Fade Into You (Shaken Dirty 3)

“I know it’s not. Believe me, I know that better than anyone. But the way you hit the sticks, the way you beat that shit out, it’s fucking brilliant. The way you’ve fought to get clean…I’ve been sober thirty days myself, because of you. So I just wanted to say thanks. Thanks for stopping to talk to us even though you didn’t want to. Thanks for saying you’ll come to our gig. And thanks for being the guy who made me want to be a better drummer and a better person. If I hadn’t heard you when I was twelve, I probably never would have wanted to play the drums. And if I didn’t have them to bang away at…” He shook his head. “Shit. I probably wouldn’t still be here. So thanks. For everything. The way you drum, the way you got off drugs despite the life…You’re an inspiration, man.”

It was Wyatt’s turn to be speechless. “Jace—”

“Don’t worry about it.” The kid shook his head, grinned. “Have a good rest of the day.” And then he was gone, sprinting back down the ramp toward his friends and leaving Wyatt standing there with his mouth hanging open. He was an inspiration? Not just a sick drummer but an inspiration? What the hell was he supposed to think about that?

When he finally got in his car, he’d planned on going to Quinn’s house. Planned on talking things out with the guys once and for all, so that they understood where he was coming from. Why he had to leave the band.

Instead, he’d driven to his apartment on autopilot, his conversations with Poppy and Jace running through his head on a loop. And now, here he was, standing in front of his drum kit like he was scared of it or something. Like he was some kind of pussy who’d lost his nerve.

The thought was enough to have him crossing the room, to have him sliding his hand over the cool red aluminum of his drums, the smooth plastic of the skins. He had a few different kits—one for touring, one for home, and one for Quinn’s studio. This was the smallest of the kits, and the oldest, but it was also his favorite. An old school DW Jazz series, it only had three toms along with two crash and two ride cymbals to compliment the core kit of snare, bass, hi-hat and floor tom. The heads were mostly White Coated Emporers because he liked the crisp, yet smoky sound of them and his sticks were 5BXLs with acorn tips because nothing else had ever felt right in his hands.

He’d had this kit since almost the beginning of Shaken Dirty—had scrimped and saved every penny he could for it while he worked two bullshit jobs trying to pay for his stick breaking habit. Hell, he’d even given up his other, less healthy habits for six months back then, just so he’d have enough money for this kit.

If only money had kept being that tight, maybe he never would have developed an eighteen point a day heroin habit…

Shoving that thought out of his head—or at least as far out as it would go—he rubbed his thumb along the edge of one of the crash cymbals. It had been months since he’d played this kit; he’d been touring with his much more impressive and well-equipped Sonor SQ2 kit for a couple of years now, but there was just something about this DW kit that he loved. That took him back to what it used to be like, when life had been all about writing songs and making music instead of pleasing a record label that had crawled so far up his ass he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to get them out.

Then again, it had been months since he’d played any kit, really. He’d only played once since he’d gotten out of rehab—on stage at Antone’s the first night—and that had been for the band. For the crowd. For the show.

It seemed like he was always playing for one of those reasons. But as he stood there, running his hands over his prized hi-hat cymbal, Jace’s words came back to him. The way you hit the sticks, the way you beat that shit out…thanks for being the drummer that made me want to be a drummer. Without it…I probably wouldn’t still be here.

Fuck, he knew exactly what Jace had been talking about. Knew exactly how he felt when he’d said banging on the drums had saved his life. When had he lost touch with that? When had he gotten so caught up in the bullshit—in his head and with the label—that he’d forgotten what it felt like?

Once upon a time, his aunt had bought him his first drum kit as therapy and it had ended up saving his life, too. As he stood here, looking at one of his three beloved kits, he wondered—if he let them—if they’d do it again.

Because there was only one way to find out, he crossed to the bookshelf, where he kept dozens of extra sticks for when he needed them. He grabbed four, then shoved a couple into his back pocket in case he broke the first two before crossing back to his drums.

And then he was settling himself behind them, striking each a few times to make sure they were all in tune, all sounding like they were supposed to. They were, so he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let the first song that came to his mind flow through his brain and out of his hands.

The song was “Seventeen Again,” one he’d written a couple of years back about choices and mistakes and roads not taken.

It had done well for them, had hung out on the top music charts for nearly six months, two of those at number one. It had always made him uncomfortable that this song was so popular—hell, it had even made him uncomfortable that the guys insisted on putting it on the album. Because it was so personal. So honest. So real, when so much of what he showed people was anything but.

He could still see Poppy’s face from earlier today, when she’d asked him if any of his bio was actually true. He’d been tempted to point her to this song, to tell her that every verse, every word, every note of it was him, laid bare for public consumption. But in the end, he hadn’t done it. Instead, he’d let her get inside his head and had spilled everything to her. Had told her things no one but the other members of Shaken Dirty knew. Things he hadn’t planned on ever telling another living soul. He still didn’t know why he’d done it, except maybe he’d wanted to push her away. He was falling for her, had been pretty much since he’d laid eyes on her, and when she’d pushed, he’d figured what the hell. He’d show her. He’d let her see just how fucked up he was and then she’d go running in the other direction.

Except she hadn’t done that, had she? No, she’d stuck instead. Had gotten right up in his face and made him look at things he hadn’t examined in way too long. Had tried to make him see things in a totally different light.

He didn’t know yet if she’d succeeded, didn’t know yet how he felt about what she’d said. But for the first time in longer than he could remember, he wanted to hold on to something, wanted to feel something for someone other than his bandmates.

For a man who’d spent years, decades, running from his emotions, it was a strange place to find himself. It scared him.

She scared him.

Eyes still closed, he laid down the first of the drum fills, adding a few extra flourishes because that’s how he was hearing it in his head. Played through the whole song from memory, then did it again and again, embellishing it a little more each time through.

It didn’t take long for his arms and pecs to start aching—it had been too long since he’d played the drums on a daily basis—but he played through it, pounding away at the skins with everything he had in him.

Fourth time through the song, he switched to “Closer,” then to “In the A.M.,” then to “Deified.” By the time he’d run through those a couple of times, his biceps were burning, his hands throbbing. And still he didn’t stop.

Instead, he switched on the recorder he always kept next to his drum kit and started wailing away, playing the beat that had been in his head since he’d seen Poppy waiting for him in her doorway last night, arms open and face welcoming. The melody had started then, in the back of his head, and by the time he’d had her up against the wall it had been a towering crescendo of drumbeats that he couldn’t ignore even if he’d wanted to.

Which he hadn’t. It had been too long since music had burned inside him like that.

He played the song through the way he heard it, keeping a fast thirty-two-beat rhythm on the hi-hat while he worked the snare, the bass, and the floor tom in alternating rhythms. It sounded good, really good, and as he banged out a long, elaborate fill on the toms and crash cymbals, he knew he was onto something.

Though all he was doing was laying down the beat, he could hear the song in his head so clearly. Jared coming in with a quiet but pure guitar presence while Quinn took front and center with his keyboards. Bass—whoever the fuck that turned out to be—would hang back with Wyatt, playing low to underscore. And Ryder…fuck, Ryder’s voice would own this song. He would destroy it. Just the thought sent excitement rioting through him.

Usually, Wyatt and Quinn were the music guys, while Ryder and Jared did most of the lyrics. Every once in a while, though, a song would come to him fully formed, like “Seventeen Again” had, an early version of the lyrics tearing through his head even as he pounded away at the drums.