Amplifier dark tide 2, p.24
Amplifier (Dark Tide #2), page 24
What did I do? I should have never shared takeout dinner with him on the first day. I should have declined the invite to the diner. I had so many—so many—opportunities to do the right thing, and selfishly I took everything I could get.
Kris cuts his gaze back to the stage; his shoulders draw back.
The support act leaves the spotlight.
Dark Tide walk on.
And at that moment, I know deep in the marrow of my bones I’ll never be anything more than another girl in a song to him.
If I even mean that much.
FORTY-TWO
Kris
“Moving On” – Asking Alexandria
The tinny buzzer cuts into my riff, derailing the train of thought I’d spent the last hour shunting into motion. I set Uriel aside and swing my legs off the upturned crate that serves as my coffee table.
I don’t ask for much, which is glaringly evident for anyone who’d care to walk through my small apartment. Fame doesn’t change some people—me being one of those. I circumvent my worn out armchair and head for the door.
It takes me all of eight steps to get there.
As I said, I don’t need much.
Emery’s bored expression fills the fisheye lens. I hit the access button with a groan and return to my post.
The tour wrapped up a week ago after one hell of a final show. Rey spent the majority of the performance toasted, Emery indifferent to the train wreck that threatened to unfold before him. With a few miracle changes to the set, Jericho somehow saved us from complete annihilation.
I hunted him out the minute we left the stage to pass on my appreciation.
He gave me a closed fist to the left side of my face.
Apparently, my secret wasn’t so secret anymore. As far as he was concerned, I was solely to blame for why the best technician he’s had in years came close to walking out without notice.
I guess she didn’t bother to set him straight.
“Hey, butt-stain.”
I flip Emery off and sink into my chair, reaching for Uriel.
“Thought I better check you’re alive before I head out of town.” He swings right and rips open my small fridge. “Did buying some food cross your mind at all?”
“I eat.”
His unconvinced frown drifts from my face to the tower of empty takeout containers stacked around the trash. “You know, we kind of earn enough for you to like, hire a maid or some shit.”
“Does this look like a mansion to you?” I strum an angry chord.
“Does some fucking immigrant who needs the cash care how big your house is?” Asshole drops his butt to my floor with a groan, stretching out beside my TV. He props himself on one elbow and digs out his smokes with his free hand. “What you been up to?”
Infuriatingly, my acoustic stretches don’t drown out his voice. Should have dragged the amp over.
“I’ve been doing what I’m guessing only Toby has since we finished: thinking about our next album.”
“You know,” he points his cigarette at me, pinched between two fingers. “You are allowed a break.”
“Why?” I rest Uriel on my stomach and wait for Em to light his smoke.
He passes the cigarette over. “Why not?”
I shrug as he reaches for another one.
“Kissed and made up with your girl, yet?”
“She’s not my girl.” I rest the burning smoke between my lips and pick up where I left off with the bridge I’m working on. “And it isn’t my job to make up for anything. She was the one who called an end to it. So if anyone needs to change how they feel, it’s her.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
I don’t have to look directly at the asshole to know he smirks. Em tries to reel me in. Annoying thing is his plan works—sort of.
“I thought we could try a few quicker tracks this time around. Up the tempo,” I state.
“You caught up with anything to do with Smurfette, man?” Em takes a lazy drag of his cig.
“We did mostly ballads and slower pieces last time. The fans will expect a new sound.”
“So we add a different instrument, like how Tabby added her violin,” he snaps, pushing upright. “Stop changing the subject. Do you have a fucking heart in there? Or do you really not give a shit about her?”
“I don’t want to talk about Henley.” Uriel hits the floor with more force than necessary before I launch myself out of the seat.
Em sighs as I stride to my bedroom and slam the door.
Yep. I’m fucking ten all over again.
My back has barely hit the mattress when the door flies open again. “Grow the fuck up, Kris.”
“What the fuck is it to you?” I level Em with a hard stare. Honestly. What does he care if I make it with a chick or not?
“Call me stupid”—the corner of his mouth twitches, eyes downcast—”but I care if my friends are happy or not.” He sags his shoulder against the bedroom door, braced by where its edge rests on my set of drawers. “Jesus.” Em drags a tatted hand over his face. “I’m a fuck up when it comes to women. We all know that. Now Rey has ruined his fucking chance at making a relationship work because of this goddamn business as well. Perhaps I’d like at least one of us to prove the fucking industry wrong and have it all?” He laughs bitterly. “Fuck knows it’d never be that uptight prick, Toby.”
Yeah—I laugh. Toby would control the fun right out of a fucking relationship.
“The choice wasn’t mine.” I shrug, choosing to stare at the ceiling. “She made her point. She wants a career, and her idea of one doesn’t include me. Fuck, for all I know, her perfect future doesn’t include anyone at all.” She’s probably on track to becoming one hell of a sought after tech, but a fucking miserable hermit one at that.
“The choice was always yours, douche.” Em sucks the last from his cigarette and then leans over to stub the smoke out beside mine in the ashtray on the drawers. “Your problem was that you gave her one.”
“What are you saying?” I pull a section of hair out in a line from my forehead and examine the ends. I need a goddamn haircut. “You think I should stalk her until she caves out of fear?” That’s some seriously messed up shit right there.
“I think you should give her reasons to reconsider. Reasons to remember why it is this whole fucking fiasco started in the first place.”
“Fuck me.” I drop the hair and sigh. “Listen to us bitching like a couple of hormonal chicks.”
Em grins. “I know you are, but I think there’s too much evidence to prove I’m not.” He takes ahold of his crotch.
I roll my eyes and twist around until I’m seated facing him. “How is Deanna?”
“There.” The humor vanishes, his features schooled.
“No change then?”
“Not anything worth telling you about.”
I leave the subject where it lies. He’s been on again off again with the whore for years. I don’t condone calling women things like that, but when every time they get together it’s him who pays, the name kind of fits.
“Honestly, though,” Em levels. “You really do like Henley, don’t you?”
I stare down at my hands, spinning the titanium ring around one finger. “More than I should.”
“Why the fuck shouldn’t you? She’s pretty cool, dude.”
Em shrinks under the weight of my glare, hands raised.
“I have no interest; I’ve made that obvious.”
“Yeah, well neither do I anymore.”
“You’re a shit liar. You know that, right?”
A bitter laugh falls from my lips. A singular, guttural sound that suffices for the tears that burn at the back of my eyes. Men don’t cry. At least, that’s what my father drilled into me after Evie left.
Evie.
“I’ve only ever loved one girl,” I admit to Em. “And she went missing.”
He frowns, arms folded across his chest. “Like, left town?”
“No. Like vanished without a trace.” I lift my gaze to his. “There was an investigation and everything, but the trail went cold.”
An amused smile tugs at his lips as he nods his head with a huff. “Your backpack.” The pieces fall together. “That’s what its all about, hey?”
I nod.
He throws his arms out, snapping his fingers. “No wonder you ditched the fucking thing the last week of tour.” His grin widens as he steps forward and points a finger at me. “She made that happen, am I right?”
I nod again.
“Fuck, man.” His head moves slowly side to side. “You’re in love again, aren’t you?”
“Like I said, what I feel doesn’t matter, does it? She made her choice.”
Em bounces on the balls of his feet, hands in pockets. “Oh, no, no, no. This changes things. She never said she didn’t like you. I mean, remember how pissed she got on stage when I called her out about it? She’s fucking into you too, eh?”
“Not enough.” I toss my legs off the side of the bed and stand. “Just forget about her, Em. I’ll get over it.”
“Why do this to yourself?”
“Do what?” I scowl at him, fishing around on my drawers for my wallet. “I’m being an adult about the situation. I’m accepting what I’ve been told, respecting her wishes, and moving the fuck on with my life.”
“Some life,” the jerk mumbles.
“Excuse me?”
He lifts one smarmy eyebrow, daring me to have a go at him. Fucker knows I won’t. Em would have my ass on the floor before I could get a hit in. Besides, the shiner Jericho gave me has only just faded; I don’t feel like fucking up my face all over again.
“Let’s go find something to eat, huh?”
“You hungry?” Em frowns, arms folded, as I walk past him.
“Not yet. But I’m guessing you will be.” I sigh, jamming my wallet in my back pocket. “You usually need to eat when you’ve been talking for a while.” I flick a cheeky smirk his way. “Or drink.”
“True that.” He follows out to the living area; head cocked to one side while I tug on my boots. “Aren’t you missing something?”
I settle my heel into the leather and then stand tall to address him. “Don’t think so.”
His line of sight flicks to my shoulder and then back to my face.
Gaze averted, I steel my jaw. “I don’t need it.”
“Where is it?” Em looks around, seemingly searching for any trace of my best buddy the past five-plus years.
“Gone.”
“Gone?” he echoes, eyes wide.
I nod. “Anything worth keeping is in that.” I gesture to the carved black box beneath my TV.
Her photos remain. And one sketch. Everything else? It has a new home—most of it in a dumpster at our last hotel.
“Who the fuck are you?” Em teases, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
I lift my jacket from the back of my shitty sofa and then thread my arms through the sleeves. “Some days I’m not sure. Are you ready?”
“I guess so.” He pats his pockets. “What are we off to talk about anyway?”
“What the fuck Henley’s been up to.”
“I thought you were ‘moving on,’” Em teases.
“I am.” I frown, snatching up my keys. “After this. Promise.”
FORTY-THREE
Henley
“Just Like You Imagined” – Nine Inch Nails
It started with a postcard. An innocuous piece of cardboard taped to the lid of my workbox. No message on the back, but the inference by the picture alone was worth a thousand.
An ocean tide across the beach at night.
I’m nearing the end of my second week out of three. The tour is small, at least for my team, but the job was enough to convince Dad I’m doing the right thing choosing this career over his. A three-person band, Harlot’s Kiss, who are playing as support for no other than the London Lords on leg two of their five leg world tour.
The irony was not lost on me when Jericho pitched the job after Dark Tide’s final show.
The crowd pours in the gates; the general admission area at the front of the field fills fast. An hour-long behind the scenes montage from London Lords plays on the colossal screen dropped before the stage. I check my pockets after stashing my bag backstage and then head for the stairs.
“Are you Henley?”
My foot hovers above the first riser. “Yes.”
Security stands to my right, a huge Polynesian guy who makes Pete look like a puppy. In his hands is what I can only assume is a package for me. “It’s been signed for.” He shunts the wrapped parcel toward me.
“Thanks.” My fingers clasp around the glossy edges.
He turns heel and presumably returns to his station while I frown at the box in my hands. One of the lighting guys who Miller governs dashes past me, his shoulder knocking me off balance in the process.
“Sorry!” His feet vanish out of sight as he leaps on the painted stage, I’m guessing to correct some last minute issue.
Miller was the only familiar face who took the job with me. From what I’ve heard, Simes offered but was declined, and Jimmy flat out refused, citing that he needed the time off to “get things in order.” A girl can’t help but feel that she has something to do with that.
“Pow-wow in five.”
I lift my head and nod at Jericho, who now stands on the opposite side of the stairs from me.
“What you got there?” He gestures to the package with his chin, muscular arms folded over his thick chest.
“I’m not sure, but it can wait until after the show to open.”
“Good.” With a curt nod, he’s gone.
I stash the brightly colored box with my things and then head to the stage for our pre-show rundown. Jericho never said much after the last tour wrapped up, but there was a change in the way he spoke to me. I heard that he confronted one of the band about something, but never had the guts to ask who. On the odd occasion, I have to agree that ignorance is most definitely bliss.
Our leader stands in the wings with our tight team surrounding him. He steams through the notes from last night; mostly areas where sound can tighten up, and then dismisses us all to man our stations.
I have twenty minutes until our disheveled band take the stage and after the day I’ve had, I need every single one of them. I got all of three days into my month-long sabbatical before Jericho was on the phone asking if I were interested in a “filler” job as he called it. The closer I near to the end of this three-week contract, the more obvious it seems that unless I miraculously make some influential contacts in the next nine days, I can expect a considerable gap before I’ll get any more work from Jericho.
I spent the morning canvassing the people I did know for any leads. Nada. Possibly a week helping an indie band do a six-club set, but other than that my horizon is bleak and gray.
I refuse to call Dad.
I take my place at the foot of my workbox and fold my legs. Team members move around the darkened side-of-stage like shadows in the night, their outline growing and fading as they blend with their blackened surroundings. One of the first things I noticed about the seasoned techs is they tend to dye their hair either black or deep brown. At first, I thought the trend was a style thing—the cliché rock fan. But it dawned on me: the color helps them hide in the dark. I opted to add an oversized black beanie to my wardrobe instead. A little color in my life is a gift when I work through tough times such as these; there is no way I’ll dye my hair black. I give Miller a wave as he dashes off to take his spot at front-of-house and then tug my beanie lower before I pull in a deep breath.
My shoulders rise, air filling my lungs. I pause, and then part my lips to exhale as my eyes flutter closed.
The spot is hardly quiet with the home video wrapping up on the giant screen, but it’s undisturbed, and it’s mine. At least for the first few minutes of my meditation.
Thoughts flit in and out of my mind, mostly of the one constant I can’t shake no matter how many times I refocus on my breath. In, and out. One, two, three … Black hair, and darkened eyes. His smile flashes in my mind’s eye before I let the memory go, a cloud of smoke on the breeze, and redirect to the gentle rise of my chest as I inhale.
A nudge either side of my legs breaks my concentration with an unwelcome start. I stiffen and open my eyes to find two unlaced military style boots either side of my knees. The legs that belong to them are clad in worn dark gray denim.
“Don’t mind me, love. Keep your eyes closed, yeah?” The voice is unmistakable. “As you were.” The lead singer of London Lords has enveloped me.
Holy shit.
He slides in behind me, his tall and lithe body snug up against the back of mine. Arms wrap around me, yet with a frown, I do as I’m told. Nothing could happen—not when there are so many witnesses around. Safety in numbers. The right numbers, as I learnt so rudely mere weeks ago. I shut my eyes again and do my damnedest to return to the fleeting place of peace I was on the crest of reaching.
His lips brush my ear; loose strands of blond hair tickle my face. Too far, pal. I lift my hand to push him away, yet he catches me by the wrist. “All I need you to do is listen.”
We’ve never spoken before now, never had occasion to. The closest I’ve come to Jasper Holland is standing to the side while he talked to the guitarist I’m assigned to.
If I thought Dark Tide was a big deal, then London Lords are two rungs ahead on the emerging star ladder.
I inhale sharply when his taut arm bands around my stomach, ensuring I stay firmly in place. Warm lips tease my ear as I feel something hard and plastic press against the other side of my head.
“Eyes closed, and focus,” he purrs.
Kris’s voice fills my right ear, muffled but undeniably his as it streams from whatever device the star of our show holds to my head. Jasper’s chin resides on my opposite shoulder as I press my eyes tight and stave off tears. In some strange way, I’m thankful for the comfort his connection provides.
“She’s probably better off with them anyway.”
“Why did you give up so easily?”
I can’t be as certain, but I have my suspicions that the other voice is Emery.
