Page 100 of Paint the Town, Dove
Theywere off.
My stomach dropped.
And I knew what was coming.
“I’ve been working on something real special for you guys!” Ryden called out, looping Harley’s strap around his neck. “Just me, though. Hope you can understand.”
The crowd cheered like I’ve never heard before. “WE LOVE YOU RYDEN!”
“YOU CHANGED MY LIFE RYDEN!”
“YOU SAVED ME RYDEN!”
[You… saved me, Ryden.]
“This song,” he gripped the mic, “this song is dedicated to someone very special.”
My lungs plummeted.
He didn’t need to look at me.
He justneeded to make sure I didn’t run this time.
I took one, two, three steps back until my frame hit a wall of muscle. “Morty,” I knew.
“He… worked hard, Ms. Emory-Blake.” Morty peered down at me with sad eyes. “Not just on this song, but. With it all.”
I swallowed my fear, my hurt, my emotions – pretending to adjust his tie, lapels – anything that could distract me from the raw feeling plastered on his face. Morty, the one who found Ryden the first year he overdosed. Morty, the one who bought us groceries for six weeks when we just moved to New York City – nothing but a threadbare jacket on our backs and a dream in our hearts.
Morty. The father we never had.
“Bodyguards should never have opinions,” I sniffed, tapping his chest.
He chuckled lowly. “I hope by now, I’ve earned one.”
“Oh, fuck,” I swatted at him, retreating back to my position at the corner of the stage, watching Ryden sing his stupid little song.
His stupid little beautiful fucking song.
His beautiful, beautiful song.
Our song.
Ourbeautiful song.
***
Did I have tears running down my face?
Yes.
Did they stay there?
Not for a goddamn second because Ryden was walking towards me, plastered in sweat, and I –
God fucking dammit, I couldn’t hold back.
“Dove,” he reached out, laying Harley against the wall as I jumped on top of him, burying myself in his perspired tee, soaking up all that he was – another tour – coming to its final end.
