“I’m going to go clean up.” I retreated sheepishly.
“You fucking do that.” Was Dixon’s parting statement.
Mac ignored me leaving, busying himself with breakfast cleanup.
Once I was showered,towel wrapped tightly around my waist, I stared at myself in the fogged-over mirror. Like most days, I stood there wondering how I’d gotten so fucking old. The lines around my eyes had deepened, my jaw was losing its sharp edge, and I’d be damned, but the first whisper of premature gray had started near my temples.
It seemed like only yesterday we were all flush with youth and striking out in hopes of rocking the music industry. I’d been twenty, same as Dixon, when Oblivion Haze came to life. He and I originally met at the country club both our parents frequented in the San Fernando Valley. We’d been fifteen then, instantly clicking over our favorite music. His family had made it big in marketing, and they were already priming him for that future. My family were old money moguls, a path that I wholeheartedly rejected.
I still remember the day I told my father I didn’t want to take over as CEO, that I’d let my younger brother man the helm instead. Pax was the smart one anyway; he had a built-in head for business. I didn’t. From the moment my Great Aunt had given me my late Great Uncle’s cello, I’d been hooked on music. I still couldn’t play the fucking cello, but just the look of it was trigger enough. The sleek curves. The way it sounded when someone else played it. Music was goddamn magic.
My father had cut me off, save for my modest trust fund, and I’d used my raw ambition and drive to learn everything I could about songwriting. I got with some of the best vocal coaches in LA. I played guitar well—not as well as Dixon and Mac—but my real instrument was my voice. I’d never take back the choice I made. It was a bit shitty that I didn’t talk to my folks anymore. Even my brother wouldn’t take my calls because he was a Hendrix loyalist through-and-through. I could live with it though. Dixon had it rougher. After his family relocated headquarters to another city when he was seventeen, he’d gotten in with a bad crowd. A kid hisage died and he got charged with distribution of controlled substances. He’d still been considered a juvenile and the judge was lenient, so they didn’t tack on accidental death. He accepted his punishment without question, and still blamed himself for his friend’s death. Once he got out of prison and past parole, his parents wanted nothing to do with him.
Mac was two years older. He’d been studying classical piano his entire life and singing in his church’s choir. His family was ultra-conservative. The kind that would probably outlaw dancing as a mortal sin if they could. He’d bucked convention, trading his keyboard in for a bass, and his church pew in for a devil’s stage (or so his mom called it). It was funny, because he was still that strait-laced church boy in a lot of ways. I sometimes wondered if he didn’t regret leaving that life, and the guarantee of a well-mannered Omega with a moral upbringing. Me and Dixon found Mac on the street busking his ass off, taking the only songs he really knew—religious ones—and giving them a hardcore makeover.
Lastly, we’d linked up with Tray after he’d subbed as drummer for a bud’s band so they could keep their gig at a local dive bar. They’d had to lie to the owner that Tray was drinking age. Of course, me and Dixon had snuck in too with fake IDs. Difference was, Tray hadn’t even graduated high school yet. He was eighteen, but still a couple months from walking the stage. We’d seen his effortless drumming and snapped him up before anyone else could. The kid probably should have waited out better options. We were barely getting off the ground, with one half-formed song and a prayer. Tray was the only one still on good terms with his family, though it helped they accepted and loved him unconditionally.
After a while of staring into the void and wondering where the hell the years had gone, I decided to stop being such a waste of fucking space and do better. Grabbing my razor, I set to work cleaning up. I couldn’t keep banking everything on a fantasy. I had to ditch the impossible.
I walked back into the living room feeling like a new man. But before I could open my mouth to apologize to my bandmates and pack—all of whom were settled with snacks on the curved sofa watchingScentless in the Cityreruns on the large television over the sleek electricfireplace—the door that led through the mudroom into our multi car garage burst inward.
Catalina Cook, our longtime PR manager and sort of Beta mother figure who handled far too many personal assistant tasks, nearly fell into the house. She was panting, chest rising and falling erratically as she struggled to catch her breath. Her usually sleek hair was a mess, frizzy gray and fading auburn flying around her face. It didn’t even look like she’d taken the time to dress. I was pretty sure the faded sweats and oversized shirt was her version of proper sleepwear.
She bent over, hands on her knees how, and groaned. “I… am… so… out of… shape.” She heaved out the words with obvious struggle, forming them around gulps of air.
We all stared at her in bemusement. She’d lived over the garage in the two-bedroom apartment for a couple years. It was just easier that way, especially once we began having increasingly shit run-ins with paparazzi and a string of bad press she had to combat. She was an expert though, typically killing inflammatory articles quickly and redirecting public attention to positives. Though, that thing with Dixon and the fan hadn’t been so easy to bury.
Mac paused the television re-run. We all waited for Cat to reveal why she’d busted into the house in such a frenzy.
“You aren’t going to believe it,” she finally stood up, wincing a little and holding her right side. Her left hand clutched a tablet against her chest.
It was Tray that answered, in true Tray fashion. "We're headlining again," he said. "Madison Square Garden. Sold out shows and endless panties."
Catalina shot him an exasperated look, the kind we’d seen her give her own grown kids a time or two. It was love, tempered with disbelief that she’d raised such absolute pains in the ass.
“I can see the article now, CeeCee.” Tray was the only one that got away with calling her the hated nickname. He lifted his hand, tapping it across the air as he said his next punchline. “Best Band Ever. Even TheBeatles Couldn’t Compare.” Tray was pleased with himself, a shit-eating grin somehow puffing his cheeks and cratering his dimples.
I wanted to be annoyed, like Cat, but when Dixon snorted on a laugh, I smiled. Anything that could make Dixon laugh these days, needed to exist.
“Are you quite done?” Catalina rolled her eyes, striding towards the sectional. After scanning the room to check where we all were, she ended up perching on the cabinet left of the fireplace. I moved slowly, wondering what had Cat in such a tizzy. I sat down on the closest part of the sectional, several cushions separating me from Mac.
“You know today is supposed to be your day off,” Mac, obviously amused at her disheveled state, pointed out.
“And last time I was supposed to be on vacation, I had to come back from Cabo early to handle your little stalker situation.” She tossed right back, reminding Mac that she never really had days off.
“Touché.” he held up his hands in defeat, not one to keep arguing just for argument’s sake.
“If we’re not being voted into the Rock Hall of Fame, why are you here?” Tray pushed his hand into his pretzel snack bag, pulled one out, and popped it up into the air before catching it in his mouth.
“Well, what do you all desperately need to get back on that path?” she teased, trying to delay revealing her big news.
“A lobotomy,” I offered, immediately regretting the suggestion when I felt the sectional shift as my pack mates turned to stare at me. I refused to look at them, figuring I’d probably find three sets of irritating, judgmental eyes if I did. Though, Cat wasn’t much better. She looked horrified.
“Honestly, Ryder. You are really worrying me lately.” She shook her head and pursed her lips.
“It was just a joke,” I mumbled, feeling like a scolded kid. I darted a glance at the guys and my heart sunk when I found them all still glaring at me. An awkward silence followed. Thank God not for long or I probably would have tried to suffocate myself with the sofa cushions again.
“I do not think any of us currently have the patience for a guessing game,” Mac’s even voice broke the quiet. “Sorry, Catalina.”
