Page 3 of Sweet Oblivion

Lev growled as Dad bent to kiss the woman. I shuddered at the aggressive way he stuck his tongue in her mouth.

“Dad’s a cheat, Nash,” Lev said, voice flat. “I caught him, and he laughed.” Lev’s pale skin mottled. “This is why I’m glad Mom isn’t here. She’s had so much success while Dad’s struggled.”

My jaw dropped. “He has?”

“Yeah, man. Your songs—they’re killer. Way better than Quantum’s last two albums. From what I heard, this one’ll go gold, maybe platinum.” He pulled me in close and noogied my head. “Because of you.”

“But…”

Lev glanced back at Dad and the woman, a ripple of displeasure shooting through his arms as he released me. “Look, maybe now that they’re both successful it’ll be better.” His eyes pleaded with me. “Right?”

My stomach twisted. “I…” Something cracked in Lev’s eyes, and I grabbed his hand like I used to, when I was really little. He let me. “You’re right, Lev. Now that they’re both successful, everything’s going to be better.”

“We’re going back to the hotel,” he said with one last glare at our dad. “Don’t look,” he muttered, tugging me toward the door and our security detail.

I trailed behind him, the high from the night buried under the weight of the news that my father was a cheater—and that my songs might be the only thing that could keep my family together.

3

Nash

Two Years Later

Three months in, I’d deemed ninth grade even more obnoxious than middle school, which had been my own personal hell. Clothes, expensive car rides, and even personalized, nonjudgmental learning environments failed to create decent humans here at Austin’s elite Holyoke School. This was never more apparent than when my mom was in the news again for yet another substance-induced meltdown.

But mostly, this year caused an unbearable ache because once again, Lev wasn’t here to share it with me. He wasn’t here to share anything with me anymore. He was dead. And it sucked that I had to do this alone.

As much as I wanted to hunch under my backpack straps, I stood straight and tall, my brand-new Chuck Taylors thumping against the stained concrete hallway. My shoulders tensed as Lord Prescott, the leading private-school douche-monkey, rounded the corner. Like me, he wore black athletic pants and a brightly colored T-shirt. Mine had the logo of my father’s band, Quantum, and Lord’s said, I can’t be responsible for my face when you talk.

His hair was spiked up in front because he couldn’t manage the pouf most boys seemed to prefer, but he had added the requisite black beanie that sagged down his thick neck. Lord was a couple of inches shorter than me now. Over the long, hard, grief-filled summer, I’d started to shoot up and fill out. But Lord’s viciousness ran at least as deep as his confidence, and he’d picked me out last year, right after Lev’s death.

“How’s it going, Nashville?” Lord asked with a smirk. Animosity slithered through his dark eyes.

I noted three additional boys, all muscular and with similar vapid expressions, behind him, and my quick scan of the hall showed it was free of teachers. Lord always waited for the teachers to disappear before he baited and hurt people.

I didn’t even bother to roll my eyes and the lameness of his joke about my name, but I did hear the first, faint stirrings of a song. I strained, desperate for the melody…but it faded.

Damn Lord for getting my hopes up. I hadn’t been able to write music since I’d watched my dad screw around with the groupies—first on that last tour and then at every one of the local shows I’d attended since. I’d already been angry with him, and then Lev’s death had decimated me, and now I wasn’t sure if I’d ever crawl out of this hole.

My father’s frustrated comments this morning trickled through my mind. “It’s time to buckle down and get serious, Nash. I need to finish this album, which means I need more songs.” He hadn’t followed that up with his usual comforting shoulder squeeze. In fact, he’d strode out of the house without so much as telling me to have a good day.

“Leave me alone, Lord. I’m not in the mood.”

“Aw… Not feeling so hot these days, Nashville?” Lord taunted.

My dad had tons of worries and photo ops on his mind. Quantum needed a new album in order to start their world tour. The single we’d cowritten before everything went to shit had burned its way up the charts, causing fans to clamor for more, but that tour I’d gone on with Lev was long gone—not unlike my ability to compose a tune.

I refocused on Lord, the perfect outlet for my anger, my worry over my father’s frustration—everything.

“Considering my parents like me enough to stay in the same city, I’m good,” I told him.

Lord snarled, his buggy eyes narrowing to a squint as his hands fisted. I held my ground, waiting, though I rolled up on the balls of my feet and tensed, readying for a blow.

“Your mom isn’t here—” Lord began.

Hugh Peckham materialized next to me as I cut him off. Lord wasn’t going to say anything about my mother. “What do your parents do?” I asked. “Do they work or just spend their trust funds…as far from you as possible?”

Seriously, his parents had named him Lord. Of what? I’d always wondered.

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