Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
She slides onto the bench beside me, our thighs barely touching. The contact sends electricity through me that has nothing to do with the music and everything to do with her proximity. Her shoulder presses against mine as she reaches for the lower keys, creating a bass line that grounds the harmony we just discovered.
We keep playing together. I handle the melody while she provides the foundation, the kind of accompaniment that doesn’t just support a song but makes it better than either of us could create alone.
“It needs words,” she says as we reach what feels like a natural ending.
“Yeah. I’ve been trying to write them, but they keep coming out too . . .”
“Honest?”
I look at her, surprised by her understanding. She sounds like Zara. Oddly, it doesn't turn me off. “Exactly.”
“Honesty’s not a bad thing. Not in music.” Her fingers drift across the keys absently, picking out fragments that sound like conversations between old friends. “What’s it about? The song you’re not writing.”
The question hangs between us. I could deflect, make something up, keep my truth buried, but then again if she looked me up online, there are articles about everything that went down. I tilt my head, just enough to look at her without staring. There’s something about sitting beside her in this dimly lit room that makes honesty feel safer than protection.
“Starting over. Learning how to trust music again after people you loved used it as a weapon against you.”
She goes still beside me, but she doesn’t pull away. “People you trusted?”
“People like former bandmates who do things to hurt you and the people you love and then gaslight you into thinking you’re the one in the wrong.”
I hadn’t meant to verbally vomit all over her.
“Fuck.” The word comes out soft, not like profanity but like a prayer for people who’ve been betrayed by the things they love most. “I’m sorry.” I rub my hand over my face and groan.
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault some people are assholes.” She pauses, fingers still resting on the keys. “How long were you in the band together?”
Now I look at her. “Do you really not know?”
She shakes her head.
I nod, a bit thankful she didn’t look me up online, but also laugh at the absurdity of my situation. “Our downfall was and probably still is, all over the internet.”
Rye laughs softly. “I appreciate that you think I have time to look up every musician that walks through that door.”
“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” I adjust slightly, angling my body toward hers. “My sister and I started Reverend Sister when we were teens. We were one of the typical garage bands, playing covers and what not. In our free time, Zara and I would work on original music, and record it in our makeshift studio. She then took our demos everywhere, booked our gigs, got us our first deal, all while falling in love with our drummer.”
I play one of the melodies from one of our biggest hits. “Van and Zara got married, and things were good, until they weren’t. He cheated on her and the people we paid and trusted told her to get over it, and when she said no, the label pushed her out of the band . . . the band we started together.”
“That’s . . . horrible.”
Nodding, my fingers keep moving across the ivory. “Van wasn’t just my drummer. He was family. My brother and best friend.”
“That makes it worse.”
“Yeah. It does.” I stop playing and add notes to sheet music in front of me. “He thought it was okay, the shit he was doing to Zara. She met her now husband at the height of her breakup with Van, and the label didn’t want her and Levi together. Van is or was considered the sex symbol of the group. The guy who is shirtless, wearing leather pants, and has a cigarette hanging out of his mouth the whole time. The label would rather lose Zara than Van, so they lost us both.”
Rye winces. “Jesus.”
“The worst part is, Van thought I’d give him rights to most of the songs, even the one I wrote about him cheating on my sister. He said it’s about the pain he suffered too, but I didn’t see him have to face the paparazzi day in and day out, knowing your husband was a cheating bastard, and the people you were supposed to trust, turning against you.” My hands clench into fists. “Sorry. You don’t need to hear about my family drama.”
“Maybe I want to hear about it.” She shifts on the bench, turning slightly toward me. “What happened after you found out?”
“About what?” I ask, wanting verification.
Rye stares at me and for a moment it feels like she’s looking deep into my soul. “About Van cheating on your sister?”