by Cari Quinn
I gave him a bland smile. “Is that why you wanted to sign me? So I can front your band and make you money while being nothing but a shadow of the other Kagan?”
The best Kagan. How many times had I heard that from my mother?
Your brother wasn’t like you. He had a sweet heart and he was always so talented.
Sweet and talented and wonderful, that was Simon. I’d seen proof of that last night, when he’d been so eager to brand his own flesh and blood—the last remaining as far as he knew—a liar and a gold digger to boot. Just because I had dared to use the name that was mine every bit as much as his.
He also had a grateful bone in his body. You? Don’t have a one. Always want more. Never satisfied. Your scheming is going to get you laid up in a gutter someday.
No, it had just gotten me scheming on behalf of someone else. Two someones who claimed I was indebted to them.
“You’re not the lead singer, Ian.” Mitchell swiveled in his chair toward Byron, who’d suddenly regained some of his former cheer. “Byron will be.”
I dropped my head back as I laughed. Jesus Christ, the universe was truly trying to give me a righteous shove over the edge.
Well, far be it from me not to comply.
“Good luck with that. I hate to kill your One Direction dreams, but I’m not a boy bander. And I’m definitely not one to play a supporting role.”
“As if you have any other options.” Mitchell sneered. “Unless Simon’s scraps really are enough for you.”
“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” I saluted Mitchell, then glanced at Doug and Callum. I didn’t bother with Byron. Useless, pretentious twit. “I bid you all adieu. Good day and good luck.”
I’d taken two steps toward the door when Mitchell’s voice reached me.
“You’ll never make it without me. Do you think anyone will touch you after tonight? Not only did you lose, you showed the world that you’re desperate and greedy and begrudge your own brother. You’ll be an outcast.”
“Nothing different than I’ve been all these years. I’m good with the gutter.” On my way out, I returned to my chair to retrieve the string figure from the floor.
Couldn’t forget this. The symbol of when I wouldn’t sell out.
Not again anyway.
I tucked it in my pocket and smiled widely before offering the lot of them a jaunty wave as I exited.
Once out in the hallway, I pressed my back against the wall and sucked in air as the crew members bustled to and fro in preparation for the telecast. Almost time.
I could do this.
I had to do this.
There were simply no other options.
This wasn’t even about Jerry and his demands. This was about me and my dreams. I still had them, buried under a layer of shit so thick that sometimes I couldn’t find them through the stench. But they were still there, waiting.
Just like me. I was waiting. For what, I wasn’t even sure.
The preparations for the show went by in a blur. I was still dazzled by the mechanics of television, and I couldn’t keep from acting starstruck when I was introduced to one of that night’s acts, Darkstar, a punk rock band who had come out of the pubs to take the world by storm. Not just London. Not just the UK. They were known across the globe now, with a worldwide tour on the schedule and appearances on US telly booked for the following week.
Just like fucking Oblivion, who happened to be performing at the same goddamn time I was tonight. A portion of their meet and greet and soundcheck had been uploaded to YouTube, thanks to some fan event. Gotta let the little people taste the greatness up close and personal, even if the band members were all hands off now and only looked without touching.
Supposedly. I wasn’t in their pants and didn’t give a fig regardless. If they wanted to give up easy access to pretty pussy for the ball and chain life, that was their choice.
Simon’s choice.
Christ, it sounded like a bad movie from the seventies.
But while I was backstage waiting for my time to go on, I couldn’t keep from bringing up the clip of Simon going through his paces at Oblivion’s soundcheck. It was as eerie as ever watching another man with my face, especially when I was also about to take the stage.
Simon and his band were running through “Patience”, the Guns ’n Roses classic. Though he appeared about as roughed up as I was, he certainly seemed to be in a better mood. He was laughing and smoldering it up for the little girls in attendance, who were eating up every word he purred into the microphone as if he was singing for them alone. He had his guitar on his lap, but rather than playing, he was thumping his hand rhythmically on the body to keep time. His hair was tied back in a little tail, revealing our shared bone structure and the bruises and cuts he’d barely bothered to disguise.
Probably thought they added to his badass mystique.
As Simon got into the lyrics about needing a little patience, he tipped his head back, clearly at ease despite the small crowd gathered around them. He’d done this many, many times now, unlike me. I was still finding my bearings on stage.
Because I still had so much to fucking prove, whereas Simon had already proved it all. He was the rock god, and I was just the pretender.
The one who would always be second.
Nick, the guitarist at Simon’s side, leaned down and flicked the monitor out of my brother’s ear, then whispered something. Simon shifted and replaced the monitor, still singing as he grinned at whatever Nick had said. The ease between the two men made my throat tighten until I could barely swallow.
Big deal. So Simon had a best friend. A lifelong one at that. Lucky him. I didn’t need that kind of propping up. I was just fine by myself on stage.
Simon’s wife, Margo, the band’s violinist, shook her head at whatever the men were laughing about, but she too didn’t miss a beat. And when Simon coughed into his elbow, Margo casually slipped him a bottle of water set on an amp and kept right on playing.
Another one of Simon’s band members called out something to him, and he cursed good-naturedly. He laughed and apologized to the assembled fans before they restarted the song. Jazz, the tiny brunette chick behind the drums, flipped out one of her sticks and Simon caught it behind his back without looking, then tossed it back at her the same way.
They were all laughing, every one of them. All the while nailing the song with an effortlessness that made my shoulders ache.
This was all just fun and games to them, and to me, it was life or fucking death. And worst of all? They were goddamn amazing to behold, while I felt as if I was grasping to hold on.
To get through this farce of a competition.
I clicked off on the video and tucked away my mobile as the time came for me to take my place on stage. My performance was first, then a few others, before the segment with the declaration of the runners-up and the crowning of the winner.
Just a few more minutes, and it’d be over. And I’d be on to the next.
The cheers that exploded from the live audience as my name was announced made me grin for real. This was what I did everything for. Even more than the money—the supposed pot of gold I’d been told was out there—I lived for the adulation.
The respect.
I’d never gotten any before this, except when I’d worked my way through the schoolyard bullies and earned their grudging admiration for beating their asses. This was different. Singing, playing the guitar, and writing music were my skills. The only things that mattered.
So what if I didn’t have much family that counted or even friends? I’d been alone all this time and I’d gotten used to it.
Everything would be fine after tonight.
I took my guitar from one of the crew and looped the strap over my head, then blew kisses to the fans cheering for me. Thank God for them. They would get me through this.
Cupping the microphone, I waited for my cue and began to sing the classic from Extreme, “More Than Words.” It was a stripped down song, meaning there was a
bsolutely no place to hide weaknesses in my voice. I didn’t have any. My ribs might be sore from the bruises, and my face might look rough around the edges despite the makeup, but this I’d been born to do.
No matter who thought otherwise.
I moved back from the mic a little and strummed the simple melody, letting the romantic sentiment sweep through me enough to carry through to my voice.
And for a moment, I used Simon in another way. I pretended I was my older brother, singing to my wife. To someone who mattered to me more than my very heartbeat.
Not that I knew what that truly felt like, but I could imagine. Oh, there’d been women, and girlfriends now and then when the loneliness grew to be too much. But I did better single file. Didn’t know how to be any other way.
Right now, I could play make-believe.
When I reached the high note at the end of the song, I gripped the microphone as I went for it, scarcely able to feel the bite of my rings as I curved them around the webbed metal. I held onto the mic as I dropped my head back to let the applause sink in, then the inevitable booming, TV-ready voice that brought me back to reality.
I kissed my fingertips then held my hand high as I stepped back from the mic, my focus solely on the fans. Already the commentary of the judges didn’t matter. This was obviously all rigged. A sham like so much else in my life.
But still, I gripped the well-worn neck of my guitar as I waited for the judges to weigh in.
Even the words like “extraordinary range” and “this competition is just the beginning for you” barely registered. I smiled and thanked the judges, then waved at the fans and the cameras and took my bows.
Then I took my leave.
A crew member chased after me for my guitar, but I waved him off. I was finished with all of this pomp and circumstance, signifying nothing.
Voices hammered at me, but I ignored them all as I headed for the dressing room to gather my things. There wasn’t much. Wasn’t much in my flat either, to be honest. I’d have to sell what I could and pack up the rest.
Luckily, I was almost at the end of my yearly arrangement with my shithead landlord. The guy thought I would be sticking around, but plans changed. For now, I’d take what I needed and leave the rest until I could get back and deal with it. Wasn’t like I owned anything of value except my guitars, and mostly sentimental at that.
My name was my only priceless possession, and no one could strip that away. Though they would try.
I removed the show polish and took odd comfort in seeing the bruises reappear. There was an honesty to them I couldn’t find in the powder on my damn nose and the glitzy jacket they’d had me pull on over my T-shirt. Quickly, I tugged it off and hung it on one of the clothes racks. Not like I wanted to hold onto it. Cheap sequins weren’t my style. Then I grabbed my knapsack, pushed a hand through my hair, and took off.
No one tried to stop me. I’d almost hoped they would, so I could tell them—someone, anyone—to go fuck themselves. Instead, I hurried down the hall without being disturbed. They were too busy trying to keep people from sneaking backstage to worry about someone leaving.
With every step, the sound of applause rung in my ears like a sense memory I couldn’t shake.
It wasn’t going to be the last time they clapped for me. Not by a long shot.
I rode the Tube to the stop closest to Primrose Hill. I took a meandering route to the park on foot after getting off the train, going in whatever direction struck me. It was later in the evening, but people still clogged the streets, ducking into pubs, spilling out onto the rain-soaked sidewalks. I dodged them all, smiling at a pretty girl or two, even bumming a smoke off of one who asked for my number.
Since I wasn’t planning to be in the country much longer, I declined, but showed my thanks for her generosity by giving her a long kiss on that rainy street corner. Not sparing the tongue either. She’d been into her cups so she didn’t find my behavior the slightest bit odd. Or at least she didn’t admonish me. And she gazed up at me with starry eyes afterward, the neon from a sign reflected in their depths.
She didn’t know it, but tonight, I would write a song about her.
London girl.
Last hope in a world without none.
Once I reached the park, I sat on the wet grass beneath Shakespeare’s tree. The scent of fresh earth and growing things made me haul in a deep breath as I searched for my matchbook at the bottom of my knapsack. I was an infrequent smoker, using it only to commemorate important moments mostly. A successful performance. A line on a gig.
A really good fuck.
The last instance didn’t happen nearly enough. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last occasion I’d been properly laid. Last night did not count, since I’d been wasted for most or all of it and had doubts of what had actually occurred in any case.
I found the matches and struck one, taking a heady drag on my cig until I couldn’t smell the soil and rain on the breeze any longer. The smoke swam in my head, a little more potent because I hadn’t eaten since…when? Christ, I didn’t know. But now that I’d thought of it, a hole opened up in my gut. My belly roared as I braced my hands on the soaked ground behind me and blew smoke rings into the air.
The cigarette was gone too quickly, and now my throat was dry. Should’ve bummed a drink too. Or perhaps a club sandwich. The pretty brunette probably hadn’t had that stowed away in her cute little clasp of a purse.
I eyed the cig’s burning tip with fascination. I didn’t have a lot of tattoos, but now and then, I branded my skin in a different way. I lifted my arm, searching for the circle of puckered skin on the inside of my forearm. The original mark hadn’t been my choice, but the ones since had been. So I never, ever forgot.
“Thanks, Mum,” I murmured, before pressing the lit tip to that exact spot.
The pain made me curse a streak loud enough that a few teenagers making out nearby stopped their clandestine activities and hurried away. My arm throbbed, and I had to count backward to keep my already hollowed-out stomach from betraying me.
Idiot. As if you don’t have enough people taking their shots at you, you have to join in.
I didn’t expect anyone to understand why I did it. Why I needed to burn that exact spot when my resolve weakened. It wasn’t for anyone else to comprehend.
Hey, I was an artist, right? Being messed up was a badge of pride.
As was having big fucking stones. And I was just about to show the size of mine.
When the agony had dulled to an almost manageable ache, I dragged out my mobile phone and hit the number I’d saved months ago. I hadn’t fully made the decision to use it until tonight, when Mitchell Scott had made up my mind for me.
One Direction reboot, was it? We’d just see about that.
And then there was Jerry, with his boot on my throat.
I had to get to LA. Fast.
A polite female voice came on the other end of the line and asked where I would like my call directed.
Finally, an easy answer.
“This is Ian Kagan, calling at the behest of my brother, Simon. Put me through to Donovan Lewis, please.”
Eleven
Ripper Records was one hell of an imposing place.
The building behind the more modest one I’d been directed to in the Ripper Records complex speared up into the sky like an obsidian fist, with hints of gold threaded through the black. Gold for money. For albums.
For what I’d sell my soul for, just to get a taste of the big time.
Success.
Power.
Most of all, respect.
I gripped my knapsack. I refused to be the kid from the slums anymore. The forgotten Kagan. The one who didn’t exist to the rest of the world.
No fucking way. I pressed against the bandage over the ruined flesh under the long sleeve of my shirt. The flash of pain centered me, brought everything into sharp focus—as it always did. My stage gear made me feel less like the poor kid I was, but the unsealed back of my shoe
flapping against the concrete was as effective a reminder as a bucket of ice. I might put on the finery that would set me apart, but at my roots, I was from the streets.
Not like the world gave me a chance to forget.
I pulled open the glass door inscribed with the emblem of Donovan Lewis’s pride and joy and stepped into another world.
Cool, almost cold. It was as if the April heat outside had just been a hazy dream. My shoes whispered over the tiled floors, and even the loose sole barely made a sound.
The closer I got to the center of the hive of the weirdly shaped building, the more I couldn’t resist rubbing over the bandage on my inner forearm. The gold albums on the pristine walls made my gut churn. I didn’t have time to linger. For fuck’s sake, I’d busted my ass to get here and I was worth the shot.
Maybe if I told myself that enough times it would be true.
But those shiny discs encased in glass drew my eye even as I pressed harder against the bandage to remind myself to fucking breathe.
I scanned for names I knew. But there was only one that mattered.
Hammered had multiples. A good band. Decent sound. Not necessarily my cup of tea. I was a critical fucker. Other names I knew of vaguely. The Grunge. Wilder Mind. Warning Sign.
My breath tripped. Getting closer.
All along the top row, they taunted me with their sheen. So many.
That word again and again.
Oblivion.
Millions of albums sold.
Millions of dollars made.
My brother had done that. Oh, sure, Simon wasn’t a solo artist. He was part of an ensemble. All important segments of a whole bigger than the sum of its pieces.
But Simon was their star. Their jewel. Without him, they wouldn’t have gotten all those shiny gold albums. They sure as fuck wouldn’t be selling out arenas all over the world.
A strange sort of pride filled my chest, swelling up from a place I’d thought was long buried. I pulled off the bandage, stuffing it in my pocket. My sleeve would hide the mark.
Another lie I told myself.
I stroked the circle of charred skin, not stopping until the ache burned in my stomach and killed the odd emotion I had no business feeling.
