Ruin Porn (2 page)

“Please, call me Kevin. It’s my real name. Well, the name on my birth certificate. You know, the name I had before all this madness—” He clears his throat and his eyes dart around uncomfortably. “—occurred.”

“So, Kevin—”

He puts up his palm and shakes his head, interrupting me again. “I’m sorry. Evin. Call me Evin. I can’t—” He stops talking abruptly and looks away.

Now my curiosity is really piqued.

“You were the one who reached out to me after the breakup. Why did you call me?” I ask.

“I’m getting a lot of requests for interviews and without the overpaid PR reps to guide me, I had to decide when and if to speak on my own. You and I know each other, sort of, from the Made in Americana tour. I couldn’t think of anyone else I could trust. Hell, I don’t know if trust is the right word. I don’t really want to be talking to you.”

“If we’re being honest, right?”

Evin shrugs.

“Let’s talk. It’s been two months since the breakup of Resonator. You were at the top of the charts when the announcement came. Why then?”

He scratches at the smooth skin of his jawline, then stops, as if he expects to be able to pull at the hair there like he did in every other interview where things got more personal. It’s a tell I don’t think he knows he has. But he seems frustrated that his beard is no longer there to pick at, and he gives that recognizable scowl that’s more precious than menacing.

I try not to laugh. “You want something easier? Less personal?”

“I don’t suppose that’s how you want this to go?”

“It’s pointless and you know it.”

He nods, sips his coffee. “But safer.”

“I won’t argue that. Okay, we’ll start slow. Tell me about Rez. About your success.”

He visibly relaxes. “I couldn’t have done it myself. Without the Detroit 3. Wouldn’t have wanted to.”

It’s the first time he’s mentioned the other three members of the now-defunct Resonator since we started negotiating this interview weeks ago: Miah Thade, lead singer, Ritchie Myer, drummer, and Finn Reese, guitarist, known as the Detroit 3 because of their shared hometown and the lifelong friendship of their fathers.

Evin doesn’t say anything else. But his intro leads us straight to the question everyone really wants to hear the answer to, so I take the opportunity and ask it. “What happened then?”

He fidgets, grips the coffee cup in his hands tighter.

I prompt him. “It would be easy to write off the breakup of Rez on the usual suspects—stress, drugs, creative differences, burnout…. But that’s not what happened, is it?”

Evin laughs, his boy-next-door smile cranking up in response, but still far from the genuine smile Rezors remember from the stage. “It’s complicated.”

“Sounds like a relationship status on Facebook and not a contractual issue as Miah Thade stated.”

The first mention of Miah’s name out loud sends Evin’s smile into an abrupt frown. “You’ll have to talk to Miah about his statement.”

“You’re not talking to him?”

“No.”

“What about any of the other members? Ritchie? Finn?”

“No.”

“So you haven’t heard where Finn is?”

“If I’m not talking to him….” Evin’s head snaps up. “Wait. Where is he?”

“No one knows. He dropped out of sight even more than you, Miah, or Ritchie when Rez disbanded. None of the guys know where he is. His family either.”

The corner of Evin’s lip tips up into a half smile, but there’s a tinge of anger to the gesture. “He’s fine. I’m sure.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because he’ll do whatever it takes to survive.”

With the classic avoidance technique of the nonanswer hanging between us, Evin goes quiet.

It doesn’t seem to matter to Evin that he’s the one who called me. Or maybe he doesn’t realize he’s not answering anything I’m asking him. At least not with a straight answer. It doesn’t make sense. It’s been months since the breakup, and Evin was the one who sought me out.

I lean in. “Why did you agree to speak to me today if you don’t want to answer my questions?”

“I think I’m still trying to figure it all out. I don’t know when we went from this passionate connection because of our mutual love of music to a marriage that stayed together for the kids, for the fans.”

“A marriage?” I ask him, curious about his use of the metaphor since this formation of Rez is only a year old. Evin gives a shy smile, that same one that disarmed twentysomething women worldwide since he changed the face of Rez by becoming their fourth member.

“Strange choice of words, I know. But being in a band isn’t much different. Legal contracts, name changes, compromises…. Maybe we were never as invested, never as honest with each other as we should have been.”

“Maybe?”

“Definitely.”

“You obviously have something in mind that you want to say to me. Maybe that you need to say through me and this interview? To the other members of Rez? To the fans?”

Evin nods and settles against the chair. “I have to say thank you to the fans for supporting us and evangelizing for Rez. Without them, we never could have made it as big in such a short time as we did. I love all of them and will never be able to repay them for the hours of their lives they put into lining up for our gigs and showing their adoration. To Miah…. He saw something in me I wasn’t sure was there. He had faith. I’m sorry I didn’t have the same faith in him. To Ritchie for teaching me to smile again. That fucker is uncluttered in a way everyone wishes they could be. And to Finn—”

His voice cracks, and he’s rushing the sunglasses back over his eyes before I can really see, but I swear he’s crying….

Evin slammed the magazine shut and threw it across the room, unable to finish the article. He had been at that table that day. These were his words and actions. He knew what happened next. Filtered through Shonda’s perception and journalistic dramatics, their conversation in that coffee shop took on a level of melodrama he’d expected but wasn’t quite prepared for. It didn’t change the fact that he’d said things to Shonda he never thought he would admit out loud. Things he never thought he would confess to anyone else, let alone in an international music magazine with his face on the cover. Now he had no choice but to wait and see what the fallout would be.

He stared at the glossy jumble of pages where they lay on the floor next to the kitchen. They hadn’t even made a satisfying thump when he’d pitched them against the wall. He stood, bent to pick up the mag, walked it to the recycling bin, and tossed it inside with a huff of frustration. This attention to being clean and tidy had been drummed into him during the tour—it wasn’t part of who he’d been before Rez—but he couldn’t seem to break free from the compulsion. Some habits died harder than others. Especially the ones he’d never wanted to give up.

He slid down the wall and planted his ass on the cold, cracked tiles of the kitchen floor, his head in his hands, his knees curling into his chest. He couldn’t stop his mind from whirling around the what-ifs. The unending screams of the fans outside just made it worse. He was taunted by the memories of his time with Rez and how badly it all had ended.

Evin clutched at his chest, felt his heart stuttering under his fingertips in a way that made him understand that the heartbreak he’d written about in more songs than he could count was pretty damn close to being a real physical thing.

And while he missed them all, that bottomless emptiness he carried with him was in direct proportion to how much his hands ached to touch one of them. How desperate he was to hear that one voice. How loudly he wanted to scream at one man for taking everything they’d worked for and destroying it with his lies.

He was haunted by the memories of Finn, more than the rest of them. He had to learn how to say that name without choking. To remember his face without sadness, sickness, or pure anger.

But not today.

Today he would put some of the millions he’d earned into actually finding a decent place to live. One where security was included in the exorbitant price and he was either far enough behind a gate or high enough that he would never have to hear the fans again.

Today he would find a way to move on from this dump of a life. He had to be standing in front of a cleaner door the next time a major shift in his life came knocking.

Of course, that’s when the pounding of a fist shook the pressboard on its cheap-ass rusted hinges.

Evin thumped his head against the wall and swore under his breath.

There was only one person who would be able to make it seem as if he was reading Evin’s thoughts, only one person who would be able to charm his way past security guards who were paid to keep him out. So if he was showing up now, then another life-changing decision had been made.

And yet, Evin was staring at the same damn chintzy door.

Now that had to be irony.

CHAPTER ONE

Detroit

One year ago

P
OWERFUL
. C
OMFORTABLE
.
Easy.
Kevin stared at the gigantic bottle of men’s formula colon cleanse and wondered why anyone would want to buy something that had a diagram of intestines outlined on the label. Above his head the in-store speakers crackled and a prerecorded voice asked him and all the other shoppers in this outdated corner drugstore if they were suffering from constipation, and if so to talk to their local pharmacist about gentle solutions.

“Apparently everyone in this humid hellhole is having ass issues,” someone grumbled.

Kevin tried to pretend he’d been looking at the bottles next to the….
Oh shit
. Of course they’d put the penis enlargement pills directly next to the ass cleaner. Why did the queue for the register have to be next to the men’s vitamin section? The heat in his cheeks was going to melt his face off. Kevin took a deep breath and dared to look up at the man in front of him at the empty register and pretend he hadn’t heard one thing he’d just said.

“I’m sorry. What?”

The man leaned a hip against the counter and pointed up at the speaker. “Constipation.” He gave a loose wave in the direction of the pharmacist who was busy behind a glass window assembling a bottle of pills. “I’m picking up antidiarrhea meds. Fucking stellar day.”

Kevin tipped his head and gave the guy a once-over. He had a Detroit Tigers baseball cap pulled low over his forehead and hipster color-block sunglasses, but Kevin would have recognized the angular edges of the tat poking out from under the man’s T-shirt collar anywhere.

He grinned. “Are you Ritchie Myer? The drummer for Resonator?”

“Yeah, man.” Ritchie gave the sideways, lax smile Kevin had seen on more YouTube videos of the band than he could count. “You a fan? Coming to the concert?”

Kevin shook his head and rearranged the teetering pile of travel-size samples cradled in his arms so he had a hand free. “I’m not a fan. I mean, I
am
a fan, but I’m also the guitarist for Sock in the Sun. We’re opening for you today, then heading out on the Americana tour with you.” He extended his hand to Ritchie. “Kevin Rene.”

“It’s cool to meet you, man. Just so you know, I don’t have the shits,” Ritchie explained as he changed it up and slapped Kevin’s hand with a low five. “Just preparing for the tour. You know, in case and always prepared and all that shit. Tell you a secret, I’m like the mom of this fucking band. If I don’t stock up on meds and first aid shit, then the boys get whiny. They’re hopeless. Ain’t that right, Finn?” Ritchie called out.

“Fuck off, Myer!” Another familiar voice came from back in the stacks.

“Hey! Come meet Kevin. He’s from that Sock band that’s touring with us,” Ritchie yelled back. If his ball cap and glasses routine was to keep fans from recognizing him, then Ritchie was totally failing.

Kevin chuckled. So far Ritchie was exactly like he came off in interviews. That boded well for the close quarters Kevin’s band and Resonator would be in for the next four months. Then Finn Reese came walking around the corner and Kevin had to force himself to wipe the dumbstruck off his face.

Finnegan Reese was only a couple years older than Kevin, but Kevin had been a fan of his since Rez was putting out rough demos they’d recorded in lead singer Miah’s basement. Truth be told, Finn was one of his idols. Resonator’s guitarist was old-school in a time of high-tech instrument mods. Finn was classically trained—an insistence of his Irish-born immigrant parents—and avoided the use of anything that was considered cutting edge. Finn’s style was clean but raucous. Deliberate and practiced but flexible. To Kevin, Finn was one of the rock gods that would be a legend someday. Finn’s fingers were meant to play guitar. That Kevin would’ve loved for those fingers to play something else was a secret he hoped Finn would never find out. Okay. So he totally had a crush on Finn. But he was a professional, Kevin reminded himself. And sharing a stage and a tour bus with Finn was more than he could have ever hoped for. But it was really fucking hard to focus on that when Finn appeared in tight black jeans with a ripped tank showing off his cut arms and hints of his chest and abs—all pale Irish skin that was tantalizingly ink free. His dyed black hair was fashioned into a fauxhawk that Finn ran his long, talented fingers over as he walked. He was wearing flip-flops that smacked against the tile floor, but Finn always played barefoot.

Finn raised a hand in greeting to Kevin. “Nice to meet you, Kev. You from Detroit?” Finn opened the box he was holding and pulled out a sucker that he started to unwrap.

Kevin attempted to swallow around a suddenly dry throat as he watched Finn pop the blue candy between his lips. “LA,” he scratched out. “All the guys are from SoCal. This is my first time in Detroit.”

Ritchie swiped the box out of Finn’s hands and plopped it onto the counter. “You and these damn suckers. Are you taking anything else with you besides candy? Even the tour rookie here knows to bring some supplies.”

“You realize we’re touring Europe and not Mexico, right?” Finn retorted, pointing at the massive bottle of antidiarrhea meds the pharmacist was trying to cram into a tiny paper bag.