So, no. I don’t throw it away.
I make myself focus on the words, on the colors, on the graphics. Blues and purples, interrupted by a shock of yellow. Oblivion Haze. A fan event happening at a venue downtown.
These memories couldn’t be stopped. They violently rushed in, as if the dam that was holding them back had cracked and crumbled.
Strobe lights pulsed over the crowd. My ears rang as the music swelled to a deafening roar. Ryder Hendrix’s distinct vocals somehow cut through the din. His voice did that, as if amplified by more than just a microphone. Magic.Ryder Hendrix was magic.They all were magic.
Dixon St. James.
Mac Masters.
Tray Rivers.
Real. Life. Music magicians.
The alley didn't exist anymore. I was back there, in that place. I was suffocating in the best way possible, caught in a mosh pit of bodies jumping up and down and singing the lyrics. Oblivion Haze was this unstoppable machine, shaking the ground and making my insides quake in rhythm. This was worth skipping yet another ski trip in stupid Verbier where it was too damn cold and I’d be forced to ski like a proper Omega lady instead of jumping on a board with my brothers. This was worth making my parents a little unhappy over the fact that I’d rather be here in a sea of sweaty fans versus relaxing in the lap of Fortune Family luxury.
I was swept up in the ocean of bodies, cheap cologne and floral perfume swirling around me in a heady cloud. Someone spilled beer on my shoes, and I didn't even care. I was drunk on the moment, on everything.
Fast forward.
He’s there.
He’s interested in me.
The kiss... is intoxicating.
I shook myself violently, yanking out of the memory. I’d vowed I wouldn’t think about Oblivion Haze anymore. That I wouldn’t listen to their stupid music ever again. I’d vowed to cut that piece of my teenage life out for good, slicing it away with surgical precision. Ryder, Dixon, Mac, Tray… they didn’t exist to me now.
What did exist was this alley. The constant hunger of my hollow belly. The layer of grime across my skin because showering was a rare gift.
I blinked. I reoriented myself with reality.
I still had to choose whether I was going left or right. I hated making choices these days.
Because…some choices you can't take back. Some choices change everything.
I’d found that out the hard way.
3
RYDER HENDRIX
A YEAR AGO… OBLIVION HAZE’S TOUR BUS
The first dreamthat hit was a warped version of my most recent memories.
Nevada blurred past the shaded windows like an endless watercolor refusing to come into focus. Dry heat and brutal sunlight did that—making the world wave in psychedelic ways even when you aren’t tripping. It was nearly a hundred degrees outside as we’d rolled into Paradise for the sold-out concert. I sat in one of the recliners and stared up at the ceiling of the tour bus, examining a mystery stain. I’d have to leave a note for the deep cleaners. Though, maybe they’d avoided it on purpose. In the past, we had a habit of leaving unsavory ‘party’ remnants around the tour bus.
The guys were watching some dumbass movie. Tray had burnt popcorn in the microwave. I hated that smell. It lingered in the air for hours.
I blinked in the dream.
We were parked. The sun had dipped, though the day wasn’t any cooler.
Our wardrobe gurus had settled on all-black ensembles, which seemed like a dumbass move. Fucking hellscape and they wanted us todon funeral garb. We’d thrown that shit to the curb and just worn comfortable crap from our personal luggage. I stepped off the bus, boots slapping against black top so hot that I worried it might melt the rubber soles beneath me, and all I heard was the buzzing noise of crowded fans. Faces in a crowd stared at me and the boys. Bobbing white poster board featuring bright neon bubble letters. Magazines were slapped against heaving breasts; each gossip rag was clearly opened to the recent Oblivion Haze interview. Our faces all over the world. Even after all these years, fame didn’t settle well. Hell, it was what we’d always wanted, but sometimes it was too much. It was why we turned to booze and drugs and quick fucks. In some weird, warped way, that trifecta kept us grounded. Lately, I’ve been wondering if we were all just getting too damn old for the hustle.
What was that old saying?Only the good die young?No… that didn’t fit.The hotter the flame, the shorter the burn.Some nonsense shit like that. Once we’d hit the big time, it was a nonstop inferno. The flame was fizzling. Our drive was slowing. Mostly, our ability to hold our Alpha bullshit together was waning.
