The Sound of Us

by Poston, Ashley

  For my parents.

  Thank you for falling in love.

  Contents

  THE DEATH OF ROMAN HOLIDAY

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  WE ARE GOLDEN

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  THE DEATH OF ROMAN HOLIDAY

  John Birmingham

  The Juice, June Issue #327

  Even if you haven’t heard of Roman Holiday, you have. Multi-platinum and award-winning, the trio of young bright things—Roman Montgomery, Holly Hudson, and Boaz Alexander—have made a name for themselves with breakout hits like MTV's Video Music Award winner “My Heart War” and the Billboard-crushing “Crush On You.” At their last concert in San Antonio over a year ago, fans stood in line for three hours to snag exclusive tickets to the venue, and their Madison Square Garden gig sold out in twenty minutes flat after fans stood in line for two days in the sweltering New York City summer heat.

  There seemed to be no stopping Roman Holiday.

  Then, tragedy struck the former pop rock sensation when one dark June evening last summer, Holly Hudson was found dead in her LA apartment.

  “[Holly's] death took us all by surprise,” says musician friend and punk heartthrob Jason Dallas at a recent show in Albuquerque. “We lost the best of us that day. There was no justice in it. It should've been Roman, and where is he now?”

  Lead guitarist and back-up vocalist, Roman Montgomery had been living with Hudson in the modest West Hollywood apartment where he discovered her body, and what pursued was an avalanche of speculation that it was not suicide at all, but murder. In court, Roman Montgomery refused to state where he had been the night of her death, and without any witnesses to attest to his whereabouts, an LA judge ruled her death accidental.

  Hudson had allegedly been taking prescription pain medications for a sprained ankle and a coroner reported alcohol in her system at the time of her death as well.

  After Hudson's funeral in her small hometown of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, both Montgomery and Alexander disappeared without a trace. The award shows were very quiet last year without Roman Holiday, and while they were nominated for both Best Music Video and Best Pop Song of the Year, they went to Jason Dallas.

  A year later, Roman Montgomery and his wingman are yet to be found. Muse Records has issued a last offer for the duo to return to their contracts before they become void in August. The fans of Roman Holiday—Holidayers—have pitched tents in front of Muse Records, pleading for an extension. They haven’t given up on this star-crossed band, but perhaps it's finally time.

  The last shot for Roman Holiday was their pre-scheduled event at Madison Square Garden this July 27th. According to the band’s manager, this was Holly Hudson's dream gig. Now, Holidayers around the world hold onto the last vestiges of hope that Montgomery and Alexander might reemerge to claim their rightful place.

  Will Roman Holiday reunite for one last gig in the name of America's late sweetheart?

  Or will the gig—and Roman Holiday—be left for dead?

  Chapter One

  The only thing I hate more than Saturday night shifts at the bar are dentist appointments, and you have to be a sadist to like those. When I’m working them without the manager, my mom, it’s worse, but she’s been MIA every weekend since the wedding.

  I squat down behind the speakers onstage, gathering up the plethora of beer bottles tonight’s band stashed there, and dump them into the trashcan beside the stage. The sound guy whistles Queen’s “Killer Queen” as he cheerfully flicks off the soundboard and drains the last of his strawberry mojito. I wish he’d choke on an ice cube.

  “Mike three was hot again tonight, Danny,” I tell him, wiping my hands on my jeans. One of the bottles was sticky. Gross. “Rock Your Mouth ruined another Slipknot cover.”

  “I can only do so much with this equipment, sweetie,” Danny retorts. “And they just sucked.”

  “It’s Junie, and they would’ve sucked less if you did your job instead of texting.” I hop off the stage and begin collecting the empty bottles scattered across the bar, and tossing them into the trashcan. “I mean, they made me want to slipknot a noose and hang them from the rafters with it. And I usually never have a problem with Slipknot.”

  Danny spits through the gap in his front teeth. I inwardly cringe. He says it’s a nervous habit, but I think he does it to get on my nerves. “Hey, sweetie, leave it to the professionals. Danny’s got the big-boy sound stuff under control.”

  “Because you can text and push a slider at the same time, obviously.”

  “I’ve been doin’ sound a lot longer than you’ve been alive, sweetie.”

  Sweetie, sweetie. I’m not sure what gets on my nerves more, his condescending tone, or the fact that he thinks he calls me by a pet name. Danny is twenty years older than me, so it’s probably the pet name.

  Tossing a half-empty Coors Light bottle into the trash can with more force than necessary, the neck pops off as it rings the lip of the steel can, before finally teetering inside. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Sweetie, maybe you should start worryin’ about your own life, and not this shithole.”

  For a moment, all I can do is stare. Then something inside of me snaps. In two quick strides, I pick up his backpack and shove it into his chest, knocking him back in surprise. “Get out of my shithole.”

  “That’s cute, sweetie.”

  “No, if you think this place is a shithole then I want you to fucking leave!”

  “Jesus, calm down.”

  “Leave. And don’t worry about coming back.”

  “You firin’ me?” He sounds genuinely incredulous. “Who else are you gonna hire? I’m sorry sweetie, but you can’t do it.”

  “I think I can manage. Hal!” I call over to the bouncer at the bar. “Escort him out, please?”

  The bouncer, a burly guy with knuckles the size of pancakes, abandons his beer, and saunters up with the graceful ease of an ox to tower over Danny. Watching the sound guy squirm gives me a tiny, itty-bitty bit of satisfaction. Just enough to make Saturday night bearable.

  “I’ll mail you your last check,” I tell him.

  “You need me, sweetie—”

  “And don’t” —I interrupt, flipping my pink hair over my shoulder— “call me sweetie, asshole.”

  See, I’m a classic rock kind of girl. Born and raised on knee-buckling guitar solos and riffs that slice your soul in two. I’m the kind of girl who head bangs to Meat Loaf and air-guitars to “Boh
emian Rhapsody.” I’m the kind of girl who knows every word to Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” and can pinpoint The Eagle’s “Hotel California” on a map.

  I’m not the kind of girl you call “sweetie.”

  Danny can thank my dad for that.

  In high school I didn’t wear Sublime or Halestorm t-shirts. I didn’t do road-trips to Warped Tour. Led Zeppelin and Jon Bon Jovi always weaseled into the crevices between dateless Saturday nights and late shifts working at The Silver Lining. The bar’s a dive of a place with cheap two-dollar beers, and halfway decent cover bands. It was Dad’s baby before he took the midnight train too early.

  Mom was the first of us to rebound from his death. She remarried her high school sweetheart, an architect named Charles Conway, only three months after his funeral and became the black widow of Asheville. And I was known as the black widow’s daughter.

  It didn’t bother me until the day before high school graduation when someone wrote in red lipstick on my locker, ‘YOUR MOM’S A SLUT.’

  “Forget about those dickheads,” my almost-boyfriend, Cas, told me. “You’ll never see them again after graduation.”

  “You won’t,” I argued with a sob. We were huddled in the back room at one of his friend’s house parties. Over the last semester, we’d make out in the back rooms because the beer tasted like piss and the music was shit, and neither of us wanted to be a part of the drunken karaoke in the living room, but we didn’t make out that night. Probably because I was crying so hard I could blow snot bubbles. “You’ll be gone to college.”

  “What happened to you going to tech, baby?” He wiped a tear away with his thumb and tucked a strand of my dishwater blond hair behind my ear.

  I laughed ruefully. “If I leave, the Lining will sink faster than the Titanic.”

  “Your mom can’t take care of it?”

  “Between going on her and Chuck’s monthly honeymoons to Charleston? That’s funny, Cas.”

  He frowned. “You’ll get out, babe.”

  No, I wouldn’t. I knew I wouldn’t. The Lining still stands because I give a damn. Mom doesn’t, and a part of me thinks that she’d rather have it burn down because it’s too much trouble, and it needs a lot of work, and sometimes the refrigerator door sticks and sometimes the air conditioning goes out. They’re things we can’t afford to fix because we’re already scraping rock bottom. But someone had to keep Dad’s soul alive, and since Mom’s too busy in her post-wedding bliss, that duty falls to me.

  Illegally, of course, but what eighteen-year-old is lucky enough to run a bar? At first, I didn’t think I would mind...

  Until a sudden moment of clarity while looking up the dirty nose hairs of Danny Burke.

  Danny opens his mouth to retort, but Hal punches his fist into his other hand menacingly. Getting the hint, Danny pulls his backpack over his shoulder and stalks to the front door. When he throws it open, it ricochets off the wall and almost slams him back inside as he leaves.

  “Dumbass,” I murmur and make my way over to the bar where Maggie, my best friend, is spinning herself around in one of the swivel chairs.

  She stops when I come over, and puts up her fist. “Great job! You sack acely.”

  “You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed of doing that.” I hop onto the stool beside her, and fist-bump her hanging fist.

  “Your new hair must make you bold. It’s totally cute on you BTW. Who did it?” She winks.

  I shrug casually, twirling my finger around a lock of neon pink. “Just some totally awesome best friend.”

  “Aw, you flatter me!”

  I grin before glancing back at the door. “You don’t think I was too harsh?”

  “Too harsh? That sleaze-ball totes deserved it. He always looked at my tits. I know they’re perky and everything but ugh!” She shivers, pulling her phone out from between her breasts. “Totes gross.”

  I chuckle. “Yeah, totes.”

  Maggie and I met in second grade. She was the new kid. I was the weird kid. A match made in heaven, really. On the first day of school, Mrs. Eller teamed us up for an in-class writing assignment—Who is the Most Influential Person In Your Life? The idea was to help each other write our own responses, but I took one look at her paper and was appalled. To be honest, I had never heard another kid call Bruce Springsteen the Boss—or even know who the rock legend was to begin with. All they talked about was Britney Spears and Beyoncé.

  To say I was shell-shocked was the understatement of the year. To say that I wholeheartedly disagreed with her came in close second. “No way, Bon Jovi. Bon Jovi all the way!” I argued.

  “Most influential? You even know what that means?” She sniffed indignantly.

  “Yeah, Bon Jovi totally changed my life.” Dad had taken me to a Bon Jovi concert half a year before. We had seats in the nosebleed section, but it was still the best night of my life. I refused to wash the cigarette smoke and concert sweat out of the t-shirt after. It resides in the top of my closet now. Whenever I start missing Dad, I pull it down and take a big whiff. It doesn’t smell like him, because he constantly smelled like beer and stale Cuban cigars, but it smells like the memories of him. And that’s just as good.

  Maggie and I became inseparable after that essay, since she wanted to be a journalist; she kept diaries like I kept music collections. We were like Velcro—she was the sticky, I was the spiky.

  But then, five years ago, Roman Holiday came along.

  I bet you’ve heard of them, though probably not by name. You can’t really distinguish their songs from Justin Timberlake and Maroon 5, although the front man, Roman Montgomery, does try a little ingenuity every now and again.

  Sad to say, I doubt he can think his way out of a paper bag, much less come up with something memorable. Nevertheless, no matter how much I fought to get her to listen to other bands—The Format, the Darkness, or even Motion City Soundtrack for God’s sake! —she became obsessed with Roman Holiday. She went to the concerts, bought the posters, and wore the t-shirts.

  It was worse than herpes.

  I thought it was a phase. Like N*Sync and Hanson. But it wasn’t. It got worse when Holly Hudson died, and the band dropped off the face of the earth. Now, Maggie’s obsession is a plague on both our houses. Every tabloid headline, every newspaper snippet, and every photo on the internet she consumes like a vacuum. There’s a paparazzo she follows—I try not to pay attention. He actively stalks Roman Montgomery like he has some sort of vicious vendetta.

  I thrum my fingers on the fake marble countertop at the bar. I wish we could afford real wood, at least.

  “Oh my God,” Maggie gasps, staring down at her phone, “they’re in Montana! They bought groceries!”

  “Yay, groceries.”

  “No, this is legit! Look at this. Look!” She spins her phone over to show me a blurry image of a dark-haired guy bending over a mound of lettuce. “It’s RoMo!”

  “He eats healthy at least,” I remark. “I really don’t see why you stalk a murderer on the internet.”

  “He didn’t kill her, okay? Roman Montgomery couldn’t hurt a fly.” She rolls her eyes. “Why does everyone think he did?”

  “A guy with no alibi? Getting off scot-free?”

  “He has an alibi. He was out.”

  I quirk an eyebrow. “Out where? Or was he fucking some roadie again and didn’t want to admit it?”

  She rolls her eyes, “Smartass,” and returns to her phone, rattling off other news—their contract is running out, their album Like Thunder, which came out a month prior to Holly Hudson’s death, is about to go platinum, blah blah blah... “So when are you leaving for Dirty Myrtle? Tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. In the morning. Are you sure you can’t go with me?” I try to put as much whine in my voice as humanly possible. “It’s going to be hell without you.”

  “You’ve gone every year without me so far,” she says, not even sparing a glance up from her phone.

  “But this is different! That was with Dad and Mom, not M
om and the step-idiot. He’ll ruin it. All of it. How will I survive?”

  Of course, she wouldn’t understand the condo was something between Mom, Dad, and me. It was our vacation. And now Chuck—Charles—is going to poison it with his expensive shampoos and lavender-scented aftershave.

  “Better question,” she replies, “how will the bar survive without you?”

  I deflate a little. “I’m prepared to come back to a smoldering ruin.”

  “You have so much faith in the bar staff.”

  I eye Geoff, our head bartender, schmoozing up a broad-shouldered hunk in the corner of the bar. Behind Geoff, the faucet is running. I take a bobby pin out of my hair, letting a chunk of pink hair fall into my face, and throw it at him. “Hey, earth to Major Geoff!”

  He jumps when it hits him square in the ear. “Ow! Sorry. Was, uh—”

  “Yeah, I know. Faucet.”

  He jumps to turn it off. “I swear I’m not a space cadet, Boss,” he replies with a chuckle. “Nice hair though. Is that fuchsia or electric pink?”

  “It’s called My-Mother-Will-Kill-Me.”

  “Sounds about right. Got that whole Lolita thing going on.”

  I snort in reply.

  Geoff tsks, turning back to flirt the pants off of another patron. Geoff’s a twenty-four-year-old horn-dog from New Jersey, so he has the whole Jersey Shore dark hair and tan thing going on, which only makes the pale mountain men of Asheville, North Carolina, notoriously jealous. At least they don’t have to compete with him. My bartender only swings one way, and it’s not toward anyone with tits. He says over his shoulder, “You’re turning into such a heathen, boss.”

  “Ugh, I know.” I mock-roll my eyes. “Now all I need is to go clubbing and bring home a guy with tattoos and a bullring.”

  “Well...” Maggie bites her bottom lip thoughtfully, “if you’re not doing anything tonight, a few college guys playing a Quidditch match down at Pack Square Park. They’re probably still there. Wanna go? Most of them don’t have bull rings, but I totes think you can find a tatted Malfoy.”

  “Tempting. Do I have to run around with a broom between my legs?”

  “Well, yeah.”