This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by J.C. Hannigan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address:
[email protected]
Cover Design & Formatting by CJPB Designs
Edited by Jess Martin & Julie Gustafson
ISBN 978-1-989124-04-8 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-989124-03-1 (ebook)
www.jchannigan.com
Down ~ Blink-182
One Day ~ Ivan B, Princess EK
Man of Steel ~ Brantley Gilbert
Torn ~ Hands Like Houses
RX ~ Theory of a Deadman
Sell My Soul ~ Seether
Fell From The Moon ~ 3 Doors Down
I Said Hi ~ Amy Shark
Follow You ~ Bring Me The Horizon
mother tongue ~ Bring Me The Horizon
By Now ~ Mariana’s Trench
Heavy metal ~ Bring Me The Horizon
Black Velvet Band ~ The Dubliners
Whiskey in the Jar ~ The Dubliners
When We Were Young ~ The Killers
I Miss You ~ Blink 182
Adam’s Song ~ Blink 182
All The Small Things ~ Blink 182
Ocean Avenue ~ Yellowcard
Breathing ~ Yellowcard
Buried Myself Alive ~ The Used
The Taste of Ink ~ The Used
Drive ~ Incubus
Listen on Spotify
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0qSv7iB9F6cUlZNsUWEYKT
Calum
I could hear the crowd before the curtain lifted. Their excitement roared through the venue, making the hairs on my arms stand up. I drew in a breath, exchanging a look with my bandmates just as the curtain rose to reveal the mass of bodies in front of the stage.
The Commodore Ballroom was at capacity: there wasn’t an empty seat in the house. Adrenaline rushed through me. Arms reached out toward the stage, fingers straining toward us. The wave of sound pulsing off the audience helped ground me as I took my place in front of my microphone.
“Hello, Vancouver! We’re The Forgotten Flounders!” I yelled, and the audience roared in approval.
My heart raced with the rush of performing. I fed off the crowd’s crazed energy; the cheers, the screams, and the buzz of excitement were both intoxicating and invigorating.
Glancing over my shoulder, I nodded at my best friends. Darius McKenzie, the bassist, and Evan McCreery, the drummer are my brothers by choice. Dare bobbed his head in time to the beat Evan tapped out with his drumsticks, starting the intro to our first song of the night.
Adrenaline pumped through my veins. It was one of the few times I felt free and light, being up there on stage with my boys. The spotlights were beating down on us, with thousands of fans filling the venue—all of them there for us.
Music was the only way I could escape the persistent knocking of regret in my mind—the only way I could say all the things I couldn’t express adequately. Performing is what I was born to do, and the music was the only thing in my life that I hadn’t screwed up. Yet.
Nodding my head, my foot tapping in time to the beat Evan set with his sticks, I waited for my cue to start strumming. The crowd was a deafening roar in my ears, a constant buzzing that made my grin grow even wider.
I lost myself in the music, the glaring lights pointed at the stage, and the sound of the crowd singing along. My fingers moved along the strings and I let go, allowing the music to drive me, riding the high of performing.
Nearly four hours later, after our second encore of the night, we took a bow before walking off stage. Adrenaline dropping with each step, my smile fading too, exhaustion and weariness settling in.
Pulling the strap of my Fender off, I handed it to the roadie waiting with his hands outstretched, giving him a subtle nod of thanks. Dare handed over his bass, and we continued backstage.
“I need a fucking drink,” Evan declared, signaling another night of partying.
I grunted, running a hand through the dark—and now sweaty—hair falling across my forehead. Although a stiff drink was exactly what I needed, the allure of another party just wasn’t there. I worried they’d be able to sense my silent, roaring discontentment. It was growing each day, an invisible pressure behind me.
Some nights I could fake it. Most times, I could wear the mask, make an appearance, and look like I fucking enjoyed myself while doing it. Other nights, the safest course of action for everyone involved was me taking a glass of whiskey alone in my hotel room.
Touring was a big deal to Dare and Evan, they loved it in a way I didn’t. I craved the release and rush of performing, but every minute in between was a struggle. I was restless, even though we were always on the road, continually moving. I did my best to keep the restlessness inside, buried beneath the music, weed, liquor, and the occasional quick hookup with nameless women.
But the restlessness was growing, and it grew bigger every day that passed. I knew why, even if I refused to voice the thought, even to myself.
My internal ruin; the thing I actively avoided thinking about while simultaneously thinking about all the fucking time.
Yup, the sooner I hit the hotel room’s minibar, the better. Unfortunately, show nights were a mandatory appearance requirement for us all. The label wanted us to be seen, especially after concerts. I’d put a begrudging hour in at the after-party, then I’d call it a night.
Our progression halted suddenly, and I lifted my head, taking notice of the greeting party waiting backstage. It wasn’t a group of pretty fans with VIP passes pinned to their low-cut tops, which was the familiar greeting party after one of our concerts.
Frowning, I took in our band’s personal assistant and public relations manager, Tai Sayson, and our agent Paul Bodem. They stood in the middle of the hallway leading to our dressing room, matching looks of concern on their faces. Their presence was heavy and ominous, like the feeling that settled over me.
“Two encores aren’t going to bankrupt the label.” Evan joked from behind me.
Tai’s dark eyes went to him briefly before returning to rest on me. The sympathy in them set alarm bells ringing. This wasn’t about the encores, and my stomach felt heavy with trepidation.
“Calum, your mother called. I’m so sorry but…your grandfather died.”
Black dots spotted my vision and my ears roared, making me lose my balance. I staggered, steadying myself by gripping the railing beside me. In a beat, Dare and Evan were flanking me. Pulling my hand away from the railing, I waved them off, my unfocused gaze on Tai. “I need a flight home. Now.”
Nodding with understanding, Tai handed me a thick envelope. “Your tickets are in here. Your flight leaves tomorrow morning at five o’clock. It’s the soonest one out.”
“We’re going too, right?” Dare demanded, his brows furrowing, eyes moving from me to Evan and back to Tai again.
“Sorry, just Cal. This week is packed with appearances. The talk show, the radio interview, and the movie premiere for Noir Night…I just can’t spare all of you.”
“Frank Murphy is the reason our band makes you the millions.” Dare scowled, crossing his muscular arms. “We’d like to pay respects to the man. He made us who we are today.”
“If the funeral falls in between appearances, we will make sure we get you and Evan on a flight for it.
But if not, I’m sorry. Our hands are tied.” Paul interjected sympathetically.
Numbly, I accepted the envelope from Tai, barely registering the heated conversation, leaving my bandmates to deal with it. I pushed past Tai and Paul, thoughts churning on repeat.
He’s dead.
There would be no post-concert early morning wake-up phone call, no more unsolicited—yet wise—advice from one of the most important people in my life.
My nails bit into my palms, regret surging through me like an electrical current. The if only’s dancing around my head, tormenting me; suffocating me.
Still clenching the envelope with my flight ticket, I stomped down the hallway to the exit. I could hear two sets of footsteps following quickly behind me—Evan and Dare. They were uncharacteristically quiet. Their high of the show had been snuffed out just as quickly as mine.
The backstage door crashed against the brick wall when I threw it open and spilled out into the alleyway behind the venue. I couldn’t seem to draw in enough oxygen to my lungs. “Fuck!” I roared into the night, not caring there were fans loitering near the sidewalk, hoping for a glimpse of us after the show. A few of them took an uncertain step back, and I turned away from them.
My bandmates came out after me, the door closing behind them. The three of us had been tight since the third grade, so they were basically my brothers. Gramps had meant a lot to them, too. He’d overseen the start of our career, securing gigs for us and teaching us how to be the greatest musicians we could be, individually and combined. They both had a lot of respect for him.
Everybody did. Gramps had been a tremendous influence on the east coast music scene.
I felt the pressure of a heavy hand against my shoulder. “Cal…” Dare’s voice was laden with sorrow. Raw, I shrugged his hand off and shook my head, stomping over to climb into the limo waiting to take us back to the hotel. Normally, we’d each have a guest or two accompanying us.
Tonight, our guest was grief, and the suffocating silence that settled upon us on the drive back to the hotel.
I kept my gaze down as I boarded the plane and found my seat, my head pounding from lack of sleep and whiskey. The harsh lights of the airport had done nothing for the incessant rattling in my skull.
I couldn’t sleep last night—not with the grief still fresh. The grief and the heaviness of returning home for the first time in almost a decade made it impossible for me to close my eyes.
When I drifted off, a playlist of my biggest regrets haunted me, starting the day I left…starting with her.
Nine years ago, I left behind the girl I loved to pursue the dream I loved. I knew I couldn’t have both, and instead of being a man and facing her, I left without a word, without even saying goodbye. I was selfish, but I didn’t want to see her tears. I didn’t want them to sway me into staying. I was afraid if she asked me not to go, I wouldn’t…and I had to.
I couldn’t watch her heart break, but this was something I needed to do. My friends were counting on me, and this kind of opportunity wouldn’t come around again. It wasn’t just about my dream to prove to my father I could be successful with my guitar and my voice; it was their dream, too. They wanted it, probably more than I did.
And I did; I proved it. We proved it. Each of our band’s six albums has gone platinum. We broke into the alternative pop-rock genre with a bang, exploding onto the charts and never falling far from that number one slot. We became one of the hottest bands in North America.
In part, it was because of our crazy talent. Evan was an exceptional drummer, and Dare was amazing on bass. Evan couldn’t sing worth shit, but Dare could, and with our combined talents writing…together, we crafted fucking magic.
Luck also played a part; we were lucky to be discovered when we were. Lucky that we were young and brandable.
The moment we signed our names on the dotted line, they thrust us into the limelight. The label capitalized on everything from our looks to our unique musical backgrounds along the east coast. Our willingness to do whatever it took to get our music in the hands of fans—even dropping a self-produced EP on YouTube—also helped.
We were young and eager to play, frothing at the bit to hit the open road and tour. We were ready to put in the hours of sacrifice. Our live shows entertained and captivated audiences, and we rose quickly, both in the charts and in the public’s interest. We threw benefit concerts, supported Canadian music talent, and busted our asses off every day at what we did.
But all this work was the perfect excuse to avoid facing all that I’d left behind, even if I thought about it constantly. I hadn’t come home in nine years. Like a coward, I’d stayed away.
My family still resided in this sleepy little East Coast town, but I’d managed to get away with not coming back because the label had booked tour after tour—most in Central Canada and the United States.
When we weren’t on a tour bus, we were recording at the studio in Toronto, living in the penthouse apartment the label rented for us, attending the events they needed us to attend, and appearing at parties they required us to be at. The penthouse had never really felt like home. It was the label’s—they provided the furniture and minimalistic décor. It didn’t bother us, because we spent more time on a tour bus than we did there.
Music had always been my passion. Performing on stage was the only time I felt alive. When I was on stage, I transformed into something I didn’t completely hate. But the moment I stepped off the stage, the hollow feeling that resided deep inside of me threatened to swallow me whole.
My net worth had grown over the years, as had our collection of awards, but it was never enough to erase the past, to fill the depths of my heart and soul. Recently, the money and the fame had lost its luster.
None of it was enough to forget her. For years now, I’d been trying to convince myself I’d done the right thing for us both.
They say time heals all wounds, even the self-inflicted ones—but in actuality, the memories never fade, and the wound festers.
Harper Morrison’s face still haunted me. I still saw her everywhere, and I missed her desperately, with a hollowness I couldn’t fill—although I was too stubborn and selfish to admit it to anybody but myself.
I didn’t have a right to miss her, anyway. I was the one who left; I did the breaking.
But no matter how many miles I put between us, or how many willing women I slept with, it never could replicate the way it felt to be with her, to kiss her—to hold her in my arms. I hadn’t experienced intimacy like that since, and every attempt I made to forget her and purge myself of the guilt embedded into me failed. She’d be there, on the edge of my mind, condemning me.
And I hated myself even more.
Harper had been the only thing to ever come close to topping music, and that’s what had terrified me about her. We started dating the summer before twelfth grade, and when I left, I was too immature to realize what I had when I had it, and too afraid to keep it.
Too afraid that I’d fail at it all.
Before I set fire to us, we’d been on the greatest high of my life. Harper ignited me, she got into my bloodstream and because of her; I was a better person.
For a while, anyway, until I left without saying goodbye.
I could still remember the first time I saw her. She listened to us play during our set at a summer music festival in Lunenburg. From the moment her eyes locked on me, I’d been under her spell.
The rest of the faces in the crowd had fallen away, and I played through the set singing to her—to this gorgeous girl with dark eyes and full lips. I didn’t need to talk to her to know that she was too good for me, or that I needed to have her anyway.
Her looks weren’t the only thing that held my attention; while her beauty drew me to her, it was everything else that held me. She was intelligent, funny, completely endearing, and a little sarcastic. She brought vibrancy and harmony to my life, and I fell for her without realizing it; without fighting it, or even wanting to. I pulled her into my
life, and she fit so seamlessly.
But…Harper had her entire future planned out. She was heading to university to get her BA in business, and then she eventually wanted to get married and start a family. Settle down somewhere, stay there.
The last thing I wanted was to sign up for another four years of institutional education, but I didn’t have a choice. My parents were steadfast in their insistence that I needed a diploma to make a career, and even I had to admit that they weren’t completely wrong about that.
My dad figured I’d go to the local community college for skilled trades as he had done, and then end up working for the construction company that he had started when I was a kid. Harper opened me up to the possibility that if I was going to have to stay in school, I could focus on music. Become a teacher.
I liked her plan a hell of a lot better than my father’s, so I went with it. If I couldn’t be a famous musician, I could at least find a career centering around it. Dad couldn’t argue because Mom was thrilled that I’d found a way to infuse music into my career. She knew how much it meant to me; it had meant that much to her.
Harper talked about the future with assurance, like she knew it would all work out for us both—that we’d be happy together, and I knew she was right. We could be happy together, it was impossible not to feel happy in her company, but I knew that only one version of me could fit into those plans. That was the version who wasn’t touring the world playing music, but here, with her, building a life of domesticated bliss.
With her father in the Royal Canadian Air Force, Harper had moved around a lot growing up. She wanted the opposite of her childhood; she wanted to put down roots and stay there, and touring was the opposite of putting down roots.
Yet…the offer landed in my hands, and I couldn’t stay when so much of the world called out to me. Not to mention, the prospect of rubbing it in my dad’s face that music wasn’t a waste of time was too strong to ignore. It was the fuck you that I’d always strived to give him.
Off Beat (Forgotten Flounders Series Book 1) Page 1
