17: VIPER RISING
I’m late. They’re waiting. An entire conference room of suits watches me as I stand behind an open leather chair. By their expressions they’re not as impressed by the fact that I showed up as I am.
“Wes, good of you to come. Have a seat.”
“No thanks. This won’t take long.”
The room shivers in an almost audible gasp. Lawyer, lawyer, lawyer, label exec, lawyer, label exec, and Holland. Jacob whispers something to her, but her eyes don’t leave my face. An apology for the pain in her gaze claws at my tongue. I manage to shove the lump back to an ache in my chest.
“You haven’t brought representation?” one of the suits asks.
“I don’t need it.” I zero in on Holland. “I’m not going to fight you on anything, Hol. It’s yours: the band, our songs, everything. Take what you want; give me what you think is fair. I trust you.” I swallow as the ache starts to swell into my vocal chords. “Send me whatever I need to sign to make it official.”
And then I’m gone. Life exploded, field of nothing surrounding me. I feel free and completely broken. Beginnings, ends. There’s poetry in there somewhere, but right now I’m a mess of fragments.
Once outside, I pull out my phone and dial the only person left that matters.
“Wes? It’s over already?”
“Yep.”
“How’d it go?”
“How do you feel about grabbing lunch with an unemployed musician?”
∞∞∞
It’s a strange feeling being nothing. No expectations, no plans, no identity other than who I used to be. I thought it would be terrifying. God knows, coming to this decision took an extraordinary amount of angst, especially for someone who relies on instinct for most of my functioning. But now that it’s done?
“What’s the smile for?” Hannah asks through the crunch of her salad.
“I’m a blank slate.”
“I’ve been telling you that for years.”
“Hilarious. You know what I mean.”
Her smile fades as her eyes rest on mine. “Yeah, I do. I’m a blank slate too. Together we’re practically a sidewalk.”
I laugh and dig into my sandwich. “How about a blank canvas then? That’s less—literal.”
“Artistic too. I accept your metaphor, Wesley Alton.” She reaches across and grabs a chip off my plate. “You know they won an award for these?”
“A potato chip award?”
She nods and steals another. “Best house-made snack chip, Province of Ontario.”
“You’re making that up.”
She shrugs into a devilish smile. “Now you’re gonna look it up.”
“At least I’ll have plenty of time.”
She brushes her fingers on a napkin. “Seriously, though. What’s next for you?”
It’s a great question. I just turned the page an hour ago and have no idea how to answer it. There’s only one thing I know with certainty.
“For now, I write.”
Her features relax. “Good.”
I stare through the window at a bird exploring something on the bench. “I have to find my voice without Holland.”
My gaze ventures back to Hannah and meets empathy.
“You need to find your voice, period,” she says.
She’s not wrong, and I search for the bird again. “I was always defined relative to someone else. The son of Frederick Alton. The backup to Holland Drake. Now what?”
“Try being the little sister of Holland Drake,” she snorts, and I shoot a grin.
“No thanks.”
Her forehead creases, head tilting in concentration. “So this is it for both of us, right? The start of chapter two?”
“Time to figure out our own spotlights.” I reach across the table and grab her hand. She squeezes back.
∞∞∞
My first day of nothing doesn’t go well. Unfortunately, you can’t broadcast the beginning of new chapters, and my phone explodes with reminders of the last one. I check a few of the messages, but only the last catches my interest. I hear the ache in Holland’s voice as she pleads for a one-on-one to talk this out. My chest tightens in response, and my finger finds its way to the call back button, but I manage to crush the rebellion. If I call her, I meet her. If I meet her, I cave and we’re right back where we started—where neither of us belongs anymore.
I have faith in Holland. She will rebuild her life the way it should be. With Luke. With her bright star shining into the lives of everyone around her, making them better. Now I have to figure out how to function without being the shadow to her light.
It’s a monumental task, but I’m going to try because there’s a girl with long brown hair and a wicked sense of humor. A fucking brave girl who challenges me, excites me, and right now, needs a traveling companion on her own journey. You know what? Fuck it.
I pick up my phone, and she answers on the first ring. “Hey. What are you doing right now?”
“Not much. Just trying to avoid my mom’s desperation sandwiches.”
I snicker. “The basement free?”
“I think so?”
“Good, I’m coming over.”
“Um, okay…”
“With my guitar.”
A smile colors her voice when she says, “I’ll have the beer waiting.”
∞∞∞
“What do you think about changing the third chord in the progression to a seventh instead of the minor?”
I run the idea through my head. “Hmm. I’m game. Let’s try it.” I strum through the chorus again with the new chord, and we both cringe in unison.
“Okay, no.” She laughs. “Keep the B minor.”
“Yeah. But I like where your brain is going, Drake. Wait, I know.” I launch into the bridge and throw the seventh in there instead.
“Yes! Love that,” she says. “Can we run it again?”
“From the top?”
“I want to hear it all together now.”
“You got it, babe.”
Her grin lasts through the entire intro. And yeah, so does mine.
As the song wraps up and I play through the outro, I can tell by her expression that something’s up. She’s quiet as the last chord fades out.
“What’s going on?” I ask while her fingers tap a rhythm on her knee.
She peeks over at me and resumes tapping.
“What is it?”
An inhale freezes her for a moment before she pulls out her laptop. “I’ve been working on something too.”
I can’t read her expression when she diverts to the computer. “You’ve been writing on your own?”
“I know! I’m sorry, it’s just—”
“Sorry? Why the hell would you be sorry? Let’s hear it.”
She scans the screen, fingers still drumming. “Well, I don’t have music yet, just lyrics.” She turns the display toward me. “I was hoping you’d be willing to help me.”
“Willing? Are you kidding? Let me see that.”
“Argh, I’m going upstairs,” she groans, and I drag her hands from her face.
“Not a chance. Sit.”
“Wait. Maybe this is a bad—”
“Quiet.” I press my fingers against her mouth and tuck her to my side. She resigns into a stiff monument while I read.
Coil of strength wound tight
to hide
to lie
to wither and writhe
In its prison it cries, ‘Coil of rage!’
Dirty secrets revealed
The bed
I made
Was never the place
To trap this broken soul, It’s over!
Stand back, you’re gonna want to stand back
I’m breaking free to strike
Fangs bared, spring out, out
Of hell, don’t tell
Me what I am
I’m not, not your pet
I’m your hidden regret
So hear me, you should fucking fear me!
As I rise
It’s a lot. Too much maybe as I read through her words, once, twice, and a third time to make sure I’m completely immersed in the story of this incredible woman beside me.
“Hannah…” is all that comes out.
“Is it bad?”
“No! It’s…” It’s daaamn. “What’s it called?”
“‘Viper Rising.’”