8

  This Electronic Original Is Published By

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: December 2019

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Tammy Seidick

  By the Author

  Hers to Protect

  Secrets on the Clock

  Shadows of a Dream

  Acknowledgments

  As always, a big thank you to Bold Strokes Books. I am so honored and happy to be part of this group of incredibly talented and kind people. Thank you to Radclyffe for building this beautiful community and giving our stories a home.

  Thank you so much to Sandy Lowe for being willing to take a chance and letting me push some edges with this one. Your thoughts and input made this story a better, stronger version of itself. You understood what I was going for right away and helped make it real.

  Speaking of amazing editors, a big thank you also to Cindy Cresap for all your work, patience, advice, kindness, and the sharpest eye for detail I’ve ever seen. Thank you for always taking me up a level.

  A huge thank you to my family. You are such a group of rock stars I can’t even imagine living without. Mimi, Patty, Celena, Annalese, Larry, each of you have always been so supportive, and you all mean so much more to me than I can put into words.

  A special thanks to my mom for all your support, belief, love, and always always having my back. Being your daughter is the luckiest thing that ever happened to me. There has never been a better mom.

  And, of course, to the love of my life, Cassandra. I couldn’t do any of it without you. Always my first reader, my guidance when I’m stuck, my reassurance when I’m full of doubt, my perspective when I’m hurt, and my best friend no matter what. I love you.

  Dedication

  For the lost ones

  Author’s Note

  Hello and thank you for stepping into this novel with me. This story is one that has been in my heart for many years now, and I often say it is where I found myself as a writer. It was originally published in 2013 by JMS Books under the title Dissonance in A Minor. I was both sad and relieved when that contract came to an end, sad because this world and all of its characters mean so much to me, but relieved because I knew if I was given another shot at this story, it could be better.

  Shadows of a Dream is a reworking of Dissonance in A Minor. In many ways, it is untouched, and in others, it is a completely different story. Deciding what to tinker with and what to preserve was a great challenge. There are parts of this story that sound young to my ears now, six years after publishing the original, but I remind myself it is indeed about a young woman finding her way, and the way it is written is what that sounds like, juxtaposed by some of the most adult situations a person can face. There are references to things like pay phones that aren’t relevant today, but it felt wrong to rip these characters out of the world in which they lived to move them to current day. The pieces I did decide to change have all been in the effort of making the story more of what it was always supposed to be, not making it something else.

  Love can be consuming, and that can sound romantic, but this story is about finding the wisdom and compassion to love yourself.

  I hope you enjoy it.

  Chapter One

  Her lips are soft; I can tell just by looking. They’re shameless but timid. They’re waiting, begging for mine.

  Wait, I need to back up.

  There’s this girl getting in my face, one with not nearly as attractive lips. “You rug lickin’ dyke!”

  Wait, wait, wait. That’s still not the place to start. Okay, let’s go to the beginning of that evening, the evening I met Jaselle.

  I’m in my alley, passing the time by walking up and down the parking space line like I’m doing a roadside sobriety test. I’ll do anything to take the focus off my ice cube limbs. The back door opens and Benny sticks his balding head out.

  “Rainn, you only got fifteen minutes left. You know that, right?”

  “I know, Benny. I know.”

  “Where are they then?”

  “They’re coming.” God, I hope they’re coming.

  “I got people lined up after you, you know? You’re going to throw my whole night off again.” The door closes before I can say anything. Poor Benny. If he wasn’t so attached to us losers, he’d have told us never to come back a long time ago. Although, I guess he does get us for a pretty good price: free.

  Jayden swings wide around the corner in his beater pickup, the back of which is spilling over with drums, amplifiers, cords, and all kinds of other miscellaneous crap. Alex and Shiloh comprise part of the “miscellaneous crap,” trying to keep everything balanced and nearly falling out themselves.

  “You’re late.”

  “We don’t go on for fifteen minutes.” Jayden slides out of the driver’s seat, and I see the most probable reason they’re late. His foot-tall Mohawk is in excellent condition and freshly dyed red.

  “When’s the last time you set up that fast?”

  “Will you just grab the snare?”

  We set up at Mach 3 and still don’t even come close to being ready in time, but Benny is a pal, so the house music blares while we finish up and the band in the slot after us gets bumped. Not a good way to make friends.

  We’re regulars here, and so are the Chapel-rats, so we get some cheers when I finally lean in to the mic.

  “We’re the Suicidal Angels.”

  The music pulses through me so loud my teeth are rattling. I don’t have to think about the words I’m singing anymore. They just come out. I try to think about them, though, to stay in the moment and feel every note, every syllable, every subtlety, to connect to those secrets woven beneath the surface that are so much more than the simple vibrations.

  But every time I start to slip away into that erotic dimension of pain and instinct, I’m drawn back by Alex, who’s wandering off the beat every eighth measure; Shiloh, who’s jumping around with his bass like a lunatic, wrapping himself u
p in the cord to the point there’s no way he won’t eat shit; or Jayden, talented Jayden, who’s not so much messing up as much as ignoring the song completely and playing whatever he damn well pleases.

  And now I suck too because I’m not in the music anymore. Now I’m chewing Jayden out in my head, telling him how hard I slave writing this music, how many times I’ve begged him to help but he never does. No, he’s not creative until he’s on stage playing on a whim and sounding like hell because of it.

  Still, the rats are jumping around in a state of intoxicated, brain cell stunted glee. It’s all the same to them. “I’m talking to myself again, echoes of insanity,” I sing.

  Finally, the pain is over. The show is done, and it felt more like public humiliation than performing. We head to the bar for shots. It takes all of three seconds for Jayden to be in the center of an adoring circle of tramp stamp bearing underage females. He’s always surrounded by girls. He’s hot, I guess, if you like red Mohawks.

  They’re asking about the scar above his eye, which is a slash through his eyebrow where the hair won’t grow back.

  His story: “I was snowboarding in New Zealand with Shaun White. He dared me to hit this wicked rail. He was too chickenshit to do it ’cause it was getting icy. I was doing this sick tailslide and wiped out. Hit my face on the rail. Had a concussion. It knocked me out for five minutes. Shaun was flippin’ out.”

  The girls ooh and ah, and he gets laid later.

  Real story: Jayden, Alex, Shiloh, and I are piled in the pickup. Jayden finally caved and let Alex drive because only Alex knows where we’re going. He has friends in the mountains having a party we can’t miss.

  The party has already started. We’re all inebriated and far beyond responsible driving capabilities. We’ve each eaten a handful of mushrooms and are seeing things that aren’t there.

  The radio is blasting one of Alex’s favorite songs. He gets so worked up in a drunken steering wheel drumming session that he mistakes the brake pedal for a kick drum. He slams the brakes so hard Jayden flies out of the passenger seat and smashes face-first into the windshield.

  He does not have a concussion. He does not lose consciousness. No one is flipping out. Actually, we’re all laughing hysterically.

  The girls think he’s a moron, and Alex and Shiloh get laid. Needless to say, Jayden tells his story.

  “Look who’s here.” Alex nods at the door.

  “Shit.” It’s this major pain in the neck named Bianca. Every time she’s here she makes sure to come ruffle my feathers. I don’t know how I got on her bad side, but she’s relentless.

  Like there’s a Rainn detector in her brain, her eyes lock on to me. I already know there’s no way to avoid the confrontation that’s waltzing toward me on stilettos, freshly ripped out of a Jersey Shore episode.

  “I thought I told you to quit coming in here,” she says.

  “Fuck you, bitch.” Yes, I know, my wit is dazzling. We’re close to a table where two women are just trying to enjoy a couple beers. I notice her immediately but am way too caught up in the Bianca situation.

  Bianca shoves her whole body up against mine, our noses nearly touching. “Take your no-talent scrubs to another spot. We’re tired of hearing your dumb asses.” I laugh and give my friends a “what the hell is she doing” look.

  “That’s not sinking in for you, bitch? Listen, no one wants your disgusting fag ass in here.” Yeah, we’re up to speed. Bianca is the female with the not so attractive lips.

  “You rug lickin’ dyke!”

  I’m not supposed to fight with the customers. I have to stay cool.

  She spits in my face.

  She spits in my face. (Just making sure you’ve got the picture) She spits a big ol’ wad of saliva in my face.

  My fist acts of its own accord. It winds back and swings without asking my permission. It lands with vicious force, not disrupted along the way by anything, no arms flying, no grazing off her because she managed to move a little, nothing. Pure connection.

  It sends her to the ground. I’m on top of her before I know it, my knee in her chest, my fist beating her face repeatedly. Blood is coming from somewhere. Her entire face is covered with it. I swing again, but finally something prevents me from annihilating her.

  A strong arm wraps around me and pulls. It’s Jayden. He lifts me all the way to my feet and bouncers take over from there. They drag me, kicking and raging, to the door and give me a shove that knocks me to the gravel outside. The boys are already piling out after me laughing.

  Then Benny comes out. “Settle down, girl.”

  They’re high-fiving, nothing like a Friday night chick fight to paste smiles on their faces. I get up and dust myself off, then shove Benny.

  “What’s so fucking funny? How could you bounce me and not her?”

  “Hey, she’s not exactly in there drinking it up,” he says. “She’s trying to find her face, and then she’ll be going to St. Joseph’s to have them reattach it, okay?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Look, someone is going to call the cops over this, and when they get here what am I supposed to say? That the chick on the floor with the crushed skull is to blame? She started it, Officer, I swear? It won’t matter. You have to get out of here.”

  “But, Benny—”

  “I know. I heard what she said. I saw her spit at you, okay? I know, babe. And I’m glad you did what you did. I just don’t want you getting in trouble.” He slaps me on the back like he’s a coach.

  “Go on, get. Take that bloody shirt off too.” He tosses me his T-shirt, which leaves him in his undershirt, round belly bulging. I change right there in the street and get a whistle from Shiloh.

  “Fuck off.”

  Jayden comes and gives me a hug. “You need a ride?”

  I can’t help but laugh a little. “Who needs a ride to nowhere?”

  He smiles and gives me a punch on the arm before he turns to go back inside. It’s times like this I wish I did have a place, times like this when the romanticized image of the struggling musician from the back alley turns into the idiot bum who should have at least picked a fuckin’ beach to be homeless on, not cold ass Denver.

  I go around the building to retrieve my coat from the alley. I crouch down and start digging in the small storage space that contains all my possessions. I hear music spill out of the Chapel behind me. People aren’t supposed to come out the back door, and since the back door leads to my domain, I find it more irritating than most people expect. But when I turn around to chew out the offender, I stop short.

  She’s stunning. She has tattoos covering the majority of both of her arms, not sleeves though, individual tattoos. And she has dreadlocks. Long, dark, perfect dreadlocks, if there is such a thing as perfect dreadlocks. If you asked me five minutes ago to conjure up my ideal female, it would not have sounded like this, but I’m not sure I’ve ever been so attracted to someone. And the second I see her I know with absolute certainty she is about to change my life.

  “Can I help you?” My voice comes out sharper than I wanted, residual effects of my initial irritation.

  She shakes her head only once and digs in her pockets. She finds what she’s after and emerges with cigarettes. She lights one with a match. The orange glow reflects in her eyes. She shakes the match out and exhales.

  “Need one?” I notice the word “need” immediately. She didn’t say “want one,” but why? Because my shoe sole is a free hanging flap and she assumes I can’t afford my own? I take the cigarette she’s offering and lean into the match she lights. As I lean toward her, I catch a whiff of a heart-stopping scent, strong, smooth, warm. I’m halfway through a Newport before I remember I don’t smoke.

  I allow myself to drift away for a moment before a faint but unmistakable sound disturbs the air. Sirens. And I know they’ll only get closer. I sigh loudly and turn to tell her I have to go, but when my eyes make it to hers, she smiles just a little and nudges her head toward the front of the building.
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br />   “You need a place to crash?” I force a smile. There’s that word again. I want to go so bad, but not like that. “I got some wine at home,” she adds.

  I return my smelly coat to the storage space and stand up with a grin. She smiles. It’s over when she smiles. She leads me back around front to the parking lot.

  My stomach lurches when two cop cars pull up as we’re walking away, but she appears to be unperturbed. She puts her cigarette between her lips as she opens the door to a ninety-something Toyota Celica and slips inside. She leans across the car and unlocks the passenger door for me. I take a last look at the Chapel, the flashing red and blue lights, flick away my cigarette, and sink into the passenger seat.

  Inside the car, it seems like a different world. Yes, the lights are still flashing behind us, but I’m no longer vulnerable to them. It’s all a big joke now. The only thing to remind me it even happened is my torn and bloody knuckles, throbbing deliciously.

  She pulls out of the Chapel’s parking lot. Her Celica jerks eagerly. She’s so relaxed I wonder for an instant if she realizes they were there for me. Of course, she does. Aside from the knowing look when the sirens were closing in, we’d crashed into her table for Christ’s sake. That reminds me, she’d been there with a chick.

  I steal a glance. She’s so friggin’ beautiful I still haven’t gotten over the awe factor.

  “So, where’d your girl go?” I ask.

  “She wasn’t my girl, and I imagine she probably went home.” I try to stop myself from smiling but can’t.

  I catch myself zoning out watching the road zip by. I try to pay attention to where we’re going and am vaguely aware we’re heading over the borders of my part of town. I can breathe easier here.