Faded (Faded Duet Book 1)

by Julie Johnson

  “You were carrying all that around with you?” I ask, stunned.

  “My arm went numb a half hour ago.” She shrugs. “Anyway. You have a fake ID, right?”

  I blink at her in shock.

  “Oh, relax, I’m not going to rat you out. Isaac might buy that you’re twenty-one, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “Yes, I have a fake ID.”

  “Let’s see it.” She sticks out her hand.

  With a sigh, I rummage through my bag and yank out the flimsy laminated card. I’m blushing as I place it in her palm.

  “This is a piece of crap,” she declares after less than a second of examination.

  “I know.” I run a hand through my hair. “A kid I went to high school with made it for me. He wasn’t exactly an expert.”

  “Clearly.”

  “I don’t even drink, so it shouldn’t be an issue.”

  “They’ll still card you at the door. But don’t stress. This just means we’re gonna have to sweet-talk a bouncer or three.”

  “Oh, joy.”

  “It’ll be fun, I promise.” Her eyebrows quirk up as my previous statement sinks in. “Wait, you don’t drink at all? Ever?”

  “Never.”

  “Huh. Fancy that.” She pauses. “You do dance, though?”

  “I dance.”

  “Excellent.” She plants her hands on her hips and evaluates me head to toe. “I’m guessing… Nineteen?”

  “Eighteen,” I admit.

  “A baby!” She gasps in faux horror. “I can’t wait to corrupt you. At twenty-two, as your elder, I have lifetime of sage wisdom to impart.”

  “Such as…?”

  “Most of the bars on Broadway have unadvertised side entrances, so you can skip the lines if you’re a local or know the guys at the door. There are three stages at Tootsie’s but the top floor is always the most fun after midnight. The bathroom attendants will treat you like a goddess if you tip them regularly. Always carry spare cash in your bra in case you lose track of your wallet. Never stand too close to the side of the buildings in the late-night district, or you run the risk of getting puked on by someone projectile vomiting off a rooftop bar.” She grimaces, remembering what I assume is first-hand experience. “If, however, you do get puked on, baking soda will get the smell out in one wash.”

  I blink at her. “Wow.”

  “Consider me your spirit guide.” She grabs the curling iron. “Now, are we doing this, or not?”

  A grin spreads over my face. “Oh, we’re doing this.”

  Carly takes her role as my sprit guide very seriously.

  After dolling me up to her satisfaction — a process which includes more eye makeup than I’ve ever worn in my life and so much hairspray I doubt my curls will ever come out — she shoves me into a red dress far more fitted than the flowing sundresses that make up the majority of my wardrobe and a pair of strappy sandals I’m not entirely confident in my ability to walk in. I don’t utter a single objection, though I anticipate I’ll have several blisters by the end of the night.

  A small price to pay for friendship.

  We head out in search of sustenance, wandering around for a while before settling on a cute place on the main strip with outdoor seating. We soak in the last few hours of sunshine and people-watch, laughing at the tourists stumbling around wearing BRIDE-TO-BE sashes and ill-fitted cowboy hats with the tags still on. She sips a cucumber mojito as I suck down a refreshing club soda, chatting about our coworkers at the Nightingale, the bands she deals with every night, her business classes at Belmont, and her childhood growing up outside Denver. She came here for college at eighteen and never went home again.

  “So, what’s your story?” she asks as we devour a large veggie pizza piece by piece.

  “My story hasn’t happened yet,” I murmur around a big bite. “That’s why I came here. I’m ready for it to finally start.”

  Her eyes are curious. “Well, what’s the dream?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Everyone who comes to Nashville has a dream. They either want to be a star, marry a star, or work for a star. Which category do you fall into?”

  “None, so far.” I shrug. “I just know I want to write songs, maybe even sell a few someday if they’re good enough.”

  “You’re a songwriter, then! That actually makes total sense.” She tilts her head, chewing the straw between her teeth as she examines me. “You’ve got the tortured soul of a writer.”

  I snort. “I don’t know about that.”

  “Laugh all you want, but it’s true! I knew it the first time I met you.” Her eyes twinkle. “You’ve got stories to tell. I can see them behind your eyes.”

  A blush heats my cheeks.

  “Oh, don’t be embarrassed! It’s a good thing, babe.” She winks. “Heartache always makes for the best songs.”

  “I guess that’s true.”

  “It totally is!” Her smile is bright in the growing darkness. “I can tell you’re going to do big things one day, Felicity Wilkes.”

  I flinch a little at the fake last name, but I don’t think she notices. “Thanks, Carly.”

  “No aspirations to sing, huh?”

  For reasons unknown, Ryder’s face flashes though my mind. I shake my head to clear it. I wish I could stop thinking about him, but he’s wedged himself under my skin so deep, I worry I’ll never get him out.

  “No, I’m not a singer.”

  “Too bad,” Carly murmurs, lifting her fingers into the air to frame my face like a camera lens. “With your songs and your looks, you’d have the total package if you ever decided to perform. They’d put your face on every billboard in this town.”

  That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.

  We clear our plates as the sun slowly sinks toward the horizon. The crowd on the street gets thicker with each passing moment as more and more people funnel onto the strip in search of a good time. Beer-bikes wheel by, their drunken participants singing off key as they pedal down the street like parade floats. Music fills the air, drifting out every open window in a half-mile radius as the neon signs begin to flare to life all around us.

  “You can talk to me, you know,” Carly says eventually, drawing my gaze back to her face. She looks uncharacteristically serious. “If you ever need a place to pour your heart out, or a shoulder to cry on, or simply someone to take you dancing as a distraction… I’m your girl.”

  “Thanks, Carly.”

  She winks. “What are spirit guides for?”

  We end up at Tootsie’s.

  The famous Orchid Lounge, so named for its bright purple paint job, is a Nashville institution. With three floors of live music plus a rooftop bar, the honky tonk backs straight up to the Ryman and pulls in crowds by the hundreds every weekend. Everyone from Kenny Chesney to Kieth Urban has been spotted here, whether sipping beers at the bar or singing on stage. By the time we reach the violet building, the sun has set in full and there’s a line wrapped around the corner.

  I groan. “We’ll be waiting an hour at least.”

  “Stick with me, kid.” Carly winks and winds her arm through mine, tugging me past the front entrance to a narrow alley. There’s a towering bouncer dressed in all black guarding a side door, but he breaks into a smile as soon as he lays eyes on us.

  “Carly! I didn’t know you were coming tonight. How’ve you been, gorgeous?”

  “Hey, handsome! Can’t complain.” She squeezes me. “This is my friend Felicity.”

  His eyes slide to mine, skittering down my frame. I try not to fidget as his gaze lingers a few beats too long at my cleavage.

  Carly’s voice is flirtatious and bubbly. “My girl here is brand new to Nashville and I’m taking her for a night out on the town — naturally, I knew our first stop had to be Tootsie’s. Y’all do honky tonk right.”

  “New, huh?” His eyes meet mine. “Carly was right to bring you here, we’ll make sure you feel right at home.”

  “I’m, like, so excited,”
I gush, doing my best Lacey Briggs impression.

  Carly pinches my arm, trying not to giggle. “Anything you could do to keep us from standing in that line? You’d be our hero!”

  “Ah, hell.” The bouncer winks at her and cracks the door open a few inches. “You know I’m your guy.”

  She lets out a squeak of excitement but before we pass through, there’s a toll to be paid — he holds out his arms and engulfs Carly in a suffocating hug that includes some serious groping of her behind.

  Yuck.

  Carly doesn’t bat an eye. As soon as she’s free, she drags me inside before I’m swallowed up in his arms as well, calling back over her shoulder to the doorman.

  “Thanks again, handsome!”

  We cut our way across the bar on the ground floor. My eyes scan the walls, which are covered in pictures of famous celebrities dating back decades. The dark room is packed with so many people it’s hard to breathe, all drinking beers and bobbing their heads in sync as a man goes wild with an electric guitar on the corner stage. Carly barely pauses to let me take in the sight before she yanks me up a set of stairs to the second floor.

  It’s a larger space, but no less crowded. A all-girl group is covering a Martina McBride song, with mixed results. Most of the audience is too drunk to care much that the lead singer isn’t entirely in tune when she stretches for her high notes.

  With a grimace and a head shake, Carly vetoes the second floor and heads for the third. The crowd thins slightly as we ascend, giving me room to breathe again. We’re halfway up the stairs when the female vocalists are finally drowned out by the top floor act. The song sounds naggingly familiar, but I can’t quite place it… until we step through the archway and I get my first clear glimpse of the stage.

  No, no, no.

  “Carly, wait—” I yell, trying to stop her, but she doesn’t hear me over the music. And then, it’s too late. She spots Ryder, Aiden, and Lincoln on the stage and grins like it’s the best surprise of her life. Turning to look at me, she screams, “Oh my god! Look who’s playing!”

  I’d be convinced she arranged this specifically to torture me, if the astonishment on her face wasn’t so completely genuine. Plus, she has no reason to think I’d have any problem being here. No one knows about my strange issues with Ryder, because I haven’t confided in anyone about them. As usual.

  Like he said the other day…

  Felicity, you’re a closed book. Padlocked shut. Written in code, so in the off chance you do manage to pry it open, you need a cypher key to make sense of it all.

  He was right.

  That pisses me off more than seeing how good he looks, standing up there with his guitar slung over one shoulder as he sings passionately into the mic, haloed beneath the stage lights. His voice echoes into my bone marrow — the same voice I’ve heard every night in my dreams for the past few weeks, haunting me like a ghost.

  I realize now why the song seemed so familiar. He’s doing one of Lacey’s numbers, but it sounds totally different coming from his mouth. It’s a slowed down, simplified version and, I must say, a vast improvement over Lacey’s overdone squawking. I’m not the only one who thinks so — there’s a line of girls pressed up against the stage, jumping up and down with their eyes locked on Ryder’s face like he’s a drug and they’re desperate for a fix.

  The smoldering smirk on his lips only fuels their fire.

  “I had no idea they’d be here!” Carly yells, grinning at me. “How lucky is this?!”

  “The luckiest,” I drawl flatly.

  She links her arm with mine. “Come on, let’s get a drink!”

  I nod and follow her to the bar. After elbowing our way to the front, Carly tries to flag down a bartender. All my attention is fixated on the stage behind us. I doubt he’s spotted me in this dark crowd, but I have a feeling it’s only a matter of time.

  “Here.” Carly passes me a club soda, taking a hefty gulp of her cocktail. “Let’s get closer!”

  “I’m good here, actually.”

  She looks at me like I’m nuts. “We came here to dance!”

  She’s right.

  We did.

  I shouldn’t let some jerk ruin my night.

  I spent seventeen years letting a man dictate my every move. Living in fear of his reactions. Walking on eggshells around him, trying to make myself invisible. I watched my mother do it, too, and it never seemed to make her the least bit happy.

  I came to Nashville because I’m done with that life. I’m done living in fear of other people, done caring what anyone thinks about me or the way I live.

  Even gorgeous musicians with perfect hair who make my heart pound twice its normal tempo.

  “Lead the way!” I yell, linking my arm with Carly’s. “Let’s dance.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  ryder

  I don’t know how the hell we pull it off, but we do.

  The songs aren’t as in-your-face as when Lacey sings them, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Who knew, beneath the sexy hip thrusts and breathy pauses, there was actually some solid music waiting to be heard?

  We play an abbreviated set — five originals and two of our best covers — and the crowd goes crazy for us. For the first time in a long time, I actually find myself having fun on the stage. Maybe it’s the lack of a certain peroxide diva or maybe it’s simply the fact that, in the back of my mind, I’m aware this very well could be the last time I ever get to play with my best friends at my side.

  Standing under the lights with my guitar in my hands, I let everything else go — my father’s impossible expectations, Lacey’s blatant manipulations, the pressure to secure a record deal, the feelings I’m battling for a girl I can’t have…

  All of it fades out of focus and I just play. I play like I’ve got nothing left to lose. Because I don’t. And as devastatingly lonely as that is, there’s also something absolutely freeing about it.

  Lincoln and Aiden are having the time of their lives. I’ve never seen them so engaged with the audience. A girl actually whips off her bra and throws it at Linc when he bangs out his solo during ‘Hurts Like Hell.’ By the time we segue into our final song, the crowd is in the palm of my hand. I could sing the fucking ABCs, they’d stick with me for it.

  “This is our last song,” I say into the mic, breathing hard. The girls in the front row scream for me, lust shining in their eyes. “It’s our first time playing it live, but I doubt it’ll be your first time hearing it. So if you know the words, please sing along…”

  I nod to Aiden as he starts strumming the intro. Linc’s sticks are soft against the skins, just the faintest acoustic accompaniment. And when I lean into the mic, cupping it in both my hands like I’m going in for a kiss, I close my eyes and think of her.

  “Saw you in the crowd the other day

  You were ten years older, ten years colder

  When your gaze wandered my way…”

  The girls in the front row begin to sing along. This tune is older than most of them by about thirty years, but they still know the words by heart. That’s the magic of a Bethany Hayes song. They were written to endure.

  “Wish that I could tell you that you’re hated

  All those tears I cried, ‘cause you never tried

  And still, for years, I waited…”

  Almost to the chorus, I open my eyes and see a sea of lights — a hundred cellphones lit up and swaying like shooting stars. When I start to sing the refrain, my voice is joined by a swell of others, from the front row to the far reaches at the back of the bar.

  “’Cause love don’t burn out, even though you’re gone

  And hate don’t come just ‘cause you write it in a song…”

  They belt it out at the top of their lungs, one of the most popular lines in country music history.

  “Sure it’s sad but it isn’t complicated…

  You’re my only memory that never faded…

  You never faded… Oh…”

  The instruments fall awa
y completely, so it’s fully acoustic. Just me and the crowd, sharing a moment. I scan the faces, my gaze sweeping across the room, trying to connect with as many people as I can before the final verse.

  I nearly miss her.

  She’s tucked behind a tall guy about six rows back, almost like she’s hiding from me. Her hair’s been curled and there’s too much makeup on her face, obscuring her natural beauty, but I’d recognize her anywhere.

  Felicity.

  My Felicity.

  I can hardly believe she’s standing there, staring up at me. I know I should look away, but I don’t. The rest of the room no longer exists for me. I gaze into her eyes, at the unmistakable tears gathered in their corners as I sing her grandmother’s most popular song five decades after it was first performed in this very building.

  Sure it’s sad, but it isn’t complicated.

  You’re my only memory that never faded….

  You never faded…

  Faded…

  When we finish the song, the applause is deafening.

  “I’m Ryder Woods, that’s Aiden on bass and Lincoln on the drums. Thanks so much for coming out tonight, Nashville!”

  I practically leap off the stage, cutting through the rabid crowd. Girls are clawing at my arms, jumping up to whisper in my ear, yelling words of praise. I ignore them. It’s rude and unprofessional and I don’t give two fucks. I shove my way into the middle of the audience, my frantic eyes sweeping left and right. Searching every face.

  I don’t see her anywhere.

  Did she leave?

  I whirl around to make another sweep and practically run straight into her. She’s right there, five feet away, beautiful as ever in a tight red dress that steals my breath. Her eyes are glossy with tears as they lock on mine. I watch one roll down the apple of her cheek and for a split second, I’m paralyzed.

  Her mouth opens, as if she’s going to say something. But I’m done talking.

  I’m moving.

  My feet are closing those final few steps.