Faded (Faded Duet Book 1)

by Julie Johnson

  I’m silent.

  “Guess that’s my answer.” His eyes narrow. “How can you rule out ever singing in public if you’ve never even tried it? That’s like saying you hate space travel or peeing standing up. Until you’ve done it, you can’t make a true decision.”

  “How did we even get on this topic?” I snap. “We were discussing your musical aspirations, not mine.”

  “And…?”

  “I’m not sure you’ve noticed, Ryder, but you and I are very different people.”

  “You mean in the chest region?” His eyes flicker away from the road and drop briefly to my cleavage. “Cause I consider those some of your finest assets, Felicity.”

  I’d shove him if he wasn’t driving. I settle for a glare.

  “Relax, I’m only messing with you.” His eyebrows waggle teasingly. “That’s what friends do.”

  My heart squeezes and I look swiftly away, out the window. When I respond, my voice comes out far softer than usual. “Are we friends, now?”

  There’s a marked pause. “I mean… I don’t share my donuts with just anybody…”

  I laugh. “Fair enough.”

  “Speaking of, will you pass me one?”

  Reaching into the bag, I pull out a glazed donut and hand it over. I try not to drool too much as I watch him take a massive bite.

  “You salivating over how handsome I am again?” he says around a mouthful, driving one-handed.

  Ignoring him, I suck the sugary glaze off my fingertips, one by one. I hear a choked sound and glance over to find Ryder watching me, his eyes zeroed in on my index finger. It makes a wet popping noise as I yank it from between my lips.

  “You salivating over how beautiful I am again?” I tease.

  Two can play this game.

  He laughs thinly and glances back at the road. I can’t help noticing his knuckles are white as he holds the steering wheel in an iron grip. I swallow hard and look out the window, pretending not to feel the sudden tension in the air between us.

  Obviously, I’ve made him uncomfortable.

  But he’s the one who started the flirty banter! I merely reciprocated.

  Kiddo, I repeat inside my head, calling on my safe-word to remind me that, no matter how cute or charming he is… we’re friends. Barely. Certainly nothing more than that.

  Kiddo.

  Kiddo.

  Kiddo.

  I repeat it so many times, the word has lost all meaning by the time we turn off the road into the Elmwood Estates parking lot. He pulls into a free spot by the front door marked VISITORS and shuts off the engine.

  “Thanks for the ride.” I avoid his eyes as my hand searches for the door handle. “And for the donuts.”

  “Anytime.”

  I hop out onto the pavement, sling my purse over my shoulder, and slam the door behind me. Before I can retrieve my guitar from the back, Ryder appears at my side. I blink in surprise — I didn’t even hear him leave the van.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that, I can get it…” I trail off.

  He pulls out my guitar case and passes it to me. My mouth goes dry when he suddenly whips off his shirt, exposing a muscular chest and a set of six pack abs unlike anything I’ve ever seen up close. His scent hits me in a wave — sweat and cigarette smoke and something distinctly male. It’s an intoxicating combination. I try to glance away, but my eyes seem to be superglued to his skin.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” I stammer. My grip is so tight on the handle of my guitar case, I’m surprised it doesn’t snap in half.

  Ryder winks at me as he tosses his work polo into the back of the van. After a second of digging around, he locates a faded gray band t-shirt and yanks it over his head. I can’t make out any of the letters except LIVE AT THE RYMAN at the bottom.

  He shuts the sliding door with a soft click and peers down at my face. I must look at little shellshocked, because he grins wider than I’ve ever seen.

  “Don’t worry, I often have this effect on women. It’ll pass. Just give it a few minutes.” His voice drops to imitate the monotonous tone of a medical infomercial. “If your condition persists for longer than four hours, please consult your doctor.”

  Blushing, I punch him lightly on the arm. “Shut up.”

  He takes the guitar from my grip and glances down in anticipation. “Ready?”

  “For…?”

  “Whatever we came here to do.” He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

  I blast the same the look back at him. “You’re not coming in with me.”

  “You’re going to make me wait in the car like a dog with the window cracked? It’s a hundred degrees out here! That’s just inhumane, Felicity.”

  “You don’t have to wait for me! I’ll get home on my own.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll call a cab.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s ridiculous. I’m already here.”

  “But…”

  “Look… it’s an assisted living place, right?”

  “Nursing home,” I murmur. “How’d you know.”

  “There are about seventy handicap parking spots within a hundred-yard radius.”

  I crack a smile. It’s true.

  “I’m guessing there’s a waiting room.” He stares at me. “Correct me if I’m wrong.”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  “Great. I’ll wait in said waiting room. You do whatever it is you came here to do. And when you’re ready to leave, I’ll drive you home. Simple as that. I promise I won’t even ask you any questions about you covert ops mission here at the lovely Ashcroft.”

  “Elmwood,” I correct lowly.

  “Whatever.”

  My heart is hammering against my ribs as I stare up at him. I can’t think of a thing to ask except, “Why?”

  He looks confused. “Why what?”

  “Why would you do this for me?”

  “Friends, Felicity. Remember?”

  What a strange concept, for a girl who’s never had any.

  I suck in a sharp breath. “Well… what do you want in return?”

  Something sad flashes through his eyes. His voice is almost solemn when he speaks. It’s strange to hear — he’s usually so buoyant with excitement and charisma.

  “What do I want?” he echoes.

  I nod.

  He steps closer, invading my space. His eyes are intent.

  “I want you to smile and mean it. I want you to laugh without thinking twice. I want you to feel like, even if it’s just for this one, single afternoon, you can lean on somebody without the rug getting yanked out from under you.” His eyes trace over my features with such weight, I feel them like a caress against my skin. “I want all sorts of things, Felicity.”

  My breath hitches.

  “Okay.”

  His brows quirk up. “Okay?”

  “You can come inside with me.”

  We walk down the hallway in silence. The walls around us are papered in a cheerful floral yellow pattern, meant to inspire warmth and serenity.

  All I feel is dread.

  Coming here dredges up my past in a way I’m not entirely prepared for. I sneak a glance at Ryder. If someone had told me a few weeks ago that one day I’d find myself at a nursing home with him by my side, I’d have suggested they go see a neurologist about those hallucinations, STAT. He looks laughably out of place, but he’s being a pretty good sport considering the entire building reeks of disinfectant and pureed hamburger. True to his word, he would’ve waited out in the lobby, but I surprised us both by passing him a laminated visitor pass from the lady at the sign-in desk.

  He’s already here; might as well stay for the show.

  Sensing my gaze on his face, his eyes slide to mine. “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing.”

  His lips twist, but he doesn’t push me.

  We come to a stop in front of a room marked 102. My hand shakes a bit as I reach out and twist the knob. The door swings inward on silent hinges and
I haul in a fortifying breath before I step inside. My gaze swings around, searching, but she’s not here.

  Ryder whistles under his breath as he steps over the threshold. I glance at him, but he’s transfixed by all the paraphernalia on the walls. I’ve seen it before, but it’s still a rather impressive spread. Dozens of photos of the legendary Bethany Hayes, ranging all the way back to her glory days in the 1950s. My eyes flit over the black and white photograph of her hugging a young Patsy Cline, another of her sharing a mic with Loretta Lynn onstage at the Grand Ole Opry. I smile at a candid shot of her laughing with Elvis.

  “She must be in the common room,” I murmur.

  There’s no response from Ryder. He’s staring reverently at the autographed powder blue guitar mounted in a glass box above the bed.

  “Is that…” His throat works. “Is that a vintage Gibson? Signed by Bethany Hayes?”

  “Yep.”

  His wide eyes find mine. “Where are we?”

  “You’ll see in a minute. Come on.”

  “Felicity—”

  Ignoring his protests, I head back out into the hallway. It’s been two years since I last visited, but my vague memories tell me to turn left. A smile stretches across my face when I round a bend and hear her voice floating out of the French doors, accompanied by the faint refrains of a piano.

  I hover in the doorway, watching her. Ryder stands so close, I can feel his chest brushing up against my back each time he breathes. His sense of awe is tangible.

  I understand — it’s not every day you get to hear Bethany Hayes sing.

  Her voice is mostly gone, now, warbling and frail. But she’s still a sight to see, even with an afghan thrown across her knees and her hair shock-white after ninety-odd years of age. She’s wearing her infamous coat of bright red lipstick. I’ve never seen her without it.

  “That’s Bethany Hayes,” Ryder murmurs.

  “Yeah,” I agree softly.

  “Felicity.”

  I look up. “What?”

  “Why are we here?” He jerks his chin toward the piano. “You do realize, that woman is one of the most famous country singers to ever grace the stage. A Country Music Hall of Fame member. A two time Grammy winner.”

  “Maybe to you.” My lips twist. “But I generally just think of her as my grandmother.”

  Chapter Nine

  ryder

  I’d have been less surprised to learn we were here to rob the place at gunpoint than I am to learn Felicity has a royal country music pedigree.

  Bethany Hayes is her grandmother.

  That’s akin to having Johnny Cash as a great uncle or Hank Williams as your stepdad or Willie Nelson as your next-door neighbor. The woman is a legend. That signed Gibson hanging over her bed is worth at least a hundred grand. Maybe more, if it ever goes to auction.

  So why is her granddaughter working in a bar, living out of a glorified storage room?

  I hang back as Felicity walks into the sunny common area, smiling at the elderly patients clustered here and there around the room. Her pretty sundress swishes around her legs with each step. She’s distractingly gorgeous today with her hair tumbling down around her shoulders in soft waves, wild and free from the confines of its regular braid. It almost hurts to look at her directly.

  Are you salivating over how beautiful I am again? she teased me, back in the van.

  Considering I’d almost driven us off the damn road when I saw her sucking sugar off her finger, that would be a yes. A fuck yes, actually.

  I watch her slide onto the piano bench beside Bethany, a gentle smile on her lips. The music comes to a halt as the old woman glances up. I wait for the moment of recognition. The typical hug of reunion between grandparent and grandchild.

  It never comes.

  Instead, I watch Felicity ask a question I can’t make out from this distance. Whatever she says, Bethany seems to agree, because a second later they both lay their fingertips against the keys. Seamlessly, as if it’s a duet they’ve been rehearsing all day, they begin to play together. The music is lovely, but all seems rather… cordial.

  Then again, what do I know? My grandmother was a grammar school teacher, not a superstar.

  I sink slowly into a chair by the window, not wanting to intrude on their moment. A passing nurse peeks her head in and pauses, equally captivated by the sight of the two women at the piano.

  “Always great to see Bethany smiling,” she murmurs. “Y’all are lucky you came on a good day. She’s not lucid, of course, but she’s in a cheerful mood. Music is just about the only thing that reaches her, anymore.”

  “Oh—” I try interrupt her, to tell her I have no business hearing this, but she talks over me.

  “Terrible she doesn’t even recognize her own family anymore. Just terrible.” A tsk noise slips from her mouth. “It’s good of y’all to visit, though. It’s been ages since anyone came. And she may not recognize her granddaughter, but she knows she’s someone important. You can tell by the way she looks at her, see?”

  I glance over at the two woman on the piano bench, my heart clenching as they pluck out the halting notes of a familiar song. It takes me a minute to place it, but I finally recognize the melody — I Fall to Pieces by Patsy Cline.

  “Yeah,” I manage to grunt out, feeling like I’ve been kicked in the stomach with a steel-toed boot. “I see that.”

  The nurse sighs lightly. “Give a holler if you need anything, okay?”

  With a squeak of sneakers against the tile, she vanishes down the hall.

  My eyes move back to Felicity. I thought bringing her here might answer some of my questions, but I find I’m brimming over with more than ever before. The desire to know this girl, to solve the mystery of Felicity, is beginning to consume my every waking thought. She’s been on my mind so constantly since the other night, I’ve been driven half-mad by it. When I spotted her sitting at that bus stop earlier, I almost thought I was hallucinating — conjuring up a vision of the person I most wanted to see.

  I’m not sure why I care so much. I just know that I do. Some switch inside me has been thrown and, no matter how much I hate it, I can’t seem to switch it back.

  Are we friends? she asked me, looking so young and unguarded it damn near killed me.

  I wanted to say no. Hell no. I don’t want to be her friend. I want to tear that sundress to shreds and explore every curve that lies underneath. But a nagging voice reminds me of my impending departure to LA.

  Leave her alone.

  You’ll only hurt her.

  She’s been hurt enough.

  I realize I’ve been staring at her quite forcefully when she glances over her shoulder at me and quirks an amused brow. Before I can look away, she waves me over. I crack open the case at my feet and pull out her guitar. It looks a little tired, the strings brittle and worn from too much use, but it’ll do. I make some minor tuning adjustments as I cross the room to stand beside the piano. I wait for the bridge to join in, picking out the chords by ear.

  Bethany glances over at the sound, smiling wide. There’s a streak of red lipstick on her pearly-white dentures. I catch Felicity’s eyes and hold them as the three of us find our rhythm. Bethany sings the final verse, her voice shaky and thin, but still beautiful in its way.

  “You tell me to find someone else to love… Someone who love me too…”

  I can’t stare into Felicity’s eyes with those lyrics hovering in the air between us. It’s too much.

  Shifting my focus to Bethany, I keep my fingers on the strings and swallow down the lump lodged in my throat.

  I am so unbelievably fucked.

  “You could’ve told me, you know.”

  She shrugs. “And ruin the surprise? What fun would that’ve been?”

  I stare at her as she stares at her grandmother, who’s now holding court by the piano with a half dozen friends clustered around her. We’re on a plush couch in the corner, the afternoon sunshine streaming through the windows like butter, illuminating every
fascinating angle of Felicity’s face. I can’t keep my eyes away.

  “How advanced is it?” I ask softly. “The memory loss.”

  Her eyes flash to mine.

  “The nurse mentioned something…”

  “Early onset dementia. And it’s advanced.” She rattles off those terms with as much passion as she’d use to read a grocery list, but I see the raw pain brimming in her eyes. “According to the nurses… this is the best day she’s had in months. Years, even.” I watch her crane her neck up to the ceiling so she doesn’t start crying. Her words are barely a whisper, as if she can hardly get them out. “She raised me, you know. Just for a year or two, when I was really young. But that was the best time of my life.”

  Her voice cracks and, god, it fucking breaks me.

  “She was my safety net. My backup parachute. The one option I had, in case things ever got really bad at home… which was basically all the time, but at least I always knew I could hop on a bus or hitchhike a few hours and she’d be there, waiting at the door wearing her red lipstick. Old Hollywood glamour and a house full of music, instead of fighting and fear and…” When she glances over, her eyes are full of tears. “But when I was ten… she started fading. Forgetting. Just small stuff at first, so small I didn’t even notice when we’d talk on the phone.” A tear streaks down her cheek and I suck in a sharp breath to keep myself from reaching out and wiping it away. From pulling her into my arms, crushing her against my chest.

  I need to touch her — the urge is practically killing me. But I’m afraid, if I do, she’ll retreat back behind that wall she keeps so high around herself. So I lock my jaw and press my fingertips against my jeans while she gets the rest out.

  “I should’ve realized something wasn’t right.” Her head shakes. “I should’ve done something…”

  “At ten?” I ask softly. “Felicity…”

  “I was old enough!” The tears begin to fall faster. She scrubs them away with the back of her hand. “I was so content letting her be my parachute, I didn’t realize she needed me to be hers in return. Not till…”

  “Till what?”