Limelight (NSB Book 4)

by Alyson Santos

“Fuck off.” I pull my own strap over my head and tuck my messy hair behind my ear. I kinda smile too because maybe that’d be hilarious. “You good for sound check?” I shout back to Jay.

  He sends a thumbs-up, and we run the first song of the prelude. Our second stops mid-way through when some serious industry star power shadows the entrance to the room.

  “Hey, man.” My grin spreads through my voice into the mic.

  “’Sup?” Luke separates from his girlfriend to trek up the aisle. I step down from the platform to meet him in an embrace that’s way more forest nymph than jaded rocker, but who gives a shit when it’s Luke Craven? He steps back, and I watch his brain decide how to handle this complex situation. Our last reunion wasn’t exactly a clean break.

  “You got plans for lunch once you’re set?”

  I shake my head. “I think they’re putting something together for us here, but I’d rather go out.”

  He nods. “Let’s grab a bite. Just you and me.” He says this loud enough for the rest of the room to hear. No one even follows up with a smartass comment. That’s Luke. His word is law, even for Derrick.

  “Sounds good, man.”

  He claps my shoulder before looping a protective arm around Holland. It’s hard to believe that man was once almost as messed up as I am.

  “We’ll let you finish up. We’ve got some details to sort out as well,” Holland says.

  “Heya, Holland. Good to see you too.”

  She smiles and waves as they fade back through the door.

  ∞∞∞

  Luke chooses a low-key deli near the venue. My guess? He wants me to be comfortable. Partly, it’s a nice guy thing. Also, I brace for tough love.

  We make small talk while we wait for the food and get settled at a table. The place is almost empty at this hour in mid-afternoon, which works well for us. The last thing I need are a bunch of eavesdropping fans listening to our heart-to-heart.

  “So our last meeting was interesting,” he begins, popping a chip in his mouth.

  I stab at my sandwich with the toothpick. “Yeah. Sorry about that. It was… yeah.”

  He keeps his position. So casual. Like it’s totally okay for a guy to have a panic attack in front of you for no reason.

  “That happen a lot?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “The flashbacks.”

  I clear my throat, force a shrug. “Comes and goes, I guess.”

  “Yeah? What does your doctor say?”

  Casual Luke again. Conniving, casual Luke. I almost laugh at his smoothness. “Not a lot.”

  “You’re seeing someone for that, right?”

  Another shrug.

  He quiets, his brow creasing in concentration on his sandwich. “Thirty-eight,” he says finally, looking up at me with those crazy-deep eyes.

  “Thirty-eight?”

  “The number of times I tried and relapsed on my own before I got professional help.”

  Thirty-eight.

  “What are you at, Jess?”

  Ouch.

  “Not sure.”

  “You know. No bullshit.”

  “You counting booze?”

  “I’m counting any substance that blocks the pain you don’t want to deal with.”

  My gaze cuts an intricate pattern on my rye bread.

  “I love you, man. I care about you. Hell, I’ve been there, and I’m telling you, you can’t fix it by yourself. You can’t.”

  “I have an appointment with an addiction counselor on Wednesday.”

  He leans back, eyes testing my evidence. “Yeah? That’s great. You gonna show for it?”

  I don’t know.

  No.

  Maybe.

  I don’t know.

  “Of course.”

  I can’t tell if he believes me. Now, that’s a poker face.

  “Good. Let me know how it goes.”

  “I will,” I lie.

  Another long look. “How are things with Mila?”

  Awkward. Why can’t we talk about sports and shit?

  “Good, man. She’s back in the UK right now, sorting stuff out, then she’ll be here. She’s still helping us get back up, did you know that?”

  “Wow.” The word draws out in a surprised sigh.

  “Yeah. She believes in us. In me.” Why does it come out as an accusation?

  “Of course, she does. So do I. So do a lot of people.”

  If you get your shit together.

  The qualifier lingers in the air around us.

  If.

  If.

  If.

  Talent-wasted.

  Failure.

  Wasted.

  Overrated.

  Not.

  Now.

  I suck in a huge gulp of water and let it release slowly down my throat.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Spicy,” I say before realizing I haven’t taken a bite yet. Luke, man. Throws a guy off-kilter. So maybe I have a man-crush. What about it? Who doesn’t get flustered over Luke Craven?

  “What’s so funny?” he says with a smile.

  I shake my head and finally bite into my not-at-all spicy food. “You know Derrick almost broke his ass trying to ride a minotaur in the courtyard?”

  He delivers that rare, million-dollar laugh, and I feel like I can breathe again. “Not surprised. By the way, Eli and Sweeny are still pissed about that prank you pulled on tour.”

  A grin slides over my lips. “They deserved it.”

  “Not arguing that. Hey, we still on for ‘Greetings’ at the reception?”

  “Absolutely. We wanted to open with it if that’s cool with you?”

  “Sure. Wes will love that.”

  I snicker. “So you guys haven’t become besties yet, huh.”

  “No,” he huffs. Then relaxes. “But… eh, never mind, it’s complicated. The dude has his own shit right now, so ours is on hold. Plus, Holland?”

  “Yeah.” I return his grin. “She’s hard to ignore.”

  “Understatement.”

  “Things are good there?”

  “Really good. She’s it, man.”

  Glacial eyes framed by long, dark hair flash through my brain. My blood pressure spikes, my body flooding with adrenaline that wants to pour its wrath into a woman.

  Not a woman, one woman.

  One smartass, difficult, impossible woman who challenges the hell out of me and ignites a fire for life that died years ago. Is Mila…? No. Not possible. Cupid must be laughing his ass off right now. Arse. I smile to myself, then stifle a painful stab of longing.

  “When’s your next show?” Luke asks.

  Right. Luke. Sandwiches.

  I swallow a mouthful of food. “Not for a month. We’re doing some big promo gig Mila cooked up that’s supposed to relaunch our career and put us back in play.”

  “Really? Sounds interesting. Mind if we come by?”

  I almost choke on a swig of water. “Seriously?”

  “Of course. Shoot us the details. We’ll do our best. Casey still talks about that track you showed us when we stopped by. He wants to see what you’ve been working on.”

  “Okay.” My heart hammers. Luke and I go back, but this doesn’t happen. Not to me. Not to disgraced, overrated garage-band frontmen who can’t keep their shit together for more than five minutes. I clear my throat. “Awesome. We’d be honored.”

  He sees pain where others see stars.

  How far will you get with infected scars?

  He lets them linger, fester, devour.

  Gives them power over future hope.

  A tangled rope that binds to Hate.

  What will it take to break…

  “That was a damn good sandwich. You ready to go?”

  I blink myself back to Luke. “Let’s do it.”

  ∞∞∞

  I’m no wedding connoisseur, but I’m pretty sure this affair is the exception not the rule. The sea of guests flaunts black-tie attire like an Oscars audience. Accessories, hai
r, makeup—It’s nearly impossible to tell who’s getting married here.

  Thanks to Mila, even we’re dressed for the occasion. All of us wear some version of the required tux, albeit unconventional adaptations. I may have left my shirt untucked and tie loose. Derrick’s wearing what can only be described as a top hat with his jeans and tailored double-breasted jacket. Parker of course looks the right dapper chap that he is in a classic ensemble that would make any congressional candidate drool.

  So yeah, more than a few eyebrows lift when we take the platform in the front left of the room and strap on our guitars. I guess they’re afraid marriages without a strings ensemble aren’t valid?

  I glance at the clock and watch another rush of guests being escorted to their seats. Our contract calls for a twenty-five-minute prelude, so I shoot a text to Holland that we’re starting. I’ll send her another one when it’s time for Wes and her band to storm the stage.

  Maybe I get a rush of pleasure imagining these faces grimace at the shock about to come. They think electronic Beethoven is hardcore?

  Derrick counts us in, and we launch into our take on wedding music. Thing is, it’s pretty damn fun. With no lyrics, I perch on a stool to fingerpick my way through some pretty sick melodies those old guys put together back in the day. Parker backs me up with power chords and Reece adds a modern rhythm to the classic basslines.

  Yeah, Mila was right. Jay has us tracked to separate channels so we can get a good recording. With some production and mixing, we could have a pretty sweet EP on our hands.

  The time flies. When we hit our last song, the room is packed. The best part? A lot of those eyebrows have softened into smile creases. Guess they don’t call these songs classics for nothing. I like to think Pachelbel would approve of our version.

  As planned, Parker takes over the lead when the wedding coordinator signals that the bride is ready. I shift in my stool for a discreet text to Holland letting her know they’re up as Parker and the guys draw out the longest outro in history. The poor planner is fuming when I dare a glance in her direction. Don’t we know her word is law? When she says it’s time for the processional…

  Her silent tirade transforms into horror as the door on stage right opens. This was not in her binder, in her notes, in an email, text, or voicemail. We just exploded her flower-crusted universe.

  I’m grinning like a kid when Wes and the Tracing Holland musicians take over our positions. Parker and I exchange an amused look as we lean against the wall and wait for sparks to fly. If I know anything about Wes Alton, it’s that his song will blow this place up. I’m surprised when another woman I don’t know joins him front and center, but whatever. This twist only adds to the epicness.

  The main doors open, the bride appears in all her glory, and the man escorting her looks about ready to combust. The music starts and yeah. This is officially the best wedding ever.

  ∞∞∞

  It’s not enough to say the tone is awkward when Wes finishes his surprise processional, accepts an elated hug from his sister, and is not-so-subtly shoved from the room by security. Clumsy? No. Gauche. That’s it. As much as I’ve enjoyed plenty of the festivities so far, nothing compares to the restrained madness of this moment. Guests murmur to each other, twisting in their seats to catch a last glimpse of the drama as it rushes through the door and out of view. The father-of-the-bride looks about ready to charge after him. Pissed enough to miss his own daughter’s wedding? Only Wes Alton has the ability to provoke such wrath. Say what you want about him, the guy’s got balls times ten.

  The stuffy ceremony officiant drones like a pro through his checklist of thous and thees, but frankly, I’m not sure even the happy couple is paying attention. I suppress a smirk watching the bride’s gaze continually drag from her beloved toward the door. She’s concerned for her brother. That much is clear. I spot Holland whispering feverishly to Luke and pushing him from his seat. He looks less than pleased as he follows his girlfriend’s orders. I can’t wait to harass him about that.

  Eventually, the vibe settles and things get boring. The rest is stale wedding fare. Overly sentimental poetry, some opera song in French that makes the lady in row three with the peacock hat sob, and a bunch of other rituals that I can’t accept are real things. Something with knots and sand and I don’t know. I’m definitely going to a justice-of-the-peace if I ever get married. Air catches in my throat at a sudden image of Mila, and I push it away. Weddings make people insane. Clearly.

  Speaking of insane, I have to fire several warning shots at Derrick throughout the marathon. Put sticks in his hands and the guy cannot not bang them on shit. Dude is worse than a three-year-old. Should have checked to see if they had childcare at this thing.

  Finally, the coordinator signals for the recessional, and we get back into place. I almost call an audible to launch “Jonas” instead of our planned piece but manage to restrain myself. This crowd has been through enough shock for one event, best save some juice for the reception.

  Derrick counts us in, and it’s official: Limelight can now call itself a wedding band. Dreams do come true.

  23: VIRAL

  Going viral in three easy steps:

  1. Watch your world fall apart in a highly publicized tanking of your career.

  2. Perform a surprise duet with a superstar of his hit song at a private event.

  3. Leak said performance to the masses.

  Mila is damn proud of herself. I see it on her face when I meet her at the airport, on the ride home, as we cross the threshold into our humble Mt. Airy townhouse. Yes, Limelight is back in the industry conversation, slamming into radars left and right, and I try my best to play the role of hungry frontman.

  This is what we wanted, right? Our dreams coming true with our image in the same frame as Night Shifts Black. The guys are freaking ecstatic, already talking labels and tours. So many new albums I have to muster the energy to smile about. This is what you wanted.

  This is what you’re supposed to want.

  “I’m emailing you a schedule of the upcoming publicity events I’ve arranged to keep the momentum while we’ve got it.” Mila barely shoved her belongings into my room before calling a band meeting. Her long, dark hair is twisted up at her neck, all business. Hell, she’s even dressed the part with some tweed getup that includes a silk scarf and everything. Even our passionate reunion at the airport felt… managed.

  I study her as she speaks, glacial eyes scanning her tablet, elegant fingers tracing the screen with expert grace. The others lean forward in rapt awe of our fairy godmother, but I’m not sure about this version of my girl. Is she my girl when she’s in business-mode?

  “What’s going on with the Smother show?” Parker asks.

  A slow smile spreads over her lips. “Actually, there’s been an interesting development there. Leon and Arianne contacted me with their concerns. Apparently, interest has been so high in your appearance at their club, they’ve had to take the unprecedented step of ticketing the event. We’re in the process of renegotiating the contract in light of the change, but this is excellent news for you. Promoters are already calling with requests. If we keep this up, we should have no problem putting together a formal tour. Once we leak ‘Jonas’ after the Smother gig, the sky’s the limit for us. I can feel it.”

  A rumble of excitement spreads around the table, and I hate that mine is forced. Grins, high fives, that’s the normal response to manifested dreams.

  This is what you’re supposed to want.

  Fame.

  Money.

  Prestige.

  Legend.

  I swallow the mass suddenly pressing on my chest.

  This is what you’re supposed to want.

  “Jess?”

  I blink and return to the conversation. They’re waiting, and I know I’ve missed something.

  “Yeah?”

  Mila’s eyes darken with concern. For her or me?

  “I asked if you thought you’d have enough material for a full
album,” she says.

  “Um…” My brain does a quick inventory.

  Spotlights.

  Late nights.

  So many nights in the.

  Darkness.

  Loneliness.

  Expectations.

  Failure.

  Their dreams, your burden to carry.

  Your burden.

  Your hell.

  Your eternal basement to sweat, bleed, scream.

  Who owns your soul, Jesse Everett?

  “Yeah, we should have enough.”

  I feel Parker’s gaze. Really? You control the music now? You can make it come?

  “I didn’t know you had new stuff,” he says, translating our private conversation.

  “Yeah. It’s there, I think.” The lie slips through my lips before I can stop it. Parker is the only one not reassured by my announcement.

  “Excellent,” Mila says before he can argue. “I’ll start putting together a schedule.” She sighs a content, encouraged expression of everything I’m supposed to feel. “It’s happening, boys. The train is moving. I hope you’re strapped in.”

  ∞∞∞

  The first thing I notice is the smell. Damp, organic death. I twist my head to find rotted underbrush and thick mud. Insects poke and claw through the filth. Then pain. An awkward pressure against my back. Stiff, jagged patterns push into my flesh.

  How long have I been locked in this position? I try to adjust, but my wrists snap back in a painful jerk. Shit! I pull harder against the restraints and crane my neck to see the other ends attached to… long steel bars? I stare ahead, and sure enough the ladder of a train track extends past the horizon into infinity. My ankles are bound as well, tightened with the same throbbing tension and…

  A rumble shifts the planks beneath me.

  No. No!

  I yank against the restraints, the rope slicing into my skin. Blood leaks from torn flesh, but I barely notice as I strain for another look—back this time. It’s there, closer than I feared. Bright, burning headlights force my eyes into a squint. My muscles instinctively tense, fighting the ropes, and the rattling sends my lungs into a frantic search for air.