Nobody Falls for the Opening Act (Break the Rules Book 2)

Chapter 39

This is it.

This is the day my life changes forever.

From our hotel in Nashville, I take a cab alone to Dade Connery’s house. His manager sent the address to Jordan, who then had to awkwardly pass it on to me when August refused to do it himself.

Whatever. His loss.

“Good luck, Harvey,” Jordan said with a genuine smile, one that actually made me feel bad for a second. “But you don’t need luck. You’re gonna be great.”

I hold on to that as I arrive at Dade’s. Not quite a mansion, but definitely more than a house. It’s hidden just outside the city limits, behind a locked silver gate and a long driveway. My cab driver whistles as we approach, impressed as he glances at me in the backseat. He doesn’t say it, but I can tell what he’s thinking.

Who is this kid?

What’s he doing here?

Well, buddy, someday you’ll get to say you were there the day Harvey Moon made it big.

As I get out of the cab, I look around the grounds. The grass is perfectly mowed, with little gardens and bush sculptures. Fucking bush sculptures, man. I’ve never even seen anything like that up close, but now I gotta add it to the things my inevitable mansion has to have, too.

The front door opens ahead of me. Dade’s manager, Donny, steps out with another guy following close behind him. I smile at the familiar face, but it slips as I recognize the other man — Christian Myers from Cobraville. Christian fucking Myers!

Is Cobraville reuniting for the album? No way!

Donny looks up and nods at me. “Ah, Mr. Moon.”

“Donny Blue,” I greet. “How are you?”

“Good, good.” He points over his shoulder. “Head on inside.”

He and Christian continue on outside, leaving me stunned, leaving me wondering who else I’ll run into inside these walls.

Eager to find out, I walk in.

I enter a large foyer with minimalistic decor, mostly, save the hanging portraits of various album covers and framed concert posters. Voices carry from beyond the room, but I stop at each one, taking it all in. It’s like a museum of greatness, a time capsule of musical genius through the ages. Or since 1984, when Dade first debuted as the opening act for The Flaming Gems.

I pause at the end of the line, scanning an old poster framed by the doorway. It’s for The Flaming Gems’ Fire and Ice Tour, known for being one of the greatest tours in music history. Long before my time, but I’ve seen plenty of footage from it, especially the bits with Dade Connery.

“Humble beginnings.”

I flinch and spin around, coming face-to-face with the man himself. “Hey,” I say. “Sorry, I’m loitering. I just…” I gesture at the posters. “These are just so cool.”

“That’s all right. Most people do, first time they’re here.” Dade Connery shifts forward with a smirk and admires the poster with squinting eyes. He raises his highball glass to it, then looks at me. “Good to see you, Harvey. Glad you could make it.”

He said my name!

He remembers my name!

“Thank you, sir. I’m thrilled to be here. Thank you again for inviting me.”

“You know, I barely even remember this anymore,” he says, chuckling at the poster.

“No?”

“It’s wild to think about, but it all fades. Eventually. Can’t live in the past. Can’t focus on the future. Just gotta enjoy the moments as they happen.”

I nod. “Makes sense.”

Dade looks at me and I freeze, not wanting to show that I’m fucking shaking. “Come on,” he says. “Got something else I wanna show you.”

Without waiting for a response, Dade walks through the nearest doorway into a long hallway. I follow a step behind, passing by several rooms with other groups scattered about, mingling and drinking and talking shop. Plenty of them I recognize from the festival; artists that I’ve only dreamt of meeting face-to-face.

But I stay on Dade’s heels as he guides me through his home. Halfway down the next hall, I hear the tickle of piano keys. A quick and familiar melody fills the air.

Ignite the Nightby The Electrics.

We enter a room, and I stop in the doorway. It’s a home studio with sound-proofed walls and several mounted musical instruments. Guitars, mostly. There’s also a drum set and a grand piano. A home studio custom built for the king of rock.

And then… there’s Logan Shock.

Dressed in a yellow shirt and a stylish jacket, he’s sitting at the piano bench with Tesla Kyle at his side. She bobs her head to his song, her electric blue hair swishing about while his dirty blond hair sits trim and unmoved.

As we enter, she looks up and smiles at me.

Politely, I smile back. She whispers into Logan’s ear and he glances up from the keys, his lips curling into a sharp smirk.

“Logan!” Dade happily greets him, prompting Logan to stop playing. “Sounds good!”

“Thank you.”

“Have y’all met Harvey?” he asks.

“Not officially,” Logan says. “But we run in... tangential circles.” He bobs his head at me. “Speaking of, I hope there’s no bad blood between us — with what happened at the festival, I mean.”

“Harvey’s a big fan, actually,” Tesla says sweetly. “Aren’t you, Harvey?”

“Ah.” Logan’s smirk curls again. “Is that so?”

“Of course,” I say. “And no bad blood with me. I wasn’t even in that festival.”

“A true oversight,” Logan says, the words laced with a double meaning that I’m sure amuses him a great deal. He leans in to whisper something in Tesla’s ear, then rises off the piano bench. “If you’ll excuse me, Harvey, Dade.” He bows his head. “I have a phone call to make.”

“Don’t go too far now.” Dade raises his glass to Logan. “And bring that adorable Goldie with you when you come back, will you?” he adds, chuckling.

Logan doesn’t reply. Unless you count that cool guy smirk he always seems to have on him. With another subtle bow of the head, Logan walks out of the studio, leaving me with Dade while Tesla lingers on the piano bench.

“Harvey,” Dade says as he gives my shoulder a pat. “You know, you remind me of myself.”

“I do?” I ask.

“Once upon a time, yes.” He angles us to look at Rapture together. The guitar hangs on the wall on display, with a small spotlight shining down upon it and all its glory. “Full of talent. Lots of ambition.”

“An opening act,” I say, trying not to sound too bitter about the words.

At the piano, Tesla subtly dances her fingers across the keys.

“That’s right,” Dade says, his breath laced with southern whiskey. “And as great as that is, it can also get one into a lot of trouble.”

“It can?”

“Oh, yes. Without the right guidance, of course.”

I nod, curious about where he’s going with this.

“Back then, I wish I had someone to tell me where to put my focus,” Dade says. “What to prioritize. What to give up. Lucky for you, I’m about to tell you something that I wish someone had told me back then.”

I don’t reply, eagerly listening closely.

Dade leans in until his face is mere inches away. “Always forward,” he whispers.

I wait for more, but he doesn’t continue. “Always forward?” I repeat.

“Don’t look back. You’re not going that way.” He chuckles proudly as he eyes Rapture mounted on the wall. “Always move forward.”

“But also… enjoy the moment?” I ask.

“Hm?”

“Well, you said before,” I point toward the hallway, “that I shouldn’t focus on the future. I should just enjoy the moment.”

“Right, right,” he murmurs. “Well, you learn to do both. Always forward.” He absently waves his free hand. “But also enjoy the now as you go forward.”

I nod, hiding my confusion as he grins once again.

“You hang out in this business long enough,” he continues in that sage-like way as his words slur a little, “and you’ll hear a lot of talk about your legacy. You know, what you leave behind. Not something one likes to think about in their twenties. Believe me, I know, but… I’m going to tell you something that I wish someone had told me when I was just starting out like you.”

I nod again, wondering if he even realizes at all that he’s repeating himself. “All right,” I say, showing interest.

“Others will tell you that your music is secondary,” he says. “That all the fans and the fame don’t mean nothing. That it’s the roots you put down that really matter. Friends. Family. Wife — or husband, if you’re into that. And you’ll eat that shit up because, hell — makes sense, right?”

“Right.”

“Wrong.” He narrows his milky eyes. “That’s bullshit.” He looks forward, admiring Rapture on the wall again. “This is legacy, son. Right here. This guitar is my legacy. The words. The music.” He lazily reaches forward and drags his knuckle across the strings, filling the air with sweet music that fades just as fast. “That’s the only thing that matters.”

A heavy rock settles in my stomach. “Not even your kids?” I ask.

He scoffs. “Nah. But you’ll meet guys who’ll say it’s all about them. They’ll spout on and on about how they’ll give it all up for cupcakes and birthday parties, but they’re lying. They’re scared of being alone and that’s valid, I suppose. But take a look around you, Harvey.” He gestures around his studio, his home, and his life. “Do I look lonely to you?”

Doubt creeps into my gut. “No,” I say. It’s what he wants to hear.

“Don’t get me wrong, though. It’s nice to see them do well. I mean, take Allison, for example. She’s done very well for herself without me even lifting a finger to help her. Now, that’s a winner. The rest of them, though?” He snorts.

“Addison,” I correct, her name sending a pulse through my heart.

He pauses. “Hm?”

“Her name is Addison.”

“Right,” he says, realizing his mistake, but at this point, I doubt he even cares. “Addison.” He chuckles happily as he gives my shoulder one more squeeze. “Focus on the music,” he says. “The notes will never leave you. They’ll never nag you or ask you for money. They’ll never expect you to be anything other than who you are.” He smirks over my shoulder. “And they sure as shit won’t complain when you’ve got yourself a nice piece of ass just waiting to be bent over.”

I glance at the door, at Goldie Locke’s bright smile, at her curly golden hair and yellow sundress, and try not to cringe as Dade Connery’s eyes wander along her curves.

“Hi, there,” she says. “Logan said you were looking for me?”

Dade chuckles. “Yes, I was, honey. Yes, I was.” He downs the rest of his drink. “Come on. Let’s get back to the party.”

He releases my shoulder, his touch leaving a deep mark on me that reverberates uncomfortably down my arm before settling with the rock in my stomach.

With his arm draped over Goldie’s petite shoulders, Dade leaves with her, their laughter and voices echoing down the hall.

I don’t move. I bask in Rapture’s glow for a few more seconds, but its light appears somewhat dimmer now. Duller. Like she’s not what I thought she was.

He isn’t, either.

Nothing is.

“You coming, Harvey?” Tesla asks, now standing by my side where Dade was before.

“Yeah,” I answer, giving her a polite smile. “Just need a minute here.”

“I know what you mean,” she says, her eager eyes on the guitar. She’s a guitarist herself, after all. “I’m glad you’re here.”

I glance over, her pink smile warm and pointed. “You are?”

“Of course. It’s always nice to see someone finally realizing their worth,” she says. “I heard you exited the Break the Rules Tour. I’m proud of you.”

“Oh, no,” I say. “I didn’t leave the tour.”

“No?”

“Well, maybe. I…” I look at Rapture, then turn my eyes away, her light suddenly blinding now. “I don’t actually know yet what I’m going to do.”

“Sure you do.” Tesla licks her lips as she drifts closer, her hand coming to rest on my arm. “They don’t need you, Harvey. You’re better off without them. Everybody knows that.” She rolls her eyes. “You can do better than star buses and songs about strawberry daiquiris at the very least.”

I’m not sure what she means by that, but I nod anyway. “Maybe.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’ve made the right choice.” She drags her hand across my chest as she steps toward the door. “Come on, Harvey.” Her smile rises just for me. “Let’s play.”

With that, she walks out of the studio and down the hall, her yellow high heels clacking as she goes.

I don’t move. I let the black pit in my stomach fester for several minutes, allowing for Dade’s words to sink in. For Tesla’s words. For August’s.

They gather and build in my soul and then, in the blink of an eye, I see a vision of the future. I see the next year of my life. The next five years. Ten years. Forty.

I get a spot on Dade’s album. It becomes a major hit and I book a tour across the country. Sold out, of course. The song hits number one in several countries, so I do some shows in London. Paris. Talk shows want me non-stop.

I record an album. It goes to number one, too. Then come the accolades. The awards. The fans. Then groupies.

So many groupies.

Number one. Numbers two through six.

Hot but nameless. Unimportant.

An on-again-off-again fling with Tesla Kyle.

Years go by and I’ve got a few kids out there. But I don’t bother with them. I let my lawyers handle it, sending out enough money to stop them from hassling me while I focus on what really matters.

The words. The music.

More albums. More tours. More awards.

More women. A few drugs, too. But I chase nothing but the money and the fame. All that matters is the next track.

I buy a big house with a big silver gate that people take selfies in front of just to prove they were there. I watch from my epically large bedroom windows and I laugh; the sound echoing peacefully through my big, empty house with nothing but musical instruments and old concert posters as company.

And when the market moves on and the next big thing inevitably overshadows me, it won’t matter one bit because I have my words. My music.

My dream come true.

I frown, the thought too bitter to stomach, too ingrained to let go of just yet. It’s what I’ve always wanted.

All I have to do is reach out and take it.

My legacy.

I reach out and lift Rapture off the wall. She feels the same as before, but heavier, filled with another man’s so-called legacy.

But she’s just a guitar.

She’s not…

I exhale hard.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Humble beginnings.”