by
Size: 5.25 x 8.00 in
Pages: 256
Orion “Ry” Clair’s life once brimmed with promise—a loving boyfriend, an up-and-coming band, and a future steeped in music. However, a predatory contract and a ruthless manager crushed his dreams, leaving him a broken man. Now, battling addiction, Ry hits rock bottom when Alex, the love of his life, requires hospitalization during a tour.
Haunted by cherished memories of their early days and the intoxicating magic of their first performances, Ry makes a pivotal decision: he voluntarily admits himself into the same rehabilitation clinic where Alex is recovering. Through therapy, Ry confronts his inner demons, expresses deep remorse, and formulates a bold strategy to break free from the contract that cost him everything, all in a desperate bid to revive the band’s music.
Can Ry and his band reclaim their glory without sacrificing the members who gave it life? He must choose sobriety over oblivion, honesty over deception, and the risky possibility of true love over the false solace of lies. A final performance awaits, where only the audience will determine if their music will be reborn—or irrevocably silenced.
Ry stared at the bottle of Jack Daniels and wondered if he should take a swig to numb the brewing headache. And the subsequent heartache sure to follow. How long had he been living this half-life? Three years? Four? After each concert, Ry had little enough strength to make it through grueling press days, let alone sing again. He wanted it to end.
But that wasn’t in the fucking contract.
That piece of shit thing he signed, along with the rest of the band, dictated his life. If he could take everything back, he’d never have signed it.
A little voice whispered that he deserved every moment of suffering, every single bit of self-hatred. It was your choice. It was you who wanted it. You. You are the one who ended everything.
READ MORE“Stop!” He threw the hotel lamp within reach. It flopped over the end table, not breaking, and dangled limp, knocking against the side. No dent in the wood. Not the catharsis he wanted. He sat on the edge of the bed.
Ry’s cell phone rang. He stared at the device with sudden hatred for the piercing wail of the ringer, snatching it. Brand. Ignoring the phone, he rubbed his eyes and face, encountering dry, rough skin. A deep malaise settled over him, accompanied by a sinking heaviness. The sheets reeked, still damp from night sweats.
“Gross.”
Instead of getting up, he flopped backward, then regretted that choice as the room spun. The phone rang again. Again, he hung up.
A sharp knock came at the door, followed by a muffled voice.
“Go away.”
The door opened. Ry knew the man before he could see him. Before he said anything. Arend wore his usual dark green suit, a hat perched on his auburn curls.
“Orion. You look terrible. Though I would be ashamed to see you in such a state, I’m worried for you instead. I’m glad I’m here to shield this from the public. How your poor devoted fans would wring themselves to a frenzy.”
Ry said nothing, instead glaring at his manager. The asshole who locked them all in a shitty contract. He stood there pouting, as if Ry had disappointed him and deserved a scolding or punishment.
Arend clicked his tongue. He took a whiff. “I suppose I should have brought a handkerchief.”
“What do you want?”
“Well, Orion.” Arend bowed. “I fear we have a problem. We have a press call in ten minutes, and you appear as if you aren’t quite ready. Of course, I can cover for you, but that’ll be most disappointing to your adoring fans. They love you, you know. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to break their hearts.”
Ry gritted his teeth. A moment later, Brand entered the room.
“Ry!” But he stopped cold in his tracks as if he ran into a brick wall when he saw Arend standing there like he was holding court.
How many more years do I have in this fucking contract?
“Ah.” Brand stood straighter. “I suppose we should get ready for the call, Arend?”
“Of course, Ry said he’d be most pleased to join us, didn’t he? Though not required, please shower.”
A please that implied something nasty if he didn’t.
“I’ll expect you in my suite in a few minutes. I know they always clamor for more of the lead singer of Ghostfire. Not to say our sweet Brit doesn’t have his share of admirers, but you seem to captivate the young and impressionable.”
Ry tossed off the sheets and eyed the bottle of Jack like it might save him. Brand stood there with his arms crossed, the only barrier between him and the exit. Whether his friend, if he still was, was mad at him was to be seen.
“You aren’t helping things, you know,” Brand said. “Just . . . I tried to warn you.”
COLLAPSE
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