Page 56 of Fall From Grace
He steps closer to the microphone and sings without needing to look at the screen: “My soul was black. I thought I knew pure insanity, torture and truth—until you.” I can tell he’s hesitant at first; he doesn’t really sing to his full power, but as the verse goes on, something changes in him… out of habit, maybe?
His eyes close, and he tilts his head somewhat. His lips are practically on top of the mic, one of his hands curling over it and his mouth, as if to better capture his voice—a move I’ve seen Pope do in many of the videos I watched. His feet spread, so the microphone stand can fit between them. Just like that, it’s as if he turns into a different person.
“I’m on the ledge, staring down, ready to fall to my end, but now you’re here and everything’s a mess. Who I was, what I am, burning so bright inside there’s nowhere left for me to hide.” Logan’s voice gets stronger, retaining that rough, low scratchiness I heard at the cemetery—and hearing that voice over the speakers while standing next to him, it’s like I’m transported somewhere else.
To the audience at one of the Black Sacrament shows.
I can imagine him with a mask on, his skin painted black as he sings his heart out to the audience, hypnotizing each and every one, men and women alike. The star of the show with the ego to match. And a killer smirk to tie it all together.
“I never wanted to be found, never wanted you, but you crashed me into the ground when you fell from heaven,” Logan sings the second round of the chorus, its words slightly changed from the first. “True destruction and beauty, my absolution.Have you come to save me or destroy me? Godsent, give me your answer. Godsent, I need your answer. Godsent, my godsent.”
When he launches into the chorus again, as it repeats itself, I join in, though I sing mostly background vocals, too busy paying attention to him to put too much heart into it. By the look of it, everyone here is caught in his spell, too. It’s all fun and games when a group of people with not-so-good voices are singing at a karaoke bar, but it’s a different thing entirely when those people can actually sing—and when one is a bonafide rockstar.
And he is. He has to be. Too many similarities in the way he moves, how he holds himself and the microphone as he sings—not to mention the voice. God, his voice… a voice like that doesn’t come around all the time. A voice like that is unique.
The odds are so infinitesimal that it doesn’t feel real, but it has to be: Logan Crew is Pope from Black Sacrament. It’s why he has an entire room dedicated to guitars, why he always gets so upset when I bring them up. It’s why he got so pissed at me for overhearing him singing at the cemetery, why he’s so angry at the world.
Logan is a jerk because Pope was a jerk. They’re two sides of the same coin.
“Godsent, will you be the death of me?” Logan sings, oblivious to the way I watch him, oblivious to the way the entire bar watches him with stars in their eyes. “Godsent, or will you save me? Godsent, I’m here on my knees, begging you to see… see something worth saving inside me.”
Though he’s not facing me, it’s like he’s saying those words directly to me, and my heart does something weird in my chest. It constricts, tightens, and warms up at the same time. I feel like I want to move closer to him, to… tell him everything’s going to be all right—and I want him to believe me, to put his arms around me and hold me.
I have a thought then I never had before: I want to take him home, so we can make my sheets as messy as we made his.
When that thought crosses my mind, I stop singing background vocals and just watch him, watch as he finishes the song with a flourish. I was never the kind of girl who crushed on rockstars, but I think I get it now. There’s something sexy about a man who can sing those kinds of words and sound like he means them.
The song ends, and Logan opens his eyes to applause. It’s almost as if he forgot where he was, because when he looks around at the bar, at all the impressed faces, when he hears their eager clapping, something inside him switches.
He looks at me, mutters a harsh “Fuck you,” and then leaves the stage by hopping off its front edge. I’m so caught off-guard by his switch in demeanor that I stand there for a few moments, watching him zigzag through the bar, with my mouth open.
Wait, no. I can’t let him go after that. I need to get my butt into gear.
I ignore the weird looks as I follow his path; the stage stands three feet off the ground, so it’s easy enough to jump off of even though there are signs galore saying not to do it. Picking up my pace, I exit the bar and chase after him, and when I step out into the cool night air, I find he’s already a good ways down the sidewalk.
“Wait!” I call out for him, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even look at me. I have to sprint to catch up to him, and when I do I set a hand on his arm. A mistake, because when he turns toward me, the expression he wears is one of pure rage.
“What the fuck kind of game are you playing at, Wren?” he hisses out my name as he towers over me, blocking out the night sky effortlessly. At such a late hour, the sidewalks and streets aren’t as busy as they were earlier. I wouldn’t say we’re alone, but there’s no one around to step in should things get dicey.
I don’t think they will, but… I guess you never know. He is really, really angry with me.
“I’m not playing a game,” I say, hoping my sincerity shows through my words. “I just—”
“You just what? Picked that song randomly? Out of all the songs in the fucking world, you had to pick that one? Tell me it was fucking random. If it wasn’t, then—”
Now it’s my turn to interrupt: “I know who you are.” Those words I whisper out, and I don’t sound nearly as confident as I should.
Pretty sure his hands flex at his sides. He stands less than four inches away from me, and I’m hyper aware that he could grab me at any moment, should he want to. “You don’t know shit.”
“So you’re not Pope?”
When that last word slips, he does grab me. He brings both his hands to my face, and in the blink of an eye, he pushes me against the wall of the nearest building, the movement so rough I gasp. It doesn’t hurt, but it isn’t something I expected.
With both hands gripping my face, he leans down and whispers, “If that’s who you think I am, then you should know I’m not a good guy. Someone like you I could use up until there’s nothing left, and then I’d leave you in the dirt because you’re nothing. You will always be nothing. Just a small-town girl in a hic town who thinks she knows best.”
He’s lashing out, saying these things to hurt me. And, honestly, maybe it would’ve hurt me if I wasn’t coming off a broken heart myself. The old me definitely would have been crying by now, but for some reason, tears don’t come, and I feel remarkably okay even though the guy I have a crush on just told me I’m nothing.
“You’re just being mean,” I whisper, “to make me stop.”
