Faded (Faded Duet Book 1) Read online

  Faded

  part one

  Julie Johnson

  Contents

  1. felicity

  2. felicity

  3. ryder

  4. felicity

  5. ryder

  6. felicity

  7. ryder

  8. felicity

  9. ryder

  10. felicity

  11. ryder

  12. felicity

  13. ryder

  14. felicity

  15. ryder

  16. felicity

  17. ryder

  18. felicity

  19. ryder

  20. felicity

  21. ryder

  22. felicity

  23. ryder

  24. felicity

  25. ryder

  26. felicity

  27. ryder

  28. felicity

  29. ryder

  30. felicity

  31. ryder

  32. felicity

  33. ryder

  Next up…

  Playlist

  Full Lyrics

  Also by Julie Johnson

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2018 Julie Johnson

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, product names, or named features are only used for reference, and are assumed to be property of their respective owners.

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  For the flames that refuse to go out.

  Keep burning.

  You only need a single spark to start a wildfire.

  A sky full of stars, and he was staring at her.

  atticus

  Chapter One

  felicity

  The Rolling Stones said it best.

  You can't always get what you want.

  I never wanted to be famous.

  I never wanted any of this.

  I just wanted to escape. To get out. To be free of the hellfire dimension where I spent eighteen years struggling to walk through the worst of the flames without burning up entirely.

  When I arrived in Nashville with my hand-me-down guitar in its tattered case and a notebook full of scribbled song lyrics torn straight from my soul, I had high hopes and big plans. I had no idea that less than a year after I stepped off that bus, I’d end up broken-hearted and empty-handed when the whole world crashed down around my ears.

  Actually, that’s not entirely true.

  My hands weren’t empty when my wants turned into wishes and my hopes faded into fantasies. In my fingers, I clutched the broken pieces of my heart; in my palms, I fisted the tattered fragments of my dreams, trying desperately to keep them together. But it was too late. Dreams are spun from the most fragile glass, easily spider-webbed. A few careless words can shatter them beyond repair.

  Don’t say I didn’t warn you: this story isn’t about getting what I wanted.

  Because I never wanted Ryder Woods.

  I needed him.

  Like a melody needs a harmony, like a rhythm needs a tempo, like a chord needs a key. I was more consumed by him than I ever was by the notes swirling in my bloodstream or the lyrics swimming through my head.

  Even after he took every aching piece of my heart and crushed them to dust between nicotine-stained fingertips.

  I was stupid enough to think I’d never see him again. Stupid enough to think that fate was done playing with me. That, after the hell he’d already put me through, I’d earned some kind of respite from the desolation of loving him… and then losing him.

  After two long years without the touch of his knuckles against my cheek or the kiss of his stubbled jaw against my skin or the rasp of his voice against the fragile shell of my ear, I was foolish enough to believe that I’d finally gotten him out of my bloodstream, banished him into remission like the most lethal of illnesses.

  I should’ve known there was no cure.

  Loving Ryder Woods was a life sentence.

  A terminal disease.

  And when he finally did come back into my life… he may’ve been the last person I ever wanted to lay eyes on again… but as I’ve told you twice already…

  What I wanted has never mattered one bit.

  Not when it comes to him.

  T W O Y E A R S E A R L I E R

  The bus kicks up a cloud of dust as it rolls away, rumbling louder than my stomach — which is really saying something, because the only thing I’ve consumed today is a stale peanut butter and jelly sandwich, half-squished from accidentally sitting on it during the jolting six hour ride.

  I watch until the bus turns out of sight, leaving me alone on the empty stretch of roadway. It’s mid-afternoon, and there’s not another soul on the street. The lights of Nashville’s famed honky-tonks have dimmed — if only for a few hours — while tourists nurse hangovers and rest their livers in preparation for another spin around town. Beneath the bright midday sunshine, Music City has fallen momentarily quiet. Its resident musicians are at home rehearsing for another set, another stage, another night singing lyrics they didn’t write for people barely coherent enough to listen.

  I know the quietude is temporary. As soon as the sun fades into darkness like a candle burned down to the end of its wick, this place will be bustling once more with flashing signs that gleam neon-bright on the surface of whiskey-glazed eyes. Nashville is Disney Land for adults, a conglomeration of bachelorette parties celebrating impending marriages and unhappy housewives escaping monotonous ones; hopeful singers dreaming about their big break and washed up stars reminiscing about they day they got theirs.

  It is escapism set to a country song on repeat. It is a painkiller tablet swallowed down with a mimosa. A place where dreams are born, and also where they go to die; where music spills onto the streets as background noise or slips under your skin and takes up residence inside your soul.

  They say you either come to Nashville for a single night, or stay here for a lifetime. Out-of-towners leave with nothing but a set of blurry memories from the bars on Lower Broad, their feet blistered from brand new cowboy boots that they’ll never find occasion to wear once they get home to their real lives. If you’re foolish enough to stay for longer than a weekend, you run the risk of doing significantly more damage… and not just to your feet or your liver.

  To your soul.

  Clutching the cracked handle of my guitar case a bit tighter, I heave a deep sigh and turn to face the building at my back. Off the well-trod Broadway strip, it’s a bit less obvious and ostentatious than Tootsie’s famed Orchid Lounge or the sprawling, tri-level Legends Corner where live music floats out the windows nonstop. Tucked on a side street several blocks from the tourist zone, the black brick exterior is chipping and sincerely in need of a fresh paint job. The windows are dark and streaked with grime. A hanging shingle sign protrudes in the air over my head, declaring THE NIGHTINGALE in fading gold letters.

  Frankly, it looks like a dive.

  But looks will only get you so far. As I’ve found with most things in life, the interior counts far more than any pretty exterior facade. There’s no place in Nashville better known for attracting musical talent. At this exact moment, I can name at least five artists on the Top 100 country charts that were discovered here, within the confines of said nondescript little dive.
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  Steadying my shoulders, I reach out and try the handle. I half expect it to be locked up tight, but the door gives easily beneath my grip, swinging inward into the shadowy bar. I step inside before I can chicken out, squinting as my eyes strain to adjust in the sudden dimness.

  “Hello?” I call, taking a few tentative steps over the threshold. “Anyone here?”

  There’s no response. I maneuver past a deserted hostess station and around several high top tables, their surfaces scratched and dinged from years of patronage. A trio of overhead spotlights stream down on the stage opposite me, igniting a sea of swirling dust motes in fractured shadow. I’m drawn in, a moth to flame. Before I consciously realize what I’m doing, I’ve crossed the room and reached the edge of the raised platform where a single stool sits beside a microphone stand.

  My fingers shake as I reach out and stroke the cool surface of the stage. It’s probably my imagination, but the oak beneath my fingertips seems to send a charge zipping through my veins, as though the wood itself is somehow imbued with electricity from all the musicians that have stood upon it over the years. Actual star-power, tangible and transferable. I can only pray a bit of it rubs off.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?”

  The gruff voice makes me jump. I snatch my hand back from the stage as though I’ve been scalded, whirling around to face the man standing behind the bar, polishing a glass with a stained white rag. He’s in his late sixties with a thinning crop of black hair and an expression so intimidating, I’m surprised I don’t flinch back when my wide amber-gold eyes meet his narrowed brown ones.

  “We don’t open till five.”

  I nod like a thoughtless puppet.

  “Are you deaf?” he barks, tossing the rag over one shoulder of his black t-shirt as he comes around the bar.

  “N-n-no,” I manage to stutter, holding my ground as he approaches.

  “Just dumb then.”

  I shake my head as much to refute his words as to clear it. “No, sir.”

  “Sir?” He snorts. “No one’s ever mistaken me for a gentleman before, no need to start now. Name’s Isaac.”

  “Isaac,” I echo. “Nice to meet you. I’m Felicity Wilkes.”

  I only hesitate a fraction of a beat before the fake last name leaves my lips. I don’t think he notices and, even if he does, I highly doubt he cares.

  “Uh huh.” His voice is flat. “Either come back tonight or try one of the twenty-four hour bars on the main strip. All the tequila you can drink, all the shitty cover songs you can handle.”

  “I’m not here for a margarita.”

  His brows lift. “Then why are you here?”

  “For a job.”

  “We don’t add new singers to our rotation without an audition with Wade, our stage manager. Last I checked, Wade’s waitlist is well over six months. I suggest you try open mic night in the meantime, or start at one of the less popular spots.”

  He’s already turning away.

  “I’m not looking to perform!” I yell, wincing at the desperation in my own voice. I clear my throat and try for a softer tone. “I just want a regular waitressing gig.”

  He glances back, looking doubtful.

  I jerk my chin up and hold his stare as he deliberates.

  “Sorry, sweetheart. Not hiring.” His eyes flick up and down, taking in my messy fishtail braid, the too-thin limbs in my wrinkled hand-me-down dress, the tattered guitar case sitting at my feet. “And even if I was, I wouldn’t hire you.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one, you’re young. Young usually translates to unreliable.”

  “I’m not that young.”

  He grunts noncommittally. “Two, you’re a singer. Never hire singers, sweetheart. Company policy.”

  “That’s discriminatory.”

  His brows quirk. “Go ahead, call the Better Business Bureau on me. I’m shakin’ in my boots.”

  “I told you, I’m not looking for a singing gig.”

  “You think you’re the first girl to waltz in here asking to bus tables, assuring me she’s got no ulterior motives of her name in lights, her ass on that stool?” He jerks his chin at the stage behind me. “Been here a long time, sugar. Seen more girls come and go than you can count. And the ones who look like you, a bit wild around the eyes… they’re the worst offenders of all. Damn unpredictable. Flightier than a fart in a windstorm, if you’ll pardon my French.”

  I huff. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

  “I know singers. And singers chase the spotlight harder than they chase anything else — harder than tail, harder than happiness. Harder than their families, their commitments, their common sense. Fame is a drug, darlin’. From what I’ve seen it do over the years, it’s more potent than heroin, twice as addictive… and I don’t hire addicts.”

  At that analogy, all the blood drains from my face. I feel suddenly lightheaded. My mouth opens to rebuff him, but all that comes out is a pathetic squeak of air as thoughts churn through my head.

  You are not an addict.

  You are nothing like them.

  “Ah, hell, don’t give me that look.” Isaac sighs. “It’s not personal. You may be a very nice girl. But even nice girls in this town end up twisted after a while. Usually right around the time they realize that climbing to the top of the musical scene generally requires climbing on top of a washed up record executive in the back of his town car. My advice? Get out now. Go home to whatever corn-fed town you came from and say sorry to your momma and daddy for your little adventure in the big city. Forget this life, and all the shit that comes along with it.”

  Go home?

  That’s not an option.

  My hands curl into fists as fury ignites inside me. I take a step forward before I can stop myself.

  “First of all, if you’d wait more than a nanosecond before passing judgment, you’d know I’m not a singer. I’ve got no interest in climbing on top of anything in this town, whether it’s this stage or the lap of some industry schmuck. I just want to wait tables and write some songs and save a little money.” I narrow my eyes. “Secondly, I’m not going anywhere, most definitely not back to the corn-fed town I came from. It took almost everything I had in savings to buy my bus ticket.”

  My voice cracks pathetically. I swallow hard, trying to keep myself together.

  “You know what? I may not have a plan. I may not even have a place to sleep tonight. But heck if I’m leaving just because some jerk says I should.” I bend down to pick up my guitar and start walking toward the door, my breaths coming out in angry little puffs. “I came to this bar because I heard it was a good place to work, with a boss who treats his employees right. Apparently my source was mistaken.” I’m nearly to the exit, so I glance back at him and deliver one final parting shot. “You don’t want to help me? That’s just fine. I’ll find another way. I’ll knock on every door in Nashville until someone hires me. ‘Cause I may be young, but I’m not flighty or unpredictable or wild. You think you’ve got me pegged but I promise you don’t. I’m not peggable.”

  Frankly, that line sounded a lot cooler in my head than it does coming out of my mouth. No amount of righteous indignation is enough to make it less lame. My cheeks are flaming red as I turn for the door. I’m just hoping to get out with some small semblance of my dignity intact when I hear the sound of a deep, martyred sigh from the direction of the bar.

  “Wait.”

  I spin around, hope blooming inside me. My heart is slamming against my rib cage like a stick on a snare drum and I’m shaking hard enough to rattle a tambourine on tempo. Still, I manage to keep my face composed in a placid mask as I meet Isaac’s skeptical gaze.

  “Who told you about this place?”

  “Devyn. She’s my—” I bite back the word cousin. “—an old friend.”

  “Devyn,” he murmurs. “That’d be Devyn Hayes, I reckon?”

  I nod.

  “She was a good employee. Worked here a while back, before
her folks moved.” His eyes narrow. “Some kind of family scandal if my memory serves…”

  My heart starts pounding faster. “I wouldn’t know anything about that, sir.”

  He glares at me.

  “Sorry! Isaac.”

  The silence drags out for a long while. The only sound is the slight squeak of his rag as he grabs another glass and begins to polish it. I hover by the threshold, hardly daring to hope…

  “You got references?” he grunts.

  “I’ve got experience,” I say smoothly, dodging his question.

  Doubt starts to creep back over his face. I interject before I lose my one chance to sway him. “Look, you don’t know me. You don’t trust me. Frankly, you have no reason on earth to hire me. But I promise, if you do, I’ll work my ass off for you without complaint. I mean it. I’ll wash dirty dishes, mix drinks, wipe down tables, sweep the floors if you want me to. I’ll be your hostess, your busboy, your bartender, your server, your toiler cleaner. Whatever you want, whatever you need, I’m your girl. I’ll do anything. Without complaint.”

  He grunts again, unconvinced.

  I set aside what little pride I still possess. “I just… I really need this job. Please. Give me a chance.”

  He sets down the glass like he’s got the weight of the world sitting on his shoulders. When he looks up, his expression is full of regretful surrender. Which can only mean…