Page 138 of Paint the Town, Dove
I whistled at Dean. “Throw me that pen and paper, will you?”
He tossed it over, and I scribbled lyrics for a new song: Discarded. Yeah, I’d write that.
I’d cope.
Again, and again, and again.
Let’s face the music. I was a fucking addict, and I wasn’t getting out of this life, this hole.
I thought, for once I goddamn thought… maybe it would get better.
Above all else, maybe my dove would help me.
A moment of weakness.
Fucking hell.
Way to break a man who was already in pieces.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Ryden
Ten Years Ago
My palms have been sweaty before, but never like this.
To play in front of a few people, that was easy (unless it was in front of Scarlett).
But performing to a bar packed high with strangers – people who’ve seen the throws of life, people who came to swallow those memories with pints of poison – that…
That was impossible.
“I can’t do it, Dove,” I turned away from the stage, gripping Harley so hard my fingers throbbed. “What if they throw shit at me? Boo me off stage? What the hell was I thinking?”
She grabbed my face with both hands. “One day, you’ll be playing in front of thousands. Think of this as a… um, trial rehearsal?”
I chuckled. “A sound check?”
“YES! A sound check, yeah. That. Think of it as that. I’ll be right by the bar, hopefully talking some sense into Blaise Acton.”
Before she could leave, I grabbed her hand, swallowing the lump in my throat. “You sure… uh, Emory’s not coming?”
A fire lit in her eyes, dying out just as quickly. “No,” she snapped. “She’s out with Jared.”
It burned a little, it did. I wanted her to come. I wanted her there. Yeah, she was closer to Scarlett, but we were a trio. The three musketeers. We sang duets together, you know. She made me feel comfortable in my voice, showed me that it wasn’t just Scarlett eager to listen. She’d beena solid force since we met half a decade ago, supporting me through the loss of Mom leaving, helping me scout for our new place, easing my nerves when it came to putting myself out there. I mean, man, I don’t know. I just thought she’d come sing with me tonight.
I wanted her there. That’s… that’s all.
But she was hardly ever around anymore, even when she was present. I could tell.
So could Scarlett.
She flipped out her phone, well – Sinead’s phone – and tried her number again. Voicemail.
The familiarity of that feeling cut deep.
That stinging pain of not knowing why someone important wasn’t showing up.
