“Short, unique, and also meaningful. That’s a tall order.” Felicity laughs. “What about you? Any suggestions, since you seem to hate everyone else’s ideas?”
“Nothing’s come to mind yet.”
She’s silent for a long time — so long I think she’s fallen asleep, but when I glance down, I see her eyes are open and full of thoughts. Her murmur is achingly soft. “Wildwood.”
“What?”
“As a name for the band. What about Wildwood?” Her eyes lift. “Wilde and Woods. Your last name and mine, combined. It’s short, it’s unique, and it has meaning.”
I grin. “You, Felicity Wilde, are a genius. Have I told you that?”
“Not today.”
I glance at the clock. “Well, it’s only eleven thirty. There’s still time.”
“Cutting it pretty close there, mister.” Her smile wavers a bit as a thought occurs to her. “Hard to believe it’s our last night in Nashville.”
“Are you sure you’re ready to leave so soon?” A fissure of unease runs through me as I think about our flight tomorrow night. Francesca managed to book us on the same red-eye she’s taking back to LA. “If you have loose ends you need to tie up here…”
“They’re already tied,” Felicity murmurs. “I thought I was leaving back on the Fourth, remember? I said goodbye to Gran. Quit my job. Cleared all my stuff out of the apartment above The Nightingale. The only thing I have to do is grab my bag and my guitar from Carly’s when I go over to say goodbye to her tomorrow morning.”
“Okay.” My gaze scans her face. “You ever plan on telling me what you were running away from?”
There’s a flicker of fear in her eyes. “I will. I promise. I just…”
“Shhh.” My lips find hers. “I’m not trying to push you. I just want you to know, I’m here. No matter what you need.”
She cuddles closer to me. I press my lips against her hair and breathe in her scent. It soothes the nervous energy inside me like a balm applied directly on my soul.
“Ryder?” she says after a while.
“Yeah?”
“Promise me something?”
“Anything.”
“You won’t become one of those Hollywood health nuts who measures every ounce of boiled chicken that passes his lips and makes me run ten miles every morning? Because I’m not a runner. My face gets all red, my arms do this strange flailing thing, and—” She sighs. “It’s not pretty.”
I laugh. “I promise.”
“I also don’t do yoga.”
“Neither do I, baby.” My hands slide lower down her body. “Though, I can think of several positions I’d like to try out with you…”
Her giggles soon turn into gasps as our last night in Nashville slips away.
Chapter Twenty-Six
felicity
Our first month in Los Angeles flies by so fast, I barely have time to take stock of my new life.
Between moving into the new apartment — a gorgeous, sunshine-drenched loft in West Hollywood that I share with the guys — and working nonstop on our album, it’s been a blur of meetings and press events, late night writing sessions and recording time in the studio.
The very first day we arrived, Francesca sat us down and had us sing Faded at least a dozen times, until we had a polished single she could give to radio stations as a teaser for our debut album. Usually, things don’t turn around that quickly, but with the online buzz still building around Ryder and me from our viral Fourth of July kiss, it was full steam ahead.
Three days after we touched down in California, Wildwood officially dropped our first single. No one was more surprised than me when it raced to the number one spot on the charts the following day. The fact that it’s been there ever since is even harder to wrap my mind around.
Francesca’s coy I-told-you-so smile is fixed pretty permanently to her face, these days.
After the single hit number one, it was pure madness. Every news station wanted an interview, every radio station wanted an exclusive. At Francesca’s insistence, Ryder and I appeared on The Eileen Show — the most popular daytime television program in America. We didn’t do much but sit there, holding hands and smiling like idiots while she replayed the clip of our kiss for her audience, but for some reason, people loved it. The interview was so widely streamed, it crashed Eileen’s website servers.
She sent over a lovely fruit basket as a thank you.
The closer we get to releasing the full album, the more frenzied the press is becoming. The boys don’t seem to mind — it’s only me who shies away when the paparazzi snap our photo while we’re wandering down the Sunset Strip, or exploring the Farmers Market, or popping in and out of the many art galleries that dot our neighborhood. Every time it happens, I feel frozen inside. A deer in headlights. It’s even worse when tourists run up begging for a selfie with Wildwood — or, if they’re teenage girls, exclusively with Ryder, though even Linc and Aiden get a fair amount of attention, these days.
They smile and pose, candid and natural.
I hover and squirm, wholly out of place.
With each passing week, they lean harder into our new lives here, while I find myself withdrawing further and further into myself. I paint on a smile and push through — for their sake, if not for my own. But it’s getting harder to keep my head above water. Especially on nights like tonight.
I pour myself a glass of water and walk out onto the terrace, my feet bare against the cool mosaic tile. The apartment is so quiet, I feel like the walls are caving in on me. I collapse onto one of the deck chairs with a tired sigh, listening to the hustle and bustle coming from the street five stories down.
WeHo is so different from Nashville, it makes my head spin. Gone are the honky-tonks and dive bars, the fried chicken and sprawling plantations. We have stumbled into a world of upscale restaurants and designer stores, modern art museums and rooftop pools. The music that pours from the speakers here is electropop or dubstep. I haven’t heard a single country song since we stepped off the plane, aside from the ones I’m busy writing with Ryder.
My favorite nights are the ones we spend sitting out here together, trying new lyrics and plucking different melodies on our beat-up guitars. In the studio, everything is state of the art… but I never feel quite as comfortable using a ten-thousand dollar Martin as I do strumming the worn strings of my old Yamaha alone with him in the quiet.
Those are the only times I see a glimmer of the life we had back in Nashville, before everything changed; the only moments I feel like we’re really a couple. Not hanging with Linc and Aiden, not putting on a smile for the cameras, not being briefed by Francesca on our schedule for the following week.
Just us.
Him and me.
Writing words and playing notes. Touching hands and brushing lips.
I sit up when I think I hear a key in the lock, but it’s just our next door neighbor coming home for the night. Disappointment swirls through me.
I should’ve known it wasn’t them. It’s far too early. The boys are usually out till nearly dawn when they see a show at The Viper Room or The Roxy or The Whisky, nearby music hotspots that are always packed to the hilt, hosting some band or another. Sometimes, they drag me out with them, but since I have no interest in drinking or clubbing, I’m far happier here, reading or composing.
Sure you don’t want to come, baby? Ryder asks, already halfway out the door, Lincoln yelling at him to hurry up from the hallway.
I just grin and roll my eyes. You go. I like my ear drums intact.
I’ll stay here with you, he offers, but I can see in his eyes how much he wants to be out there. Soaking in the energy like a sponge. An extrovert in his natural habitat.
I glance at my watch, wondering what time they’ll make it home tonight. It’s already pushing midnight, but I doubt they’ll be back before three — stumbling through the door, smelling like cigarettes and sweat, drunker than sin, roaring with laughter. I swallow a cold sip of water and tilt my he
ad up to the sky, but I can’t make out a single constellation overhead.
Orion and Scorpius.
Two opposites, forever chasing each other across cosmos.
Out of nowhere, a rogue tear streaks down my cheek. I wipe it away with the tip of my finger and stare at the shimmering droplet, mystified.
Why am I crying?
I’ve got money, love, security, friendship…
It’s everything I ever wanted.
Isn’t it?
Brushing the tears away, I pull my fancy new iPad into my lap. Francesca insisted on it.
“Bad enough you refuse to get a cellphone,” she informed me, shoving the tablet into my hands. “But no email address? What is this, the Stone Age? How on earth am I supposed to get in touch with you? How on earth will I coordinate your schedule?”
I open the calendar app and read through the events she’s set up for tomorrow. Ryder and I have a radio interview with KLAX 102.3 tomorrow morning at seven sharp, to catch commuters on their way to work as we chat about the new album. Unease shivers through me at the prospect of another interview. No matter how many we do, they never get easier.
Bracing my shoulders, I tell myself to get over it. Tomorrow, I will smile politely. I will strive to be charming. I will laugh at all the appropriate intervals as we tell the story of our viral Fourth of July reunion, just as I’ve done every other time.
That was the best moment of my life, I’ll say, smiling over at Ryder.
Can it only be six weeks, since then? It feels like a lifetime has passed. I’ve told our story so many times now, it’s starting to feel like it happened to someone else. Like it’s not my story at all. Not me at all.
Just a girl I used to know, back in a city I used to love.
Another tear slides down my cheek. I scrub at it angrily.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me, tonight.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
ryder
The lights in the club pulse in time to the driving beat. The effect is dizzying, especially when you’ve had as much whiskey as I have tonight. I lean back against the couch in the VIP section where Linc and I have been camped out for the past few hours. The music here is total shit, wordless EDM crap I can’t stand, but the guys are on the prowl for pussy. Since I’ve been relegated to the bench in a strictly wingman capacity, I don’t get to make the call about their playing arena.
A lazy smile moves over my face as I think of Felicity, waiting for me at home. I wish she’d come out with us more often, but to be honest, I can’t even see her standing in a place like this, let alone enjoying it. It would be like putting a Picasso in a subway station bathroom. A total fucking waste.
The screen of my phone informs me it’s past two. She’s probably fast asleep. It’s my favorite time to hold her — when I get home and find her there, curled around one of my pillows. She always looks so peaceful. Serene. And I’m usually buzzing with too much energy to keep my eyes closed.
I watch Linc snort a line of coke off the table — his third of the night, if I’m keeping proper track.
“That shit is terrible for you, you know,” I yell over the thumping bass beat.
“Like those little white pills I see you popping are doctor approved?” He laughs lazily.
“They’re just to take the edge off.” My voice is defensive. “It’s not even a high — they relax me.”
He scoffs and shoots me a doubtful look. I ignore him.
Aiden’s already disappeared, headed home with some girl he met on the dance floor. At least one of them will be in a good mood tomorrow.
“You ‘bout ready to get out of here?” I call to Linc, my words slurring a bit. “They’re closing in a few.”
“Yeah, let’s go.” He stumbles to his feet, laughing. His pupils are the size of saucers. “Dude, did you see that chick Aiden left with? I think she was taller than him in those heels.”
I snort. “As long as she makes him happy.”
“When did you become such a sap, man?” He shoves me lightly. “You’re fucking domesticated.”
“Don’t make me hit you, Linc. I’m drunk, I might miss a few times before my fist makes contact with your face… but I’ll do it.”
We stumble out the side entrance to the street. Linc is weaving a bit, too obliterated to walk a straight path. I have a feeling he’ll be hugging a toilet bowl before the night is through.
I can feel the whiskey in my system, but it’s suppressed beneath the buzz of the pills I popped earlier. Just to help me relax, not to get me high. Aiden, who somehow has a hookup in every city he finds himself in, managed to get me a refill when I ran out of my original supply. I’m not entirely sure he got the same kind, though, because these don’t seem as strong. I’m taking three at a time just to feel the same buzz I got from one of the originals.
Bullshit, considering what I paid for the little white bastards.
Linc and I stagger through the door into the dark loft around three. I try to keep him quiet as I steer him toward his bedroom, but he’s laughing like a fucking hyena. I’m almost positive he’s going to wake Felicity, but when I let myself into our bedroom, she’s lying totally still with her back to the door, her breaths deep and even.
I strip to my skin and crawl into bed beside her, feeling the room spin around me. It was a shitty day of nonstop meetings about the album, then an even shittier night at that club babysitting Linc and Aiden while they did rail after rail of coke.
I pull Felicity into my arms, feeling my world slowly right itself again.
As long as I have her to come home to, nothing else matters.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
felicity
“Hi there folks, if you’re just tuning in, this is Joel Kay from KLAX 102.3. I’m here this morning with Felicity Wilde, lead singer of the band Wildwood. If you’ve turned on your radio even once in the past month, I’m sure you’ve heard their new single, Faded. It’s dominating the charts!” Joel winks at me across the sound booth. “Felicity, how are you?”
“A little tired, Joel — my coffee hasn’t quite kicked in yet!” I blast my best fake smile at him.
“Oh, big night out on the town last night?”
“No, we’ve just been so busy working on the new album, sleep hasn’t been high on the to-do list.”
“Makes sense!” Joel exclaims. “How are you liking LA so far?”
“Well, it’s a pretty big change from Nashville, but Ryder and I are really happy here.” My teeth clench on the lie.
“Speaking of Ryder — that’s Ryder Woods, for you folks who are just joining us — where is he this morning?”
“Unfortunately, he woke up with a bit of laryngitis. A few too many hours in the recording studio yesterday!” Not to mention the fact that, when I tried to wake him two hours ago, he was so hungover he could barely open his eyes to focus on me, let alone rally for an interview. Just the memory fills me with rage, but I keep the smile plastered on my face and carry on. There’s no other choice. “Nothing a little rest won’t cure.”
“All these long hours in the studio — does this mean we can expect an album soon?”
“Ah, Joel, you know I can’t tell you that!” I say, playing along with the ruse.
Of course, he knows every answer to these questions long before he asks them — courtesy of the press packet Francesca sent him last week, which included a list of approved topics, forbidden subject matter, and info about our band’s background. Every one of my lines has been carefully rehearsed, like following a script.
Keep it light.
Plug the album.
Share the story.
“What I can tell you is that it’ll be worth the wait,” I tease. “We’ve recorded eight tracks and the final two should be finished very soon!”
“That’s so exciting. Tell me, what are you most looking forward to about the release?”
“Much as I’d like to tell you it’s the fancy launch party Route 66 is throwing… I think it’ll
just be having some downtime. We got to LA last month, but I feel like I haven’t even explored the city yet. There’s so much to do here!”
The rest of the interview proceeds without fanfare. Joel stick to the script so thoroughly, I could probably answer his questions in my sleep. When he puts on Faded and mutes our mics, I sit back and listen to the track, trying not to cry.
’Cause love don’t burn out, even though you’re gone
And hate don’t come just ‘cause you write it in a song…
Ryder’s voice blasts through the thick headphones covering my ears. I close my eyes to listen.
I used to think his voice was like a lazy Sunday morning. I was wrong. His voice is like sex. It’s the all nighter that leads to that slow dawn between the sheets. A toe-curling, nerve-fraying thrust of sound that drives into you so deep, you’re halfway gone before you realize what’s happened.
I could listen to him sing forever.
Sure it’s sad but it isn’t complicated…
You’re my only memory that never faded…
Feeling numb, I walk out of the interview, climb into the back of the town car Route 66 hired to drive me around, and cry my eyes out.
When I get back to the loft, Ryder is still in bed. I toss my bag to the floor with a bang loud enough to rouse him.
“Hey, baby,” he says, blinking sleep-glazed eyes at me. “Why are you dressed?”
I stare at him.
Realization clicks. He sits straight up, sending the sheets flying. “Shit! Fuck! The interview.” His face contorts into an apologetic mask. “Baby — I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. Linc kept me out way later than I wanted to be. It was past three by the time we got home. I know that’s no excuse for dropping the ball. I’m just— fuck, I’m so sorry, Felicity.”
Faded (Faded Duet Book 1) Page 22
