Keep singing, Felicity. You’re a light in the dark.
With Gran’s words bolstering me, I bend to pick up the pale blue guitar she left me in her will. A vintage Gibson, signed with her autograph on the front in elegant black script. It’s the nicest instrument I’ve ever held — worth more than most cars on the market. The guy in the mixing booth nearly had a coronary when I pulled it from its case earlier and asked if someone in the building would be able to re-string it for me.
Just holding it makes me feel calmer. As though Gran is standing beside me, nodding her approval. Adjusting the strap more firmly over my shoulder, I step toward the mic and set my fingers on the strings. The first chord I strum echoes in the soundproofed room, plaintive and poignant.
I can’t bring myself to play a single note I once performed with Ryder. Instead, I pluck out something new — strains of a song I wrote so many months ago, I’m not sure I remember all the right words. Leaning into the mic, I close my eyes, shut out my thoughts, and let the lyrics fly.
Lying here, this empty bed
Broken crown upon my head
The king, he’s gone
Our realm in ruins
Wish he’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…
My voice sounds shaky and thin. A broken shell of its former glory. I tell myself the cracks are from disuse, not the lyrics I wrote during that dark first winter on the Cape, when I was still drowning in grief for the things I’d lost, when the only thing that lessened the ache in my chest was a pen bleeding ink on the pages of a long-abandoned journal.
Memories flash.
Blood on a tile bathroom floor.
A box beneath the earth on the bluffs by the sea.
I shove the images down — deep, deep, deep — before they can consume me. This feeling, right here, this unbearable sorrow, is the reason I put my guitar in a musty closet and my songwriting book in a locked dresser drawer. Dashing the tears from my cheeks, I whirl away from the mic without finishing the song and head for the exit. Even tossing and turning in bed has to be better than this torture.
I need a few hours’ break from being Felicity Wilde.
I’m halfway to the door when my red-rimmed eyes lift to the glass wall dividing the rehearsal space from the sound room. My feet slam to a halt when my gaze snags on the man standing there, staring at me through the pane.
I must be hallucinating.
He can’t be here.
But he is.
He doesn’t move an inch; nor do I. We hover on the edge of a razor-sharp precipice, drinking each other in through a thin wall of glass.
Ten feet.
Two years.
An instant.
A lifetime.
I try to school my expression, but I’m not sure it cooperates. My pulse pounds a mad tattoo inside my veins as my hands grip the wood neck of my guitar, a vain attempt to ground myself in reality. I stare at him, eyes sweeping across his sun-bronzed skin, skirting around those bottomless two-tone eyes that have always managed to carve a mark in my heart with a mere glance.
He looks totally different, and exactly the same.
Same beard, but it’s fuller now, as though he hasn’t bothered to shave properly at any point in the recent past. Same tall frame, but it’s no longer lean — he’s filled out with new muscles, his tanned biceps straining the confines of a faded black t-shirt I swear he owned last time I saw him. Same mismatched eyes — one blue, one brown, both holding me to the spot like steel manacles. They’re full of so much pain I can’t breathe properly when I look into them, so I stare at his chin instead, hoping he can’t see my heart jumping beneath the fabric of my thin blue dress.
A minute passes in unremitting silence. Ryder hasn’t moved — and the look on his face suggests he won’t be doing so anytime soon. Unless I plan on staying in this glass box all night, engaged in a staring contest with a man I can hardly bear to keep my eyes on… there’s no choice. I simply have to walk through that door and bypass the six-foot-two roadblock standing between me and the elevator.
Just breathe.
One foot at a time.
The exit is right there.
Like a soldier on the front lines, I take a steadying breath and force myself into motion. Five measly steps — they take an eternity. My hand shakes as it reaches for the door and pulls it wide on silent hinges. My thudding heart is the only sound I hear as I step over the threshold. And then I’m there — face to face with the man who’s enmeshed so deep beneath my skin, I know I’ll never get him out. Not in this lifetime; not even in the next.
When I come to a stop, leaving a handful of feet between us, Ryder’s eyes flare with sudden sadness as they flicker down to the guitar in my hands.
“She left you the Gibson.”
I stare up at him, every word lodged stubbornly in my throat, refusing to escape.
“I’m sorry about your grandmother.” His voice is stripped bare, his emotions held tightly in check. “I only heard this morning, when I got back. If I’d known…”
He trails off.
If he’d known.
In another lifetime, if he’d known… he would’ve been there at my side to say goodbye to Gran. In another world, if he’d known… he would’ve held my hand while she disappeared into the earth.
“Felicity,” he whispers, a crack breaking the word right down the middle, a fault line of regret that sends aftershocks through my soul. I swallow hard, trying in vain to rid myself of the emotions strangling me from the inside out.
“Felicity…”
“You— you aren’t supposed to be here,” I breathe, my words barely audible as they slip past my lips. They dissipate like smoke in the air between us. “Not until tomorrow.”
“Sorry to disappoint.” He doesn’t look sorry. Not at all. “But… I knew you’d be here.”
How could you possibly know that?
I bite back the question.
“You always were a nightingale — singing alone in the dark, while the whole world’s asleep.” He doesn’t move an inch, but his voice — that faint twang, that intoxicating rasp — seems to reach out and stroke itself down my spine in a caress. “First time I heard you sing, it was three in the morning. Do you remember?”
I remember everything.
My eyes press closed, just for a moment, as I try to get a hold of myself. I hate that he can still affect me, despite everything. Hate that he still knows me so well, even after all this time.
His sigh makes my eyes snap open.
“Felicity. Say something,” he pleads. His gaze devours me, a blind man seeing the sun for the first time. “Say… anything.”
“We have nothing to say to each other.”
The flare of anger on his face tells me just how strongly he disagrees. “You don’t want to talk? Fine. I’ll talk.” His words are an ardent whisper. “Did you really think I wouldn’t come find you the minute I learned you were back in Los Angeles? Did you really think I’d wait until tomorrow’s rehearsal, minding Francesca’s schedule like a good little boy, giving you a polite bubble of space after two fucking years without so much as a word?”
I jerk my chin in a swift, stubborn move, not deigning to answer.
“You did.” His laugh is hollow. “Christ, Felicity.”
“It’s late.” There’s a terrible tremor in my voice as I hold his stare. “I’m tired, and we have an early day tomorrow. Please… let me pass. Let me go, Ryder.”
He finally moves — not to clear out of my path, but to step closer. My whole world narrows to the remaining sliver of space between his body and mine. Two feet of air, thrumming violently with two years of pent up emotion.
Breaking the silence, his tone is lethally soft — a blade sliding between two exposed ribs, piercing my heart with pr
ecision. “Are you honestly going to make me ask where you’ve been all this time?”
“I can’t do this right now. Okay?” I swallow hard, clinging desperately to the scraps of my composure. “We have rehearsals tomorrow, and a tour to think about—”
His words are blunt.“Fuck the tour, Felicity.”
I flinch.
“In fact…” His voice drops low and he takes another step, unapologetically invading my space. “Fuck the whole goddamn world and everyone in it. They can all go to hell, as far as I’m concerned.”
My breath catches in my throat. I use every ounce of energy I possess to keep breathing, to keep my hands from trembling, to keep my voice from quivering as I stare at him, studying the slight changes in his face — the harrowed, haunted look his features lacked last time we crossed orbits. The darkness behind his eyes.
“I don’t give a shit about the tour. About the label or the press or anything else for that matter.” His words are hollow, desperate. “The only thing I care about right now — the only thing I’ve ever cared about — is you.”
I cross my arms over my chest to hide the shaking of my hands. My words are as cold as I can manage when I speak again.
“I didn’t come back here for you, Ryder. I came back because I was contractually obligated.”
“I don’t give a shit.” He counters swiftly, his voice gruff. “All that matters is you’re here.”
“Well… you can go back to whatever island you’ve been stranded on, sipping mai-tais with your model friends, because I’m not staying.”
A jolt moves through him. “Excuse me?”
“I’m leaving.” I brace myself for his reaction. “As soon as the tour is done, I’m gone. So there’s no need for some big, dramatic discussion. No need to dredge up ancient history. Okay?”
“No need?” he echoes, the words brittle.
I nod sharply but don’t speak. Every minute I stand here staring at him, I feel a little more of my strength fade. I won’t cry — won’t allow myself to be that weak — but my heart weeps tears of blood each time it pumps inside my chest.
“No need,” he repeats, his tone blunt as a battle axe. “You and I have very different definitions for what that word means. Because, Felicity, in my book, we need to talk about a hell of a lot of things that went down before you disappeared on me without a fucking explanation.”
“No, we don’t,” I snap defensively. “We have nothing to talk about. We have a job to do. Let’s just get it done with as much professionalism and grace as we can manage, and then we’ll go our separate ways. The past can stay right where it is — in the past.”
He watches me for a long moment, his expression flickering through a spectrum of emotions so fast I can’t identify a single one of them.
“You think this is over.” The words are incredulous as he gestures from his chest to my own — as though the very notion is ludicrous to him.
My breaths are coming too fast. “No — I know it’s over. It’s been over for two years, now.”
“Felicity. Let’s get something straight.”
My eyebrows lift as I wait, trying not to suffocate under the weight of all the words I won’t allow myself to say. Trying not to plummet headfirst into the well of emotion I see swimming in his eyes.
“You and me?” He leans closer and I swear, the whole damn world goes still. “We aren’t over. We weren’t over two years ago. We aren’t over now. We’ll never be over, no matter how much time passes or how much distance gets between us.”
“I…” I open my mouth to contradict him, but I can’t get a single syllable past my lips.
“I don’t care if you don’t believe me. I don’t care if you hate me,” he says simply, his words a jarring juxtaposition to the passion in his stare. “You’re part of me, Felicity. You’re imprinted on my DNA. You’re embedded in my fucking bone marrow. That doesn’t go away. Not after two years. Not ever.”
Without another word, he turns and walks out of the room, leaving me alone with his words still ringing in the air like a promise.
Like a vow.
Chapter Seven
ryder
I take the stairs, my feet pounding upward. Flight after flight, my pace never drops off as I ascend to the second-highest floor, where Francesca arranged an apartment for me to crash in.
I’m so fucking furious I can hardly see straight.
I didn’t come back here for you, Ryder.
I came back because I was contractually obligated.
I knew seeing her again would be tantamount to torture, but I didn’t expect this — didn’t expect her to have changed so vastly since I last clapped eyes on her. It’s not just the blonde hair or the new sharpness in her cheeks, the drawn look on her face or the wan pallor of her skin. It’s the way she looked at me. The coldness in her stare that was never there before. The distance in her tone that told me, in no uncertain terms, I am a stranger to her now. One who cannot be trusted or allowed to get too close.
We have nothing to say to each other.
Oh, baby, but you’re wrong. So, so wrong. There’s a fuck of a lot to say.
No, not to say — to scream at the top of my lungs.
Things like I’m sober. And I’m sorry.
Things like I missed you. And I can’t live without you.
I’d yell till I was blue in the face, if I thought she’d listen.
As soon as the tour is done, I’m gone. So there’s no need for some big, dramatic discussion. No need to dredge up ancient history.
Since the first day we met, she’s had her walls up. But now she’s got a fucking fortress around herself, so damn high I can’t see her at all. So thick, so fortified, I can’t find even a trace of the girl she used to be, with those liquid gold eyes, full of light despite the horrors she survived as a child.
That’s the thing I always loved most about Felicity — somehow, the pain she went through, all that damage her parents inflicted, didn’t make her hard or cold when it would’ve ruined just about anyone else. She walked through that darkness and shined bright in spite of it. She was strong without being severe. Filled with a quiet resiliency most people made the mistake of overlooking. A steel magnolia, like her grandmother before her.
My fragile-winged nightingale, singing in the shadows.
But now, there’s a new edge in her voice that wasn’t there before. A shield of grief and pain over her eyes, hiding things away from view. As I stared at her just now, looking like a stranger instead of the girl I love, I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake the answers from her about where she’s been, why she left without ever giving me a chance to explain. To yell until she was forced to listen. To explain away the past two years with a few reckless words.
It took every ounce of strength I possessed to contain the urge. Every bit of self-preservation to stand there, watching her sing through a barrier of glass, her shattered lyrics echoing through the speakers all around me, each verse slicing a little deeper: death of a thousand cuts, delivered in the form of a song.
Now the kingdom’s torn up at the seams
And this is too much pain, too much pain… for nineteen…
Her twentieth birthday passed weeks ago, so whatever she wrote that song about happened sometime in the gap between now and when I last laid eyes on her. Much as I’d like to think it’s merely about our break up… about the aftermath of my arrest and the downward spiral that followed… I know her too well.
There are secrets she’s not sharing. Things she’s not yet telling.
But she will.
Before this tour is over, before she walks back out of my life… she will tell her truth and she will hear mine. No matter how hard she tries to push me away or keep her distance.
I shove my way into the dark apartment, not bothering to flip on the lights. The craving for a few fortifying gulps of whiskey is so strong it nearly cripples me, but I shut down the urge and light a cigarette instead. Walking out onto the terrace, I stare
down seven stories at the strip below. Music drifts through the open window of the apartment next to mine — Aiden tuning his bass, from the sound of it. I hear a familiar laugh and wonder if Lincoln is in there with him.
I’d knock on their door, but given how pissed they were at me the last time I saw them, there’s an equal chance of getting a cold beer or a cold shoulder. They’ve never forgiven Felicity for bailing on the tour, or me for refusing to head out on the road without her, despite the label’s urging six months ago when I finally got out of rehab. A clean bill of health and a green light to get back on stage, if I wanted to.
But I didn’t — not without her.
The guys couldn’t understand that. Couldn’t fathom why I’d throw all our dreams away, just because she walked out on hers.
Fuck her, man. She’s gone. Let her go.
Linc got a punch to the face for that comment. And I got on a plane, flew to Hawaii, and haven’t seen either of them since. Which should make tomorrow’s rehearsal pretty damn interesting.
I’m not mad at Linc. Not anymore. But there was a long time — mostly during that blurry stretch after Felicity first left, before I’d crashed into rock bottom hard enough to shake some sense back into me — that I held him responsible for everything that went down at The Viper Room that fateful night we both got arrested. For being the catalyst in a chain of events that forced her to leave in the first place.
It was easier to blame him than to admit the truth.
But once the shit was out of my bloodstream, a surfboard in my hands instead of a pill bottle and a sea breeze in my head instead of a drugged haze… I knew the only person I could be pissed at was myself. Even if Linc pulled the trigger, I loaded the gun with my own shitty decisions.
And Felicity is the one who took the bullet.
What was it she said, earlier?
We have nothing to talk about. We have a job to do. Then we’ll go our separate ways.
I take a deep drag of my cigarette and blow twin tendrils of smoke through my nose in a snort.
The past can stay right where it is, she insisted, her delicate chin jerking in defiance. In the past.
Unfaded (Faded Duet Book 2) Page 5
