“Scared?” I echoed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Leah waved a hand at the cell phones on the table. “This. The Internet. I’m not on the Beat, but I’ve seen the stuff people post about Kristen, about you.” She lowered her eyes, bit her lip, and shook her head. “It’s scary. I mean really terrifying. You post some song cover that bombs, no big deal. People post some comments like This sucks or OMG my ears are bleeding, and it eventually goes away because you’re guys. But when it’s girls? Holy crap.” She picked up her phone, tapped, and swiped. “Back in April, after the Cats show, some guy threatened me because I wouldn’t meet him.”
“What?” Nick snapped up straight. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
Leah looked at him sideways. “Not like you could have done anything about it.”
Nick’s eyes burned. “Oh, I—”
“Nick.” I held up a hand. “Why are you telling us now?”
“Because I think I get why Kristen disappeared on you. The comments we get are personal and insulting and crude and even threatening. Nobody threatens to rape you when you post a song that sucks.”
“And somebody did that to you?” Nick demanded.
Leah stared at him for a moment and then nodded once. He shoved back in his seat with a screech.
“Goddamn it.”
“Can you imagine what Kristen’s dealing with? First, it’s all the hard-core Ride Out fans from the Beat upset because Sam’s so publicly not onboard with her presence in the band, and then, the stupid ‘Kris versus Eli’ hashtag competition, and now this blog post that pretty much says the band’s breaking up because of her?” Leah paused and rubbed a hand over her mouth. “Jesus, it’s like you pinned a red sniper target to her chest.”
She lifted her eyes to mine and nodded. “So, yeah. I do think you’re being a bit sexist, Elijah. You got her into this, and all you’re doing now is crying about her leaving you. Did it ever occur to you that she left to save you, save the band?”
No. It hadn’t. I sat there for a long time, trying to process what Leah said.
Finally, Nick cleared his throat. “Maybe we should decide the set list for the show?” he suggested. I nodded again, grateful for the change of subject. I rose and got a notepad and pen, and we spent the next hour debating what songs to perform.
When the guys left that evening, I went back to the garage and viewed the video of our practice. That was the first time I’d sung “The Way It Hurts” because I’d always intended for it to be Kristen’s song. But I liked it. It was raw and visceral and almost primal. It was everything hard rock was supposed to be.
It was everything Ride Out was supposed to be.
I kicked back, put my feet up, and sighed heavily. When did it all go to shit? Sam was right and who the fuck knows—maybe he’d been right all along… It was supposed to be about the music. Instead of writing kick-ass original songs, I’d been writing tweets and hashtags and comments that caused arguments. Kristen begged me to kill the online crap and showed me the shit these people said about her, but I still didn’t listen. All I could see were the numbers. I thought those numbers meant we were close, that we’d get the bigger and better gigs, the record deal. I thought once we got the fans behind us, that the truth would be obvious—that Ride Out knew hard rock like whoa. I swallowed the bitter taste on my tongue and shook my head at my idiocy.
I’d once accused Kristen of being arrogant, but there was nobody more arrogant than me…believing the truth would be so fucking clear to our legions of fans. Let me tell you the truth about the truth.
It doesn’t exist.
There is no truth!
It’s a myth. A lie. There’s only perception, and perception shifts with the goddamn tides, and it’s all controlled by mouse clicks. I stupidly thought I could control perception, that by being patient and smart, I could control what people said about us, what people believed about us. I thought that by refusing to comment on some things, I’d compel them to focus on the things I did comment on, but in the absence of our version of the truth, they just substituted their own.
Oh my God, I am such an asshole.
It came to me then—the simple solution to unfuck everything. I posted the video, knowing damn well it was a stab in the dark:
@Ride_Out
Check it! New song The Way It Hurts written by @kristencartwright and @elijahhamilton. See it live at #CountyFest this weekend.
I added a link to the festival website and our own site. When it was done, I visited all of our social sites again. Our Facebook site had a ton of commentary on the playground incident, with most people of the opinion that if only I hadn’t been such a dick and just given my autograph, I could have prevented the escalation that happened. Over on Twitter, they were making fun of Anna and her issues, with another raving asshole agreeing with Detective Jerk that I shouldn’t take her to public places.
I accessed our account settings, and after I read all the stats I’d worked so fucking hard to collect, I deleted the account.
It felt so good, I went back to Facebook and then I went to the Beat and blasted them both off the Internet too.
I sat there, staring at the gaping blank spaces that used to make up my entire life and wondered if I had a hope of changing any damn thing at all.
26
Kristen
@Rawr4Fems
What really happened in the playground? #KrisVsEli #CatCall
It was Friday and miserably hot, even for July. Today was the Suffolk Festival.
I would not be attending.
Instead, I’d gotten permission to use Mom’s car and drove to Etta’s convalescent home. It was just past breakfast time when I got there. I expected to find Etta staring at yet another inane TV show, her hair flat and eyes dull. Instead, I found her sitting up in bed, her hair neatly combed into a sleek bob, and a light amount of makeup on her face.
I scraped over the guest chair, sat down, and just smiled at her for a minute. “You look beautiful.” I crossed my fingers behind my back and prayed God didn’t shock me with a lightning bolt for what I was about to say. “It’s about time you stopped feeling sorry for yourself.”
Indignation flared in her eyes, and she took my wrist, gripped it hard, and slowly hauled herself up so she could very succinctly say, “Take me out of here.”
I fought the urge to help her. “But I thought you liked it here. You have your TV shows and—”
She grabbed the remote beside her, flung it at the TV, and asked, “When. Do you. Sing?”
The joy and relief I’d felt a little while ago evaporated in the puff of air that got knocked out of me with that question. Elijah. God, I missed him. Worrying about Etta gave me something to focus on and obsess over instead of that devastated look on his face after we had almost gotten mauled by that insane mob.
“Oh, Etta.” My face trembled. “I’m not singing anymore. Not with Elijah. He hates me. It’s my fault they put his sister in a home.”
A soft touch on my hair made me jerk. Etta smiled and pointed toward her iPad. I took it off the side table, woke it up, and tapped her comm app. She tapped one word.
Love.
I managed a weak smile. “I love you too.”
She shook her head. “Not. Me. Him.”
Him? “Elijah? Wait, you think I love him? No.” I waved the suggestion away. But it was out there now, worming its way into my brain, taunting and teasing like the lyrics to a song you can’t stop singing, and suddenly I knew it fit. It fit completely. “No,” I repeated. “Oh, no, Etta. I can’t love him.” I lowered my head, and she stroked my hair while I tried to form a plan, something that could fix everything I had broken.
The iPad pinged with an alert. Despite the tears for my insane life, I laughed. Etta was more techy than I was. I tapped the notification and held the screen so she could see it. You have
one event today. Ride Out is performing at Suffolk Festival. “A calendar alert? Are you seriously following concert schedules now?”
She refused to look guilty or even sheepish about getting caught. She just raised her eyebrows, unaware that only one rose, and inclined her head in a close imitation of that regal nod she’d perfected long before I was born. She tapped the link included in the notification, and it opened a YouTube video.
My shoulders dropped when the video played. Elijah had posted another jam session. It was my song.
Our song.
He’d…he’d rewritten it. Hardened it. Corrupted it into something manic and brilliant and twisted and bitter, full of growls and screams that compelled me to listen and then left me bruised after I did.
Abruptly, the music cut off. Etta had tapped the Stop button. “No, I’m okay. I need to hear it all, Etta.” She wasn’t convinced, so I explained. “We wrote this song together. He changed the words, though. He changed the mood, the tempo—everything.” I couldn’t pretend that didn’t wound me all the way to the core.
She frowned but played the song all the way through. I paid close attention to the new lyrics and just kept shaking my head, unable to grasp what I’d heard with my own ears. He obviously despised me.
I sat numb for a long moment on the side of Etta’s bed and then played it again. I watched Elijah closely as he screamed out the vicious lyrics and noted the clenched hands, the tight shoulders, and the closed posture. I saw the shine of tears in his eyes that he kept lowering so no one could see.
Elijah’s version of our song was pure agony.
And I’d caused it.
My phone vibrated, and I hardly spared it a glance. What would be the point? It had been nothing but bad news on top of worse news. But I did look.
Leah.
I rolled my eyes. Could this day possibly get worse? What could Leah Russo possibly want?
Leah: Know u h8 me but thought u should know u really broke E’s heart. He thinks u ghosted him because u believe the Rawr post.
The Rawr post. What post was that? They’d started to blur together. I tapped out a reply. Kristen: Why are you telling me this?
Leah: Because I like him. He’s a good guy. He’s crazy for u. Nick bet me u 2 would be together by end of summer.
Holy crap.
Kristen: I almost got his sister killed. He can’t even look at me.
Leah: No. He blames himself for that. Says he should have listened to u. Can u forgive him?
Kristen: I don’t know if that’s enough.
“More.” Etta pointed to the alert on her tablet. I took it and scrolled through the links with a sigh. What more could these trolls possibly find to write about, to complain about? I tapped a link. It was to Rawr’s latest blog post—was this the post Leah meant? “Oh my God!” I lifted my face to Etta’s, a thick lump in my throat. “Why won’t they just leave us alone, Etta?” I threw down the tablet. “I don’t even know this woman. What business is it of hers if I want to sing in a heavy metal rock band?”
I jumped to my feet and paced around Etta’s bed.
“This.” I stabbed a finger toward the iPad. “This is total and complete crap. Look at this! She says boys like Elijah Hamilton and his friends only perpetuate ‘the misogyny found throughout the hard rock genre, and Cartwright, blinded by promises of fame, turns an indifferent eye to it.’ Seriously? She’s never met me, never even asked me for an interview, and she thinks she knows what I think?” I dragged both hands through my hair, ready to tear it out. “I’m sick of this, Etta. Those boys work so damn hard on their lyrics and music, and yeah, maybe they take the whole dark sinister image stuff a bit far, but they’re not the assholes she claims they are.” I waved my hands and let them fall.
“You know what really twists me up over this? There’s no mention of how Elijah cares for Anna, protects her, would die for her. Oh, no! He’s just another chest-beating, woman-chasing jerk. Look! Look at this… She claims she cannot understand why I waste my considerable talents on a band who so clearly does not respect me, evident every time I sing when the only thing Elijah looks at it is my Barbie doll-proportioned chest. Ugh!” My hands curled into fists, and I deliberately turned my back on the iPad because the temptation to pitch it through the window was really freakin’ strong.
I tried a few deep breaths and counted to ten, and when I was calmer, I turned back and found the iPad trembling in Etta’s weakened grip. There was a deep vertical crease in her forehead as she read Rawr’s post, and then she looked up at me. “Go. To. Him.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “Oh, what happened to making them beg, making them come to me? I thought you knew all about men.”
But Etta didn’t laugh. She extended a shaky hand and managed to say, “Not a game now.”
My laughter faded, and I nodded. It was never a game. Not to me. I glanced at the time and made a fast decision.
“Etta,” I whispered, lifting my eyes to hers. “How would you like to go to a concert?”
27
Elijah
BryceG: You guys need to cut Kristen NOW or I will. Girl’s a band wrecker.
Ride_On747: @BryceG: Hey it’s not her fault.
BryceG: @Ride_On747: U trippin’? She told the Internet where they’d be. Girl deserves what she gets.
Ride_On747: Back off.
SHARES: 581 LIKES: 633
I’d spent hours in the garage, boxing up equipment and stacking it near the door so that it would be ready to be packed into Nick’s mother’s minivan. The garage smelled damp and humid, and even though my hair was pulled up, sweat poured down my back, and I hoped to God it wouldn’t rain. I checked my lists time after time and was sure we had everything ready.
Except for one thing.
Kristen.
I still hadn’t heard from her. That familiar urge to check my phone struck again, like a drug craving. I knew it was no good, knew it wasn’t going to end any differently, knew all that and still couldn’t stop myself from wanting to know. It was only by sheer force of stubborn, compulsive willpower that I didn’t drive to her house and pound on the door, and with every day that went by, that craving got easier to bear. It was pretty fucking obvious that she believed all that shit Rawr wrote about me, and while I was sure I’d never get over the shock of that, at least I could be pissed off instead of hurt.
I liked pissed off. It was a hell of lot easier to be mad than sad. But right now, I had to be professional. We were close, so close I could taste it. We had fans, we had people who had followed us just for the music, and there was no reason not to expect a large crowd. I swallowed down the greasy knot that had been trying to choke me for days now and forced myself to focus.
I picked up the set list printouts. I’d deleted all of Kristen’s solo songs, and as for the duets, I was pretty sure I’d be able to encourage the crowd to pick up her part.
“So you all ready?”
I glanced at the kitchen door and found Dad standing there with yet another cup of coffee clutched in his hands. That’s what he did lately. Just roamed the house holding a bottomless cup of coffee, too damn stubborn to admit he missed her.
“Just about.” I went back to my studying my lists, not really in a talking mood.
He nodded. “Good, good.” He sipped and nodded some more. “Your mom’s looking forward to it. She hasn’t really ever listened to your band.” He leaned against the doorframe and hooked one foot over the other.
My head snapped up to his. “You’re coming?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Wouldn’t miss it—”
My eyes narrowed, and he abruptly stopped talking when he realized what he’d just said.
“Right. You both have all this time on your hands.”
He straightened up. “That’s not—”
“It is, Dad. We both know it.”
“
Jesus, Eli.” He shoved off the wall. “You think this is easy for us? You think we like this?”
I stared him down. “Yeah. I do.”
He held my gaze for a long moment, clenching his jaw so hard I could see the muscle ticking. He opened his mouth and shut it, like he knew he would just be wasting his breath. I hated him just then, and I was sure he knew that, so he turned and went back into the house, leaving me alone in the humid garage with absolutely no fucking reason to see this through. Jesus, they wouldn’t even let me take Anna out of the facility without permission in triplicate.
I’d told Mom I wanted to check Anna out of jail and bring her to the show, but she’d completely flipped out on me. Said it wouldn’t be possible for me to watch her and perform, and how could I even suggest such a thing after what happened at the playground?
I shifted and squirmed. Okay, she was right. Didn’t mean I had to accept that.
Or give up trying.
I stuffed the set list printouts into the last box and fastened the lid, eyes falling on the ancient Mac sitting on the table. I powered it on and queued up that old footage of Anna singing “Brown Eyed Girl” with me. She’d loved it. Watching her face, the expressions of peace and joy as she sang, broke something inside me, and suddenly, I was throwing shit and punching the table, sweat dripping from my hair into my ears to mix with the tears.
“Hey, hey, hey! Eli, what the hell?”
Dad’s arms banded around me from behind just the way we often restrained Anna. I struggled to free myself because the last thing I wanted was to be near him, but he only tightened his grip. “Let go.”
“Uh-uh. Talk to me. Where’s all this rage coming from?”
I felt rather than saw his reaction when he noticed the video of Anna playing on the screen.
“Oh.”
I froze. “Oh? That’s it? That’s the only thing you can say?”