Faded (Faded Duet Book 1)

by Julie Johnson

  “Come on, Ry,” Lacey says in her little-girl voice, twining her hand with mine and tugging me from the booth. The pout on her face might be cute if it weren’t so contrived.

  My feet hold firmly to the floor when she tries to drag me in the direction of the bar. The last thing I want to do is run into our waitress, to see the hurt in her golden eyes as she stares through me again. The high from our set has officially worn off, in no small part because the Red Machine label guys never showed us so much as a flicker of interest. To celebrate our failure, I’ve been hunkered in our booth alone for the past hour, listening to the band and drowning my sorrows with my old friend whiskey. Lacey’s been at the bar, letting boys she’ll never sleep with buy her shots she shouldn’t drink. Aiden and Linc disappeared into the crowd to cast their lines amongst the groupies, hoping to reel in a girl before closing time.

  Sex, booze, attention — we’ve all got our consolation prizes.

  By the time Lacey circles back around to our booth, I’m half as drunk as I’d like to be, twice as pissed as I have reason to be, and definitely not in the damn mood to deal with whatever she’s up to at this hour.

  “Lacey.”

  Her eyelashes flutter. “What?”

  “Either tell me where you’re trying to drag me or I’m going home.”

  She sighs dramatically. “God, you’re no fun anymore.”

  I stare at her, waiting.

  “Gosh, I don’t know, I just thought maybe you’d want to meet the record executives from Red Machine.” She drops my hand so she can cross her arms over her chest and pout more effectively.

  I go still. “They approached you?”

  “Uh, yeah.” She flips her hair. “The guy with the glasses bought me a shot of jägermeister. Which I drank to be polite but, like… gross. Everyone knows I’m a tequila girl.”

  “Your drink preferences are not really the point here, Lacey.” I swallow hard, feeling suddenly sober. “What else did he say?”

  “Nothing! Relax. I told him I needed you by my side before we talked about any kind of deal.”

  Sweet fuck.

  A deal.

  A sliver of hope pierces me through the heart. Maybe all is not lost.

  “This is big, Lacey.” I glance around, looking for Aiden and Lincoln. “We have to grab the guys, they should be there for this—”

  “No!” Lacey interjects, grabbing hold of my arm to stop me. “No.”

  My eyes narrow. “What’s going on?”

  “Just you and me, Ry.” Her grin is simperingly sweet, her gaze pleading. “Come on. It might overwhelm them if all four of us go. You know how Lincoln gets. He’ll talk a mile a minute and scare them off.”

  I hesitate, just for a moment, and she takes the opportunity to link her arm with mine.

  “We’ll just talk to them for a second. Okay?” She starts pulling me back toward the bar. “What can it hurt?”

  I fix my eyes forward, ignoring the unease stirring in my stomach as she drags me through the crowd toward everything I’ve ever wanted. I should be over the moon at this opportunity.

  So why do I feel like I’m about to sell my soul?

  Probably because you’re holding hands with a demon in pink rhinestone cowboy boots… and she’s leading you straight into hell.

  The unsettled feeling in my stomach only grows stronger when we sit down at a small high-top across from the scouts. They’re both somewhat generic looking guys with trendy wire-rimmed glasses and spray tans that scream LA. It’s immediately clear they’re not looking for a country artist to nurture here in Nashville — they’re seeking a wild rose they can uproot and transplant to the west coast, hoping it can take the heat in a hostile new environment.

  “Hey, you must be Ryder. I’m Clay Barnes, with Red Machine.” The older of the two extends a hand. “This is my assistant, Chris.”

  The assistant nods, never looking up from typing into his phone.

  I grip Clay’s hand in a firm shake. “It’s an honor to meet you. Thanks for taking the time to come out tonight.”

  “My pleasure. The two of you were great. Your girl here has just been telling us about your partnership.”

  Partnership?

  The term sets off alarm bells, but I try to keep calm.

  “Well, our band functions as a seamless unit,” I stress. “I’m sure Lacey mentioned our other bandmates — Lincoln and Aiden. They’re around here somewhere.”

  “Oh, sure.” His smile is blindingly white, almost robotic in nature. “But what I’d really like to talk about right now is you. Specifically — the two of you. What I saw up on stage tonight made me very excited about your future. Hopefully, that future involves Red Machine.”

  “You have no idea how great it is to hear you say that, Clay.”

  “I mean it. I loved the set. I want to know more. What’s the process here? Obviously you can both sing. Do you co-write as well?”

  “Nah, that’s all Ryder,” Lacey chimes in. “He’s amazing. He writes all my songs.”

  Clay nods, watching me carefully. I feel like a specimen in a laboratory. “That was a pretty tight set. You definitely have the makings of a record there.”

  I suck in a breath. “You think?”

  “Depends. Do you have any more songs? We need at least twelve for a full album, but ideally fourteen or fifteen so we have some spares to cut if necessary.”

  “I’ve got ten solid songs I’ve built around Lacey, and a few half-written that I could have polished and ready to go in the next few weeks. The rest of my songs are a bit off-brand for pop-country. They wouldn’t fit Lacey’s…” I trail off, searching for a tactful way to say it. “Her… look.”

  She giggles.

  Clay’s brows lift. “I wasn’t aware you wrote other stuff as well.”

  “Nothing worth hearing, just yet.”

  A wrinkle of concern appears between his eyes. “I’ve got to be honest here, we like our musicians to commit to one sound. Especially at the beginning. It’s more marketable, for starters, and less confusing for listeners as they’re getting to know you.”

  “My focus is on this band, this sound, this album,” I assure him. “You’ve got my word on that. The rest is just a side hobby.”

  He’s silent for a moment, studying us. “I’ll tell you what. I like you two as a package. I liked what I heard tonight. And I’d like to hear more — soon.” His eyes sparkle. “How would you feel about a trip out to LA? A little showcase for the board. Nothing too formal. Just a short sample to give them an idea of what you can deliver before we talk about any sort of official deal.”

  Lacey squeals excitedly. “Um, that sounds ah-mazing.”

  She’s right. It does.

  “Great!” Clay exclaims, rising to his feet. “I’ll have my assistant send over a few different date alternatives. With any luck, we can find a time to fly you out sometime in the next month.”

  My mouth is dry. My palms are damp. This seems too good to be true.

  Is this what it feels like when you finally catch up to the dream you’ve been chasing? Half-nauseous, half-elated?

  “Clay… all I can say is thank you.” My voice is hoarse.

  “Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t done anything.” He shrugs. “Once we settle on a date, I’ll courier over the two plane tickets and we’ll get the ball rolling.”

  The air freezes in my lungs.

  “Four,” I say slowly, staring at him.

  His brows lift.

  “You said two.” I swallow hard. “But with the guys, it’s four of us. Four tickets.”

  His expression doesn’t change, but I see a small fissure of displeasure behind his eyes. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more clear, Ryder. This deal — it would be for you. The two of you. You’re the talent in this equation. Those others? They’re dead weight. Dime a dozen.”

  “I see.” I shoot a glance at Lacey. She’s studying her magenta fingernail polish, avoiding my eyes.

  She knew. That’s why she
didn’t want me to pull Linc and Aiden into this discussion.

  “Listen, I have to run, but here’s my card.” Clay slides a sleek black business card across the table. “Lacey already gave me your contact information. Chris will be in touch soon.”

  He’s gone a second later, his assistant trailing after him, still typing rapidly into his cellphone.

  I sit back heavily against the chair and blow out a long breath.

  Here it is — everything I’ve ever wanted, at the tips of my fingers. I just have to reach out and take it.

  …and screw over my best friends in the process.

  I can feel Lacey staring at me, but I can’t even look at her right now. If she were a cartoon character, she’d have two huge dollar signs plastered over her eyes. She doesn’t give a shit about band loyalty or human decency. She cares about how many zeros are on the end of that Red Machine contract.

  How many pairs of rhinestone cowboy boots can you buy with a million dollar record deal?

  A hell of a lot, I’m guessing.

  “Well?” she prompts impatiently. “What do you think?”

  I push to my feet and walk away. “I think I need a drink.”

  Chapter Six

  felicity

  I wipe angrily at a stubborn stain on the booth’s glossy surface, my rag moving with such force I’m half-surprised it doesn’t catch fire. I may or may not be picturing a certain musician as I try to expunge the smudge from the face of the earth. I can still hear his words ringing in my ears as he warned his bandmate to stay away from me.

  No sense messing up our performing schedule here by screwing some cheap cocktail waitress…

  It was bad enough when he cut me off mid-sentence, without even letting me get my name past my lips. But to learn what he was calling me behind my back…

  I swallow down a scream and move on to the next table.

  I guess that doe-eyed, innocent look just doesn’t do it for me. I prefer women in my bed, not little girls.

  I picture him sitting there, that oh-so-charming smirk affixed on his lips, Lacey tucked against his side like cat hair clinging to a wool sweater, and slam a chair upside down on the tabletop with so much force, I’m worried it might buckle. My blood is about two degrees from boiling over.

  If you want to fuck her, by all means. Doesn’t matter to me.

  Where the hell does he get off, treating me like that?

  Who does he think he is?

  An entitled, egomaniacal jerk, apparently.

  I curse him, then curse myself for ever thinking he might be a decent human being, for allowing myself to conjure up some elaborate fairytale in my mind about what might happen if I ever got the chance to talk to him again. Serves me right for even thinking about dating a musician, when I’ve had eighteen years of personal experience screaming at me to run the opposite direction as fast as my legs can carry me.

  Ryder Mother-Fudging Woods can go straight to heck, as far as I’m concerned.

  Pushing him from my mind, I throw myself into my work as a distraction. It’s strange to see The Nightingale so quiet. Carly cleared out a few minutes ago, followed closely by Jay and Adam. Since I live upstairs, these days I’m pretty much always the last to leave by the time the floors are swept and chairs are stacked.

  The first few weeks, Adam made everyone wait until I was done. Eventually — when he came to trust that I wasn’t going to rob the place blind in his absence — he started leaving me the extra set of keys to lock up, freeing the rest of the staff to go home. I don’t mind. They’ve all got twenty minute commutes to their houses on the outskirts of the city; I’ve got a thirty second walk up a single flight of stairs. It’s only fair they get a jump on the drive, rather than hanging around watching me work for moral support.

  I start to hum a melody I’ve been working on for the past few days under my breath as I clear off the rest of the tables in my section, taking advantage of the acoustics in the empty bar with no one around to hear me.

  “A break in the clouds, a crack in the sky.

  Everyone said lightning never strikes twice.

  There’s fire in my blood. A beat in my veins.

  Standing out in this field, my face up to the rain…”

  No, that’s not right. The last line doesn’t quite fit.

  I try again.

  “Spinning out this storm like a damn weather vane…”

  I shake my head. That’s even worse.

  No matter how many different word combinations I try, that last line feels wrong, like a puzzle piece jammed into place where it doesn’t belong. I’m glad there’s no one around to hear my fumbling attempts. I never sing in front of anyone if I can help it. It’s not that I can’t carry a tune. Truthfully, I love to sing. I simply don’t enjoy doing it in front of other people. The thought of being up on a stage, under all those bright lights, with a hundred strangers staring at me…

  So exposed. So defenseless.

  I shudder.

  I finish stacking chairs on the high tops in the front and begin to make my way through the booths against the far wall. I hum the melody over and over as I work methodically down the line — spraying down the surfaces, swinging my hips as I sweep the rag back and forth to the tempo. The music takes hold of me as the words pour out.

  “A storm’s rolling in, black on the horizon.

  I take shelter in you but the rains keep on rising.

  There’s blood in my mouth. A scar on my soul.

  If this is called love, I’d rather go it alone.”

  I’m halfway down the row of booths. Skipping over the chorus, I shift straight to the next verse instead.

  “I wait for the dawn, a new day to break.

  Storm winds are gone but my heart still aches.

  I sort through the wreckage. You sit there crying.

  You said you’d protect me… are you even trying?”

  Every line of this song is saturated by memories I can’t erase. My eyes start to sting with tears as I sing. I shake them away and return to the opening verse, the part where I keep getting stuck. If I could just get this line right, it would finally be finished. Maybe then, I could put it to rest. Maybe then, I could stop wondering what happened after I left. How she’s weathering the storm without me, now that I’m no longer there to take the worst of the damage.

  “There’s fire in my blood. A beat in my veins…”

  I trail off.

  “You could try, Laughing into the storm like I’m going insane.” A strong, male voice suggests out of nowhere, scaring me half to death. “Or, maybe, the winds are howling a haunting refrain.”

  Spinning around, my heart pounds double-time as I seek out the source of the voice. I take a few angry strides to the last booth in the row and find Ryder sprawled flat on the seat cushion, totally concealed by the table unless you’re standing directly beside it.

  “You!” I screech. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

  He sits up, looking bleary-eyed as he glances around. His hair is even more mussed than usual — flattened on one side from sleeping on it. He shrugs lightly.

  “Passed out, I guess.”

  “You… But… ” My cheeks redden. “You can’t be in here! We’re closed.”

  “Damn. Missed last call, then,” he murmurs, looking crestfallen as he glances around the empty bar. “Too much to hope I can get you to pour me a nightcap, I suppose?”

  I bend to retrieve the empty bottle of whiskey on the floor by his feet, setting it on the table with a dull clink. “I think you’ve had quite enough.”

  “Not by half.”

  My brows lift at his dark tone. I want to ask why he’s in such a foul mood, what sorrows he’s so intent on drowning, but my lips clamp shut. I refuse to display a single drop of sympathy for the man who insulted me so brutally mere hours ago. The silence stretches on for a long moment, until his mismatched blue-brown eyes lift to meet mine. They’re red-rimmed from the whiskey, but there’s no mistaking the look in th
em as he studies me. The pain… and, the pity.

  Of all people who could’ve overheard me singing that song… why did it have to be him?

  I physically react, flinching back from that expression on his face. I hate that he’s heard my words, that he’s borne witness to such a vulnerable moment. My mouth opens to order him to get out of here before I call the cops on him for trespassing and vagrancy, but he beats me to the punch.

  “Who’s the song about?” he asks in a disarmingly soft voice.

  “None of your business,” I snap back.

  “It’s pretty good.”

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

  “Needs a chorus.”

  “It has a chorus.”

  “Let’s hear it, then.”

  “Absolutely not!” My pulse thunders so loud I wouldn’t be surprised if he can hear it from six feet away. “I didn’t know anyone was still in here. Obviously. You weren’t supposed to be listening!”

  “I couldn’t exactly block my ears.”

  “Well… you could’ve announced yourself the second you woke up. You could’ve stopped me!”

  “If I had, I never would’ve found out you can sing like that.”

  He sounds totally unapologetic as he slides out from behind the table and finds his feet. He sways a bit and I reach out automatically to steady him, my hand clamping down on his forearm.

  I hear him suck in a sharp breath as my cool fingers make contact with his warm skin. I’m achingly aware of this single point of contact where our bodies meet; of how close we’re standing, alone here in this empty room in the middle of the night.

  I’m not the only one struggling to catch my breath as the moment lingers, neither of us moving so much as an inch. We are two hair-triggers in a shootout, holding each other at gunpoint.

  No sudden moves.

  One shot and you’re dead.

  I glance up into his face and find him staring down at me with those fascinating two-tone eyes. They lock on mine like a tractor beam, their pull even stronger at this close proximity. I remember the technical term from high school biology — heterochromia iridium. But no grainy textbook photo could ever do these eyes justice. The left is so startlingly blue; the right almost entirely brown except for a small mote of aqua in the upper corner of the iris.