“I feel good,” Riley answers a little too quickly, but it feels truthful. I know he’s nervous about performing well. He hasn’t said as much, but I know the possibility of being replaced because he can’t keep up scares him. There’s no chance in hellthat these guys would ever let him go, but it doesn’t stop that genuine fear from creeping in.
Riley oftentimes forgets just how vastly he’s improved with therapy. A lot of his ‘setbacks’ are strictly mental roadblocks that he’s still learning to overcome.
He’s still got his arm wrapped around me, and I place my hand over his, giving him a reassuring squeeze as I turn my head and press a kiss against the knuckle of his thumb.
Cortland nods in understanding. I don’t know how much he knows, but I can tell that he hassomeideas. Not just because of the scars, but because of his lack of surprise over the entire situation.
He ushers us through the door and down the hall until we reach a room with a sign that reads,
Dark Sins Magic In Progress - DO. NOT. DISTURB. (or else).
The last words were written in red permanent marker that I instantly recognize as Creed’s blocky, all-caps handwriting. A short laugh bursts from my lips that surprises even me, and I slap a hand over my mouth to stop from making any more loud noises. But every one of the guys laughs along with me before Creed runs his finger across the top of the illuminated sign.
“This was the first thing we bought with the money we’d made from our first single,” Creed says with pride beaming from his ice-blue irises.
“Cost ‘em a whopping eighty-two dollars, but they loved it, so we left it,” Cortland adds with a playful eye roll, then knocks on the door once before stepping inside.
The studio is dimly lit with moody lighting, save for the soundboard area that’s set up in front of the window that exposes the recording booth. Blair steps into view in the room, his head bobbing to whatever tune is playing through hisheadphones as he tunes his bass. Bear is chatting silently with a man sitting behind the soundboard, nodding every so often.
With a kiss to mine and Riley’s temple, Creed breaks off to join Bear in conversation. The man behind the desk greets him with a handshake before resuming whatever it is they’re discussing.
I look around, taking in the small room, but it doesn’t feel cramped. Dark gray walls are completely covered and lined with various awards, posters, photos, and memorabilia. Riley tracks where my eyes have wandered and pulls me towards the far wall. There’s a picture in a small frame of Creed, Bear, and who I’m assuming is Ben, their previous drummer, who left early on. They’re all standing on a dark stage with devil-horn fists in the air and their tongues out. The man on the far right has been covered with a sticker shaped like a dick. I turn to Riley with a quirked brow.
“Is that…”
“Tony? Yeah. He actually did that himself one night while we were recording. Creed told him it was bad luck to cover his face, but he didn’t listen.” I’m shocked when Riley’s lips tip up in the corners as he says, “Guess Creed was right, huh? Look at him now.”
A humorous laugh brushes past my lips because I don’t want to think about his or Steve’s state of being right now. Or… lack thereof, I guess. Unfortunately, it’s too late to stop my thoughts as Guy forces his way into my mind without permission. I’ve done my best not to think about him. He’s stolen enough time in my life and space in my nightmares that I refuse to let him occupy my conscious thoughts, too.
I’m glad he’s gone, though I often wish he had suffered more.
Moving on, I graze my fingers along the records on the wall from whenMalevolent Melodieswent platinum. I pause at a collage of ticket stubs and pictures taken from their first everU.S. tour. I marvel at just how young Creed looked on that stage. He’s always been the most beautiful man in my eyes, but seeing his eighteen and nineteen-year-old face brings back memories of sitting on a couch in his dad’s garage, watching him practice until he had worn grooves into the tips of his fingers from playing guitar for too long. The sweat glistening on his skin looks more prominent because back then he had only a small handful of tattoos.
“Even then he looked larger than life,” Riley notes, staring reverently at young Creed’s face.
“That he did,” I agree with a smile.
Riley tugs me along to the next wall, and I’m blown away by the number of awards that line a stack of shelves. Top Rising Artist, Best Vocalist, Top Group in Progressive Metal, Billboard Top Hits, and on and on. The world lovesDark Sins, but to see these awards and recognitions with my own eyes sends a massive rush of pride through my veins to know that they did it. They actually made it big. To know that Creed,myCreed—the boy who helped to raise and care for me—had made a permanent name for himself in the music world.
I stop dead in my tracks at the biggest collage that’s been mounted in a large frame in the center of the wall, a small light illuminating it from above. Tears start to swim, blurring my field of vision and causing the images to warp.
Creed’s signature scent floods my senses just before he wraps himself around Riley and me, effectively sandwiching the three of us all together as we collectively stare at the images before us.
They’re…my Polaroids. Dozens upon dozens of them have been carefully arranged in neat rows. Random pictures of pretty flowers, clouds, and some horribly shaky selfies stare back at me. Years and years of my life captured and immortalized all surround one of the first letters I’d sent to Creed after I stayed up late to watch the debut ofDark Sins’ first ever music video.
Dear Creed,
You did it! You made it! Wow. wow. Wow. I got to see you on TV and I just can’t
believe it.
You worked so hard for so long, and now you are a rockstar! It may not mean
much, but I am so proud of you. You deserve to be on
top of the world. I am going to see your concert some day, so save me a
ticket, yeah?
