whiskeyscreams - Tumblr blog

[whiskeyscreams]

[ GLASS HOUSES : MINI SOLO ]

6:30 AM - RICHMOND, VA.

- AUGUST, 2014.

the house was 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵, opaque light just beginning to appear on the distant horizon. far down the upper floor hallway, a door creaks open. perhaps not loudly, but even so, in a place like this, sound travels well. oliver grace sat, frozen at his desk, 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔. light footsteps proceed down the hall. headed determinedly past his bedroom door. whoever this was, it was unlikely to be one of the maids. the household staff rarely became active before 𝟽:𝟹𝟶. frowning, the teenager rose to his feet, curiosity overriding discretion as he made his way across the plush carpeting to his door. opening it soundlessly, he stepped out into the dimly lit hallway just in time to see the hem of a black satin robe 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑝 around the corner and his stomach turns. 𝑓𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑙 . . . he thinks to himself as a wave of nausea overtook him. 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑚´𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑠𝑒. anger burning inside him white hot. a series of quick, furious strides ends in him standing outside a guest bedroom door. shaking digits extending towards the guilded knob. 𝑖𝑛 𝒉𝒆𝒓 ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒. . .

he thinks back to all the times he’s heard this 𝒆𝒙𝒂𝒄𝒕 thing occur. his mom knew, he’d heard the blazing fights that confirmed that ayane grace wasn’t as blind as her sleazy husband thought her to be. but nevertheless, kade grace continued in his lecherous ways. grasping the door handle, oli’s mind is made up for him by over ten years of hatred for the man blood-ties forced him to call his father. he wasn’t getting away with it, no, not this time. heels of palms made contact with the wooden door seconds later.

“ the maid? really? in 𝒉𝒆𝒓 house, how fucking could you?” he snarls at the figure sitting on the bed. venom dripping from each syllable. “you’re 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒈𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈.” too angry to care how reckless he’s being as his voice grows louder. he wanted this man to feel something other than the cold apathy both he and his mom were lucky to experience on a good day. “sneaking off in the middle of the night to screw the fucking 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒑. i don’t know why she hasn’t divorced your—.” but whatever he was going to say next gets cut off by the impact that lifts him off his feet. then the sensation of the wind being knocked from his chest as he hit the ground, 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒅.

—————————————————————-

the next thing he remembered was the siloughette of his father standing over him as he struggled to regain his breath. his laugh sounding more like a growl as he came to kneel beside his son. “you want to scream that for the whole 𝒇𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 house to hear?” kade whispers, bending closer still. “you want to be the reason the whole damn neighborhood knows our business? then by all means, 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 yelling. but we’ll see how well you manage that when you can’t breathe.” as he speaks, oli became aware of a palm gripping his throat. body going rigid in a sudden wave of panic and anger at himself for having been so reckless. he knew, and have ought to have known that kade grace was the sort of man to go to any length to save his own reputation. “𝒈𝒐 𝒂𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅, scream. 𝒏𝒐𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 will hear you, you ungrateful little shit. do you think the maids will help you? they don’t get here for another half hour, and by then . . . that’s plenty of time . . . i’ll tell them you’re staying with a friend. they know better than to ask questions. as for your mother . . . well, that’ll be a bit more difficult but it wouldn’t be the first time i have hit that little snag. of course, it’s nothing another extended stay in the hospital wouldn’t sort out. so i think, this is going to remain our little secret. or i’ll make sure every waking moment of your pathetic life is 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒍."

[whiskeyscreams]

THE 𝑯͟𝑬͟𝑳͟𝑳 I OVERCAME. [ PT. 1 ]

"𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝑑𝑖𝑒 . . . i disagree. i believe it takes real courage to 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆." - oliver alexander of blood oaths for alternative press ( AP ) magazine, 2024.

he was trembling. lithe digits gripping the gilded doorhandle to the upscale salon. cold, pristinely polished metal glinting back at him. breathe, ol, breathe. . . this appointment had been on the books for weeks. made almost the millisecond he'd banked the first paycheck he'd earned from the first out-of-state gig booked for his band by ICARUS RECORDS. He was nervous even now, tucking a loose strand of brunette hair behind his ear. forcing himself to breathe, he pulls on the handle to open the solid glass door. immediately greeted by the loud, high-pitched whine of a hairdryer somewhere toward the back of the sleekly modern, whitewashed interior. the hum of electric clippers causing his heart to go into a painfully hard rhythm. "i'll be right there darling!" the familiar sound of his stylist, selune's voice calls out before he sees the tall figure come into view. pausing for a moment when she sees him, her surprise evident within the pale green of her irises, though quickly hidden behind a dazzlingly white smile. "oli! what a treat, i wasn't expecting you for another six weeks." painful shuddering breaths prevent him from responding right away. for several days before this moment, he had been periodically staring at the appointment in his icloud calendar that had been scheduled by a receptionist. wondering if he shouldn't have texted selune ahead of time instead of saving this enormous request to the last moment. he had, of course, decided against it. fearing his courage would ultimately fail if he was given time to think it all through.

a wavering smile offered to the woman he'd been coming to for the past year and a half. he steps forward timidly, taking another fortifying breath. as he meets her clear green gaze. "oli? what's wrong?" all of her previously bubbly personality traded for concern at the look spreading across the vocalist's face. "oh dear, come darling. . . we'll talk." beckoning him to follow her. she headed back towards the back of the salon. "start with a wash as usual?" careful to keep her voice calm. she motioned to one of the chairs positioned in front of a sink. oli listening to her wordlessly, settling himself into the cool leather of the seat and laying back against the lip of the sink, his breath shaky as she carefully stroked her fingers through his hair, gathering the stray strands. closing his eyes when he feels the kiss of warm water on his scalp and selune begins to work her magic, first lathering him up with tea tree shampoo, the cool, earthy scent of eucalyptus oil soothing his frayed nerves. then rinsing to follow with the pairing conditioner. she hums as she works and for a moment. he feels his courage gathering. after all, he is here. . . the appointment has begun and he hasn't run from the building, yet. while selune carries on with her task, he thinks back to the studio session he'd been in earlier in the day. his bandmate, santi, had made a comment about how oli always seemed to have the best hair out of all of them aside from aurora, and the pang he'd felt in his stomach when he imagined their expressions of shock when they saw what he'd done the next day. drawing in another shaking, emotion-choked breath. "talk to me, darling . . . what is wrong? you're pale as a ghost." selune prompts as she helps him to sit up when she has finished. using a heated towel to gently pat him dry again before beckoning him to follow her into a chair a little further from where her other clients sat. she doesn't get paid enough for this. . . he thinks to himself, still unable to bring himself to speak into existence the heartache that threatens to tumble from his lips if he tries to open his mouth. finding his tongue dry. "sit, love, let me bring you some water." she says coaxingly, indicating the stylist's chair, and she disappears. reappearing a few minutes later with a crystal glass. offering it to him and then going to lean against the counter where her tools are already laid out, waiting to be used. he'd been eying the scissors warily when she walked up. but graciously, she doesn't say a word about her observation. maintaining her silence while he takes a large gulp of water from the glass. waiting still, until he swallowed and then finally.

"i . . . want a haircut. . ." he begins, his voice quavering a little bit, forcing him to clear his throat. selune nodded. "i thought as much. . . that is what you made the appointment for." her comment earns a half-hearted smile. but then he closes his eyes, forcing himself to breathe. "cut it off, sel. . . all of it." her sharp intake of breath makes his eyes snap open. "oliver. . . oli, are you sure?" she stammers. a crease forming between her flawlessly shaped dark brows. walking up to put her hand on his shoulder in a comforting gesture. "i'm fucking positive." he breathes between gritted teeth. choking on the hard lump of emotion rapidly forming in his throat. feeling her hand gently squeezing where it rested on his shoulder. ". . . it's hair. . . it'll grow back. i---i can't do it anymore." he chokes out. "i can't hear another fucking person tell me its beautiful—.” his words trailing off, he reached up and brushed away an escaped tear from his cheek. “ . . .that i look like him. . . like that fucking monster. i'm sick of it selune, i drove four thousand fucking miles to be rid of him, but i every fucking time I look in the mirror i see him. . . i don't want to look like him. . . i want to look like me." he says plaintively and as he speaks, the second of what he's sure will be many silent tears is already threatening to fall. held in suspense by his lashes, which flutter against his cheeks briefly while he fought to remain composed. his voice breaking when again, he speaks.

"sel. . . please. . . just fucking cut it off. . ."

lord help me, his stylist thinks. twisting where she stands to pick up three of the neatly laid out tools, a brush, a comb, and the diamond-sharpened, stainless steel styling scissors. taking her place behind the chair. tucking them into her apron while she reached for the black plastic cape. saying nothing as she secured the paper tape around his neck to protect him from chaffing once the cape was in place. meanwhile, oliver was still doing the best he could to hold it together as he felt the pull and pressure of the brush brushing out the tangles, thankfully aided by the liberal amount of conditioner she had used earlier. then he takes another sharper, staggering breath as her fingertips gently position his head down and forward so she can get a good look at his hair. "do you want it buzzed. . . or do you have a new style in mind?" she prompts cautiously, resting her hand once more on his caped shoulder. at once a thought comes to him. where he had once thought to just cut it as short as he possibly could in an act of complete defiance and perhaps, impulse. he's now decided that at the very least he would do something to set himself apart.

"a wolf cut." he finally decided. meeting selune's gaze in the reflection of the mirror through his eyelashes momentarily before his eyes close and he chokes back a sob. anticipation of that first definitive snip causing tension to form along his spine, even with how comfortable her styling chair is. when it finally comes, soft and damn near impossible to hear. the sound rattles around his skull akin to the chains on shackles being unlocked and then falling away. each one bringing him closer to the man he so desperately wanted to be. but the feeling is bittersweet. though he never makes so much as a whimper or a sob. tears stream down the vocalist's cheeks. falling onto the black plastic of the cape covering him. yes, his hair is beautiful, it’s his most prized physical feature. but freedom is not without sacrifice, nor without pain. something the twenty-seven-year-old knows too well.

he was at the salon for another hour and a half and had fallen into a bit of a dazed dissociation before selune is finished, her voice gently prompting him to look up and see himself for the first time. meeting his own bloodshot gaze in the mirror while her back is turned, he was stunned by what he saw. hardly able to recognize himself in the reflection of the young man staring back at him through bloodshot, puffy eyes. "holy fuck. . ." he breaths, and selune's back stiffened. turning her head to look at him over her shoulder. "what? whats wrong?" she worries, eying her handiwork, searching for a mistake. "no, no. . . thank you, selune. . . you're a fucking miracle worker." he stammers. a pink flush coming to his cheeks. his lower lip caught between his teeth. now that the worst of it is over. he feels that he can finally breathe. "you set me free. . ." chuckling as he watched her let out a breath of relief and then picked up the hair dryer. approaching him with the device leveled like a pistol at his skull. "don't do that ol, you fucking scared me." she laughs, shaking her head. "you little shit." his answering quip swallowed by the sudden loud whirr of the hairdryer as she carefully brushes his hair dry. fluffing it out so he can admire the new style.

a few more minutes of careful styling later, and the cape is removed along with the tape. the tattooed vocalist rising to his feet. approaching his friend for a hug with a grateful, albeit watery smile. "thank you sel, you're fucking incredible, truly." as they pulled apart, she reached up to fix his new bangs. "how does it look?" he asks timidly, reaching up to feel the new length for himself.

"gorgeous darling, like the style was meant for you. but you should know, ol. . . it's not your hair or your looks that make you who you are. you already are unique. your music and the way you care for those around you are what set you apart. you are a good man. you did not need this haircut to prove anything. those qualities were already there." though she, being a stylist knows, that sometimes the right look helps unlock someone's desired image of themselves.

"still, selune, thank you. for everything. . ."

turning to walk with her to the front desk, pulling his wallet from his pocket to pay the bill. "what do i owe you?" but to his enormous surprise, she holds up a manicured hand. shaking her head. "nonsense, darling, your hair? i do it for free. just don't forget to tell people who keeps you looking your best." once again he is left speechless and a little bit dazed as he makes his way out of the salon into the late afternoon sunshine. feeling the caress of the wind on the back of his newly exposed neck. that'll take some getting used to. he thinks, waiting until he has slid into the soft leather of the shelby's driver seat. to flip down the visor and gaze at himself in the small mirror.

yes, he thinks . . . HELLO, OLIVER ALEXANDER.

[whiskeyscreams]

PRESENT DAY :

TWIN FEATHERS STADIUM, 8:30 PM

DALLAS, TEXAS.

April 30th, 2024.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE EXCITEMENT IN THE STADIUM WAS PALPABLE,

Even from the greenroom, Oliver Alexander could hear the screams mixed with chants of Blood Oaths! Blood Oaths! Blood Oaths! Beating against his eardrums and reverberating in his chest as strobe lights flashed and flames from the center-stage pyrotechnics announced their impending appearance. All smiles and giddiness backstage as the five members of the up-and-coming metal-core band are checking their earpieces and preparing to take their places on stage. Finally, theres the cue, and then moments later, a confident stride carried Oli to the very front and center point of the three-tiered stage, where he took the microphone from the stand and then held his arms up to address the waiting, feverish crowd. 

“HOW ARE YOU TONIGHT DALLAS? PUT YOUR HANDS UP AND LET ME HEAR YOU MAKE SOME FUCKING NOISE!!” 

Smile luminous in response to their enthusiastic, thunderous reply of screams, wolf-whistles, and cheers. Hundreds of thousands of voices melding together.

“Thank you! Thank you! Alright, you know what to do. Don't make me fuckin’ ask! WHAT IS LOVE......?” 

“THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND.” 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

TWO YEARS EARLIER . . . 

“YOU WILL NEVER AMOUNT TO ANYTHING!”   his father’s voice seemed to resonate inside a cramped space. Millions of dollars had gone into the ultra-modern style Richmond estate but, still, Oliver Grace could only think about how the sterilely clean space around him resembled an institution more than a home. But, he thought, maybe, that is where I belong. It was the old threat. If he did not conform, did not fucking obey, that was where he would end up. locked up simply because he didn't fit the image that had been chosen for him at birth. Even now, standing there in Kade Marin Grace’s lavishly decorated home office. Hands behind his back like a good little soldier at attention. The bitterness swells like a balloon inside the twenty-six-year-old’s ink-stained ribcage. Damn this suit, he thinks.  Longing to rip the tie from his neck, which right about now feels more like a hangman’s noose. I cannot fucking breathe. Taking a deep breath. 

 “I was offered a record deal, yet you fucking act like it's some kind of crime because I don’t want what you planned.”  Even though his voice is quiet and for the most part, calm. Black-painted fingernails dig into the soft pad of flesh in his palm. Recently filed, or they might have left little pools of blood in their wake. Fitting, considering this feels like a fucking crucifixion. Ignoring his mother’s sharp intake of breath.

“How dare you!”   

 Coffee-colored irises met hers, chin lifted, a sculpted jawline set in defiance, and though the thought of how she'd be punished for his insolence occurred to him, he wouldn't be deterred, not tonight.  “You have Brian to take over the firm... you know it's not what I want.”   He begins again, trying to keep this civil, unable to bear another night of yelling over a future he was certain was not his.  “I’m going to call the agent back,” He almost whispered, approaching his father’s desk, fists balling up to rest against the pristinely polished wooden surface. the cool metal of each of his rings cutting into his fingers. “. . . I am going to accept the deal. I made enough money working for that bar. . . You can either accept it. Or you can fucking choke on your denial. I am not watering myself down for you because the version of me you pictured does not fit the reality. You can brainwash Brian but I refuse to play."    The sound of wood scraping against wood made him wince as his father rose forcefully to his feet, and while Oliver resembled his Kade in his looks, no father-son duo could have been more different. The older man, however, had to tilt his head back to meet the defiant darkness in his younger son's eyes. Still, even when the middle-aged lawyer’s hands slammed down on his desk. Oliver did not flinch. “If you call that agent ... if you leave... I will make sure you never get anywhere. No son of mine will ever become some Hollywood whore.”    But Oliver would not be intimidated, not this time. Stepping impossibly closer. Drawing himself up to his full height of six-foot-three. “Funny that you preach about whores, when. . .  Let's see. . . what was her name? Oh! Haley! That is her name right? Or at least that is who it is this week.”   He snarls back, ignoring his mother’s stifled gasp. Yeah, that’s right Mom, he is screwing the secretary, it is a goddamn cliché. 

Whatever he’d been expecting after that ... it wasn’t what happened. Kade drew back his hand and the impact of his fist connecting with Oliver’s jaw was enough to make the younger man stumble backward against his own will. A metallic taste fills his mouth as his incisors slice into his cheek and his lower lip is split. Barely aware of his mother’s scream when he was forcefully pushed back against the textured surface of the wall. His father’s hands were at his throat. Dress shoes crunching across a mess of shards of broken glass from a now shattered decanter of expensive Scotch whiskey.  His mother was pale as a ghost, though she moved forward to grab her husband's arm. "Kade, Kade stop it!" There is the resounding sound of a slap and her sharp cry. Though the stranglehold he'd had on Oliver is mercifully broken. Turning back, he leveled a malevolent glare at his son.

“Get the fuck out. You hear me, you degenerate little shit?! Do you want fame so badly? Go! Chase your delusions but don’t you fucking come back when it does not turn out the way you think.”

Shoved forward, hard.  Oliver stumbled but thankfully regained his footing. Sucking in another deep, steadying breath, coughing violently. A hand pressed against his rapidly bruising jaw while the other attempted to tear at the accursed tie around his neck. So, help him, he would never wear another expensive silk suit ever again.  “Oli!”  He hears his mother pleading with him not to do this. To make up with his father and keep their shit show of a family together. But he’s done. Wasting no time in digging for his phone to find the contact for the well-dressed man who had approached him after a gig in a friend’s uptown bar almost two weeks prior.  Rounding on her when he gets to his bedroom door. Mocha gaze hardened to an unsympathetic obsidian.  

“You should fucking leave him. You and Brian should get the fuck out before he drags us all down with him.”  But even as he says it, he knows his words are ignored. She wouldn’t. She could not. Their prenup was ironclad and airtight. If Ayane Grace left. . . She’d get nothing. Not even the law firm which had been left to her by her father. 

“Oli! Oli-Bear, please.” 

“Stop fucking calling me that. I am not a five-year-old.”  He hisses sharply, his grip tightening on his phone.  “Fuck's sake, Mom, please just go.”  The lump in his throat threatens to choke him, he’s dangerously close to punching the wall. But he wouldn't, he would not be like his father. Though, his self-control was slipping away by the second.  “I can’t stay here. I need to go; I need to see this through. You will be all right.” 

Then he had dialed the number scrawled in ball point pen on the back of the now crumpled business card and the moment the smooth-talking agent had answered he could only utter two words. 

“I’m in.”

——————————

That was the last time he spoke to his mother before he’d left. Having made only one stop on his way out of Richmond.

The home of his childhood friend, Anna.

Though not even she knew that it would be the last time she’d see him.

Whether it was because it was truly his dream or purely out of spite, that night, Oliver Alexander Grace died, and OLIVER ALEXANDER, the charismatic, and yet, enigmatic lead vocalist of BLØØD ØATHS was forged.  Though Anna too,  had begged him not to go, even though she understood better than anyone how much Oliver’s music meant to him, and how he longed to be more than just another prim and poised lawyer’s son. her pleas went unheard. 

It broke his heart to steal away like a thief in the night. But it was not until he had gotten over the border of Virginia that the realization and gravity of the choice he had just made truly hit him. Pulling his old Chevelle over on the side of the road. The hazard lights flickered feebly against the backcountry darkness. He'd drawn up his knees to his chest in the backseat, and surrounded by only what could be thrown into duffle bags and the few suitcases he had to his name,  he'd truly cried. Not just a few silent tears but ugly, angry sobs that threatened to choke him. He was free now - - - but that freedom had come with a cost he paid not just with cash, but in 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 as well, as his metaphorical shackles and everything he once knew faded away, and while he sat there in the nearly eerie silence, blanketed in darkness. Heartache and pain morphed into an altogether darker emotion.

Cold, calculated anger, and with it, the determination to prove his father wrong, whatever the cost. the fiery, fierce desire to make his sperm donor choke on his words was what gave him the stubbornness needed to survive.  What carried him over nearly four thousand miles to California and gave him the courage to continue, to fight, scream, and claw his way up.  To keep going even when he thought he was done, and that his twenty-six-year existence was at a close. all the while drowning his pain in Hennessy whiskey and then sex with countless one-night stands to feel anything but numb. Nameless faces he didn’t care for and who willingly threw themselves at his feet to taste the limelight for a moment. 

Yeah, fame is a fuckin’ trip. But she’s also a fickle mistress. There was no filling the void in his chest with alcohol, sex, or even . . . some of the more hardcore stuff.  And, while he might’ve felt the love of his fans in the heat of the moment at a show. There was no stopping the steady decline into what he could only name as darkness that always seemed to lurk two steps behind him, once the cameras were turned off and the stadium went quiet. Lured once more toward the gaping abyss waiting to swallow him whole. Staved off only with the desperate need to always be in motion and to give every part of himself to his art.  

Words splashed like his blood across countless sheets of paper. Sung until his throat burned like it was rubbed down with sandpaper. Pieces of himself sold to the highest-paying bidder.

Maybe in some ways Dad, you were right. 

I am a whore.