“I wouldn’t want to outshine the rock stars,” Bruce quips.
“Please do. Sign some autographs and let me rest for a while.”
We laugh and joke all the way back to the apartment. But John and I are both clearly rattled and both clearly trying to hide that fact. I think John is embarrassed by his fame. My thoughts are a little more maudlin. I can’t help but think this isn’t real life. This is a fantasy. No one gets this lucky. Especially not me.
John
* * *
“So you have a girlfriend now, eh?” Rye nudges me with his big-ass arm.
Because he’s built like a tank, a nudge from Rye is more like being whacked by a tree branch. I rub the dull pain on my shoulder and glare at him. “Do you have to put a label on it?”
“I don’t,” he says easily, “but she will. Women want to label it, outline the particulars, chart its progress, then set a date. Be prepared for torture, man.”
We’re driving back from Brooklyn where Rye has hunted down a 1969 Moog synthesizer that he had to get his hands on, which prompted us to do a version of “People Are Strange” while testing it out. It makes me miss the hell out of Killian, because he does a great Jim Morrison impression. His version of “Roadhouse Blues” took down the house in London last time we toured. I haven’t talked to him in so long, it feels wrong, like I’m missing a part of me.
I shake it off and cut Rye a look. “You know, talk like that makes me think you’re afraid of women.”
He snorts loudly. “Please. I love women. I’m not afraid of them.”
I lean back against the seat and glance up at Bruce, who’s driving. “You hear that? Rye isn’t scared of women.”
Bruce nods. “Got it. Not afraid at all.”
“You two assholes keep patronizing me,” Rye says with a laugh. “See if I care.”
“Tell me, Ryland.” I turn his way. “When did you start calling Brenna ‘Berry’?”
He goes bright pink, kind of like the berry in question, which is such a sight, I want to pull out my phone, take a pic, and send it to all the guys. “Fuck off, pretty boy. It was an insult, not a nickname.”
I grin. “Sounded like a nickname to me, son.”
Rye’s jaw bunches. I’m playing with fire. Long experience tells me how far I can push Rye before he’ll tackle me. When we were young punks, we’d often end up pummeling each other. All in good fun, but it didn’t mean someone wouldn’t walk away with a busted lip or black eye. In my teens, it was a good way to work off steam. At thirty, I’m thinking I’ll regret it and be popping aspirin for a week.
When Rye finally talks, though, his tone is unexpectedly hard and pained. “You guys gotta let this thing between Brenn and me go. She hates my guts, and for good reason. That shit ain’t happening. Ever.”
Silence descends, awkward and thick. Bruce raises the glass divider, leaving me alone with Rye. Outside, horns blare, and the car bumps over the pitted road. I clear my throat and risk a glance. Rye’s staring out the window, his body a big bulge of clenched muscles.
“Why do you think she hates you? Because I don’t get that vibe, even though you two are constantly sniping at one another. I assumed it was some sort of perverse foreplay.” Even when we were kids, and skinny, knobby-kneed, sixteen-year-old Brenna started hanging around our jam sessions, she and Rye bickered. But they also looked at each other like the other was candy just out of reach.
Rye snorts softly. “Maybe at first it was flirting. I’m not gonna lie and pretend I don’t think she’s hot. Yes, we bicker. Yes, it’s fun to get at her sometimes. And maybe she gets some similar sick satisfaction out of bugging me.” He shakes his head slowly, like it weighs a ton. “But the rift is real and nothing I want to talk about.”
“Hey, you brought it up.”
He shoots me a glare. “No. I said you guys need to stop expecting something, because it’s a dead horse. I didn’t say I wanted to talk about my feelings or whatever.”
“Mate, I’ve never seen a guy more in need of talking out his feelings than you.” I laugh shortly. “You’re the poster child for repression.”
Rye relaxes against the seat, his expression opening once more. “Maybe. But I’d rather we talk about your feelings and shit. You happy, Jaxy?”
“Chicken.” We’re pulling up to my apartment. “And, yes, I am. Because I talk about my feelings and shit.”
The car stops and I open the door before Bruce can get to it. I’ve never liked him, or any of our staff, having to open my doors. It’s too reminiscent of my childhood and the way it made me feel isolated, stuck with my prim-and-proper family when I’d rather laugh and play like a normal kid. There’s a fair bit of irony that, while trying to use my music to get away from everything my family was, I’ve put myself in a situation where I often need guards and excessive security. I’m just as isolated as I was back then, only now I can choose to live by my own rules.