“Only that thislet’s-be-friendsbullshit is just that:bullshit. Felicity thinks she can waltz back in after two years, pretending she didn’t bend us over and fuck us raw last time? That we’ll smile and saybygones, babe, as though she didn’t totally dick us around, walking out the way she did?”
My spine stiffens.
Ryder snaps a warning. “Watch it, Linc.”
“No — y’all want to clear the air? Let’s clear it.” The drummer leans forward, eyes still affixed to mine. “Youleft. I know you had your reasons. Hell, I’m even sorry for my part in everything that happened that night, for being the one who—”
“Linc.” Ryder’s voice is a growl. “Shut your fucking mouth.”
My eyebrows lift. I’m clearly missing something here — something that happened the night they were arrested. Despite my attempts to convince myself I don’t care — that I don’t need to know the details — there’s a big part of me that’s dying to ask him to elaborate.
Lincoln is looking at Ryder now, engaged in a wordless discussion that goes straight over my head. Whatever passes between them, whatever battle they’re fighting, seems to result in Linc’s surrender, because his eyes flash with frustration and a defeated sigh rattles his chest.
“Fine. I won’t dredge up the past,” he mutters. “All I’ll say is, while you two were offfinding yourselvesor whatever the fuck you’ve been up to, Aiden and I have been here trying to make a damn living as musicians — something we were all supposed to dotogether. Instead, we’ve been forced to take gigs wherever we could get them. Do you want to know who we’ve been playing backup for, the past few months?” His gaze swings to Ryder, full of accusation.
Ryder shrugs. “Not particularly, but clearly you’re going to tell us anyway.”
“Lacey,” Lincoln seethes.
“Lacey Briggs?” I can’t help asking. “As in… the—”Booty-short wearing, borderline psychotic, peroxide-blonde bimbo.“—the girl you used to play with, back in Nashville?”
“The very same,” Aiden confirms. “Though you’d be hard pressed to find a trace of country left in her, these days. She ditched her cowgirl boots for stiletto heels the minute she arrived in this town.”
“I thought she got a record deal with Red Machine.”
“Oh, she did. It’s such confectionary crap, even pre-teen girls change the channel when they hear her on the radio, but she’s already put out two auto-tuned pop albums with enough post-production edits to make your ears bleed.” Lincoln laughs harshly. “A fact I can attest to, after listening to her caterwaul up close and personal.”
I grimace at the thought. Even Ryder, who was ready to throttle the drummer less than a minute ago, looks somewhat sympathetic. There’s a heavy beat of silence that drags on until, quite unexpectedly, a giggle pops out of my mouth. I clap my hand over my lips to contain the sound, just as surprised to hear it as the boys, whose heads fly in my direction like puppets on the same string.
“What on earth could possibly be funny about this?” Linc snaps at me.
I shake my head rapidly, hands still over my mouth.
“Then why the fuck are you laughing?”
My lips press into a line, trying to smother another burst of amusement. “I’m not laughing at you! I swear. I was just… picturing Lacey’s reaction when Francesca got you yanked off her tour. If memory serves, Lacey doesn’t take rejection all that well…”
“You mean like the time she tried to claw Ryder’s eyes out of their sockets at Tootsie’s?” Aiden asks, grinning flat-out.
“Ah, yes.” Lincoln cracks a small grin. “A fond memory I cherish to this day.”
“I’ll never forget those rhinestone cowgirl boots windmilling the air as you carried her off the dance floor, Linc.” Aiden shakes his head. “Frothing at the damn mouth the whole way… thought we were gonna have to bring Ryder to the ER for rabies shots.”
Another irrepressible giggle pops out and, after a moment, both of them join in with me. Our laughter swells to a crescendo, filling every corner of the rehearsal space.
“Yuck it up, clowns,” Ryder mutters, feigning anger as his eyes sweep across the three of us, cackling at his expense. There’s a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Next time, it’ll beyoureyes she comes for, and I won’t be there to save you.”
When the laughter finally tapers off, the air in the room is marginally warmer. Things aren’t totally fixed — not by a long shot — but at least we aren’t biting each other’s heads off, anymore. We’ve made a start on the road toward civility.
I know we might never get back to the way things used to be, when we first got to LA: those nights we’d sit around for hours, joking and laughing between initial takes of our first album. So enamored by our lucky break, we never could’ve imagined how fast it would all fall apart.
Not just friends. A family.
Wildwood.
Before the lure of LA’s party scene grew stronger than the love of the music. Before I was left holding the ends of all their strings while they drifted into an atmosphere beyond my reach. Before they started bailing on every interview, flaking on our commitments, leaving me to juggle every responsibility alone…
My smile falters at the memory. It’s a chilling reminder of why I can’t let things backslide to the way they used to be, no matter how much I’d like to restore the easy friendship we once shared. That familiar territory might feel good here and now, but I know better than anyone it’s a recipe for acute heartbreak in the long run.