Unforgettable Voices Carry

 

“Fucking hell…” The words, growled between grit teeth, were supposed to go unheard by those at the neighboring table, but judging from the reproachful looks the middle-aged couple shot him, he’d failed. Not that he cared. Making eye contact with them, he raised his glass in a mock salute, making sure they saw the bleeding rose tattoo on the back of his hand before downing its contents. Sipping be damned. He wasn’t in the mood to savor the whiskey, no matter how smooth it was. What he was after was a nice little buzz that would help him forget just how uncertain his livelihood was now.

 

Closing his eyes, Riley tipped his head back, wincing when he felt his neck crack. It did nothing to ease the tension that had him strung out tighter than the bass strings on his first guitar back when he was learning how to play. He’d snapped more than his fair share of them before getting his head out of his ass and asking for help, and lessons. Which reminded him. Now that he was back in town, he had a promise to keep. Add that to the ever-growing list of things he needed to accomplish this week.

 

“Can I pour you another, sir?”

 

He opened his eyes to see the red-jacketed Sommelier standing beside his table, the glittering lights of the chandelier casting an odd sort of halo around his head. Made him look like the god of wine and spirits come to grant him the boon of a chalice of plenty so he could drink to his heart’s content without worrying about running out. Or the tab. Shit. After tonight he’d need to curtail his spending, maybe even look into a little financial planning in case things slid further south than they already had. Fuckin’ Wade.

 

"Sir?"

 

“Shit, sorry, yes please, another, and make it a double, hell a triple even.”

 

“As you wish, sir, though perhaps it might be wise to sip this one?”

 

Poofing up, he was just about to tell the man that he didn’t need to be chastised like a little kid getting grab happy with the contents of the cookie jar, when the Sommelier raised an eyebrow at him.

 

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Riley conceded, willing to accept defeat if it would get him his drink faster.

 

“Very well sir.”

 

As quick as he’d appeared, the Sommelier was gone, leaving Riley to decide which deserved his more immediate focus: the menu, or the flyer he’d been crumpling and flattening back out ever since he’d sat down. Fuck it, the duck here was amazing as was the escargot, and if he was truly going to start dialing back what he spent, then he was going to enjoy tonight to its fullest, which meant baked Alaska and a roasted beet salad so he could at least pretend he gave a shit about maintaining his abs. Truth was, he was struggling to see the point at the moment when the band no longer had a god damned singer. Thank you very much, Wade, rat bastard extraordinaire.

 

Just thinking about the way that arrogant, self-centered, selfish piece of shit had walked out on them claiming he was ‘bigger than they’d ever been and didn’t need them anymore’, left him shaking the flyer so hard the middle agers glared his way again. The shit part was Wade wasn’t entirely wrong. He’d been their frontman, their lead guitarist, the glittering glamour boy that men and women had creamed their pants over. He’d strutted that stage like he’d owned it, ice cold and always in control. When Wade opened his mouth, the world stopped spinning and dialed in on him. Hell, with his tanned, California surfer looks, loose golden curls, brash charisma, and rasping voice, he’d left Riley forgetting a cord or two over the years and sheepishly making apologies after the show. No one else in the band could do that. Zakk could take over on lead guitar, if needed, but that would leave them needing a rhythm guitarist and vocalist and there was no telling how adding a fifth player would change the dynamic of their already fractured band.

 

No, what they needed was someone who could do what Wade had done, preferably better, so the bastard could not only see how easily they’d replaced him but thrived without him as well. But where the fuck were they supposed to find someone like that, get them to gel with the band, and memorize the songs in time to send in their audition CD for Rocktoberfest.

 

Fuckin’ Wade. The least, the god damned very least he could have done was handle shit privately, instead of standing up there at the tour’s closeout show and announcing his intent to go solo. Of course, the magazines picked it up. The gossip columns had too. If Riley never said the words ‘no comment’ again it would be too soon. What it meant was they couldn’t buy time by signing up as an established band ‘cause fuckin’ Wade had taken that away from them too.