Once in a Lifetime: (Becky) (Unnamed Duo Book 1) Read online

  ONCE IN A LIFETIME

  (BECKY)

  by

  Luana Ferraz

  *This book has content warnings. Click here to read about them.

  COPYRIGHT

  First published in 2020 by Luana Ferraz.

  Copyright @ 2020 by Luana Ferraz

  Cover design of Once in a Lifetime by Flavia Andrioli.

  The moral right of Luana Ferraz to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, incidents and dialogs are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, transferred, leased, licensed or used in any way except as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or loaned or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  CONTENTS

  CONTENT WARNINGS

  PROLOGUE

  DAY ONE

  DAY TWO

  DAY THREE

  DAY FOUR

  DAY FIVE

  DAY SIX

  DAY SEVEN

  DAY EIGHT

  DAY NINE

  DAY TEN

  DAY ELEVEN

  DAY TWELVE

  CONTENT WARNINGS

  This story deals with some issues that might be harmful to some readers. Those include:

  Mention and/or discussion of domestic violence–that took place before the events of this book;

  Mention and/or discussion of alcohol and substance abuse–that took place before the events of this book;

  Mention, discussion and/or depiction of violence–both that took place before the events of this book and during the story;

  - Trauma from those instances is discussed at several different points throughout the narrative. Also, there might be some flashbacks that depict some of those moments.

  Mention, discussion and/or depiction of alcohol consumption–during the story;

  Bad language–light swearing.

  Passion (noun)

  1. strong and barely controllable emotion;

  2. an intense desire or enthusiasm for something.

  PROLOGUE

  I’m sitting at my window sill, watching the rain run down the glass. The morning light passing through the gray clouds sucks the color out of everything. For a few minutes, time stands still. I like this time of the day—too early for anyone to be out and about, too late to fall asleep. I feel like I could be the only person alive in the world. To be honest, I feel like the only person in the world most of the time, but it’s only in this moment between night and day that I can be at peace with it.

  I couldn’t sleep after last night’s concert. Not even after draining an entire wine bottle. I’ve been too worried about the progressive worsening of our gigs. Progressively smaller places, progressively fewer dates. I’m progressively losing my mind. Pete insists it’s just a phase, that we had it worse before. As much as I know he’s right, there’s something different at the pit of my stomach this time. Maybe it’s time to go home. Again. Maybe we should have never left home that second time. Or even that first time.

  Don’t go there, I force my brain to think of something else. I know that following these thoughts will lead me down a rabbit hole that will be hard to crawl out of. I have to stay away from them. But it’s exhausting, you know? Especially when they keep resurfacing so often as they have been lately.

  I grab my phone from the nightstand and take some pictures of the dead city below me. I edit one of them and upload it to my personal Instagram account—which I only use to post what I believe is called ‘conceptual photos’. The caption reads ‘morning after’. I don’t have to wait long for the fans to start liking it and commenting how much they enjoyed the show the night before, or asking what I’m doing awake at such an early hour, or just shouting their love in all caps. That makes me smile. Ever since I got clean, I’ve been using these short, instant interactions as my serotonin fix. And it does the trick—I’m not thinking about the past anymore. I think about the future. I think about how, maybe, we do have a shot at this.

  We just need a break. We so desperately need a break.

  “Becky!” Pete bursts through my bedroom door, making me drop the phone on the floor and jump from my seat.

  “What the fuck?!” I yell, resting one hand over my speeding heart.

  “You will never believe this!” He holds me by the shoulders, his wild eyes glistening manically.

  “What?” I ask, worriedly.

  He only shoves his phone screen on my face. I take it from him and sit down on my bed. It’s an email.

  “Who’s Neil?” I ask.

  “Just read it!” he demands impatiently.

  I scroll down and read what looks like an invitation to… to a…

  “A tour?” my voice comes out not louder than a whisper.

  “A tour,” Pete sits by my side, beaming.

  ***

  “This can’t be real,” I insist as I watch the tenth video in a row of the American band whose tour we’ve been allegedly invited to open.

  The Hacks. They’re brothers, their last name is Hackley. Not very creative, if you ask me, but whatever. It seems they recorded their first album when they were still children and became huge, although I positively have never heard of them. Pete says they’re not as popular anymore and have become independent artists, like us. Maybe that’s why they invited us to open for them.

  “I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Pete says as he clicks on an interview video now. It’s old. The video quality is awful. They’re little, annoying kids.

  “What if it’s a trap?” I ask, causing Pete to burst into laughter. “I’m serious! What if this is some sick fan’s plan to get us alone and… and… murder us!”

  Pete stares at me blankly. He pauses the video and opens Google maps. He types in the address given to us in the email and an office building near central London appears. He zooms in so we can look at the facade and adjacent constructions. It looks like a busy street.

  “Seems legit to me,” he says.

  “I don’t have a good feeling about this,” I insist.

  “You don’t have a good feeling about anything,” Pete replies wisely. I can’t argue with that. “Becky, not many unknown artists land this kind of gig.”

  “More reason for us to be suspicious,” I say.

  “You’re right,” he concedes, not without irritation, “but also a reason for us to take it. Maybe this is our chance to get a record deal.”

  He gets me with that again.

  “How do you think they found us?” I ask, failing to pay attention to the videos.

  “I don’t know. Probably YouTube?”

  It makes sense. One of our older videos has recently reached over 1 million views. At last, having someone to professionally record some of our gigs is paying off.

  Pete’s phone rings and as he wanders off to talk to his parents, I continue Googling them band. It’s not hard to find their story. Three brothers from Northwest America, with soulful voices and angel faces. They were barely out of the diapers when their first single, Wendy, reached the top of the charts—three long-haired blond kids in pajamas fake-flying to the stars. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the lead singer was a girl.

  There are a lot of videos and interviews from that
first album era, but anything after that becomes a little harder to find. Recent news is rare and mostly talking about past fame. But their website is decent, and they seem to have a solid fan base. I just hope their fans like punk as much as they like The Hacks’ bubbly pop.

  I can hear Pete giggling on the phone and I slowly start to share his enthusiasm. It’s been almost a decade since we've moved out here to pursue a dream. We have played in every dump this city has, mostly for free. We have banged in every studio door. We have stalked every producer. Still nothing. We did make progress, though, I have to admit that—we have fans, we have some EPs out, we even have merch. Some months we’re able to pay for rent solely on the money we make from music, which is already more than a lot of independent artists can manage.

  Still, it’s not enough. I want more. This feeling is scary sometimes, but it’s also what keeps me going. There’s nothing else in this world I want as much as this. And, to be honest, it doesn’t matter if we’re playing on a busy street in Camden or on a stage at a festival—the feeling is the same. I love performing, anywhere, everywhere. And I know I’m good.

  Maybe Pete’s right. Maybe this is our ticket to the other side. And, if so, The Hacks just got a die-hard fan right here.

  ***

  We reach the label building a full thirty minutes before our meeting, thanks to Pete’s anxiousness. I’m anxious, too. But I’m way better at hiding it.

  We enter into a modest lobby where an annoyed lady directs us to the third floor. On the wall outside the lifts, a plaque shows the names of all the companies that share the site. Blast Records occupies only the one floor, its name jumping off among such as I.T. Solutions and Data Zoom.

  “Boring…” Pete whispers. I’m just relieved to see there are actual companies operating in this place.

  The elevator opens at our floor to reveal the tiniest reception hall I’ve ever seen. We take two steps to reach the smiley lady behind the counter.

  “Afternoon,” Pete greets her. “Pete and Becky to see Neil Connolly?”

  The woman types something in the computer, her absurdly long nails making the only noises in the room.

  “You’re a little early,” she says in a fake cheerful tone. “Please, have a seat.”

  We squeeze onto the small couch and watch the receptionist walk away. It takes all of ten seconds for Pete’s leg to start bouncing up and down. I rest my hand on top of his knee.

  “Sorry,” he whispers and stops tapping his feet. “Isn’t she taking too long?”

  “Why are you whispering?” I ask, making him jump. “Can you relax?”

  “How can you relax?” he frowns. After a moment, he adds, “You still think it’s a trap, don’t you?”

  “Can you blame me?” I speak in a normal volume, making him jump once again. “What are the odds that we get such a major opportunity out of the blue? There’s certainly a catch.”

  “I love your pessimism,” he says, covering my hand with his.

  “Anytime,” I wink.

  “Hey, guys!” A third voice interrupts our moment, making both of us jump this time. A tall, broad man, with earrings on both ears, reaches out a hand to greet us. “Neil. You must be Becky and Pete.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Connolly,” Pete says as he shakes his hand.

  “Please, call me Neil. Follow me,” he beckons and leads us through a narrow corridor lined with doors on both sides. “Thank you so much for agreeing with this at such a short notice.”

  It's not like we had a choice, since the tour starts Thursday. This week. Another sign that this might be a trap.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?” Pete asks. “I suppose we weren’t the first option to be the opening acts.”

  “To be completely honest with you, you weren’t. We had someone else lined up. But the band insisted on getting you on board.”

  Pete and I exchange a suspicious look. ‘The catch’, I mouth. He smiles.

  We enter a rather large conference room at the end of the long corridor, where two other men—in suits this time—are waiting for us. They introduce themselves as publicist and lawyer. I immediately forget their names.

  “Okay, guys,” Neil claps his hands together once we’re sat around the table, “I would normally start with a quick story of the label, but we have no time for that. So we’re going straight to business—how many people you have in your crew?”

  Pete and I glance at each other again.

  “We don’t have a crew,” Pete answers. His voice is calm, but his leg is bouncing again.

  “Oh,” Neil can’t hide his surprise. “Not even a tech? A roadie? I know you don’t have a manager, but…”

  “It’s just the two of us and we don’t go on tour. We don’t really need a crew,” Pete explains.

  “Right, right, of course,” Neil nods manically. “So, no crew. That’s actually good news for us,” he laughs, looking at his coworkers.

  “What about your brand?” the publicist speaks up. “I’ve had a look at your website and it’s impressive.”

  “Thank you,” Pete smiles.

  “Who’s responsible for your marketing?” the guy goes on. I glance at Pete, biting my lip to repress a smile.

  “I am,” he says. The publicist raises his eyebrows. “As I said, it’s just the two of us.”

  As the meeting goes on, I can sense Pete’s excitement plummet. It becomes clear that these guys have no idea who or at what level we are. It starts sounding more and more like a favor—the main band requested us and they’re going with it because… That’s actually the only thing I want to know. I don’t have the nerve to ask, though. And since we walk out the building with a booked tour, I think I can find it out for myself.

  DAY ONE

  “Becky!” Pete’s high-pitched voice wakes me up. “I knew it! We shouldn’t have gone clubbing yesterday!”

  I roll over, pushing the covers over my very achy head.

  “Rebecca!” Pete’s use of my full name indicates he is very upset. He pulls the fluffy duvet off my bed. “It’s today!”

  “What is?” I frown, struggling to make my hungover brain start to work.

  “Oh, my fucking God!” Pete grunts. I’m covering my face with my hands, but I can tell Pete is running his hands through his hair. “We have to be in central London in less than an hour! You better get ready!” he yells again, and I hear him stomping out of my room.

  I can’t remember what is it that we have to do in central London today. Damn, I barely remember my own name.

  I sit up on the bed and my head spins. Small dots of light splash my vision. Shit. Am I too old for night outs already?

  Before I can muster the strength to stand up, I pick up my phone from the nightstand. Among the notifications of likes on Instagram, replies on Twitter, and junk emails, there is one of the calendar. Thursday. Today. The first day of the rest of your life.

  “The first day of the rest of your life,” I read aloud, squinting. Thursday. Today. “Fuck! The tour!”

  I suddenly remember why we went out—to celebrate! Although, in hindsight, getting shit-faced the day before our first day of a long tour might not have been the best of ideas. But Pete was so excited, I couldn’t say no. I’m already such a bad friend as it is, I couldn’t let him down on such an important occasion—for him, anyway. I still think it’s a trap.

  I dart out of the room and into the bathroom. As I slam the door shut I can hear Pete rushing me along. I open the shower and get under it. I let out a small cry when the icy water hits my head. But as if by magic, I’m awake. I scrub all that I can in a rush and brush my teeth.

  I step out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel and run back to my room—to find a mug of hot coffee beside my bed.

  “Thanks!” I shout.

  I don’t deserve Pete. I think nobody does. Well, maybe Lindsey. She’s every bit as caring and compassionate as he is. I still remember the first time we met, because she was the first of all Pete’s significant o
thers I got to meet that didn’t make a face when meeting the ‘girl he lives with’.

  I try to dress and do my make-up as fast as I can. Which, honestly, it isn’t very fast. It might make us late but at least I’ll look like an artist.

  I step on the first thighs that I find and pair them with my favorite skirt and lucky t-shirt—the one with a knitted skull in it. I don’t have time to lace up my favorite boots, so I just grab a pair that doesn’t have laces. I head off as I put on a leather jacket and try to tame my wet blob of hair.

  “I’m ready.” I announce as I enter the living room.

  “Your hair is dripping.” Pete frowns, giving me a full-body glance. “And your make-up is banging.”

  “Thanks,” I smile. He never fails to make me feel slightly better. “Ready?”

  “You better not get a cold,” he says in that big brother voice he likes to use sometimes.

  “I won’t,” I say and interlock my arm with his. “But if I do, I know you’ll take care of me.”

  “Only because I need your voice to make money,” he says. He means it as a joke, so I laugh. But the literal meaning of that sentence lingers in the back of my head all the way to the office.

  ***

  By the time we reach the record label building, my throat is already scratching. I curse myself—and Pete—for being so reckless. Of course I’d get sick on the day of a major concert. I decide to keep my mouth shut and rest my voice until I can get a hold of some lemon and honey.

  “Oh, you can go on, they’re waiting for you,” the bored receptionist says without glancing up from her phone.

  Pete and I walk down the corridor, taking the opportunity to snoop. Some of the doors are open today, so we walk slowly to look inside. To my disappointment, they’re just offices, although some of them sport plaques that show off their artists’ achievements. I recognize some of the names and resist the urge to take my phone out and take pictures. Professional. We’re meant to look professional.