Ripple Effect Read online

  Ripple Effect

  J. Bengtsson

  Copyright © 2021 by J. Bengtsson

  Edited by Dorothy Zemach

  Cover art copyright Michelle Lancaster www.michellelancaster.com

  Cover Model Andy Murray

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Save the Date

  July 23, 2022

  To my future daughter-in-law, Samantha Meyer (soon to be Bengtsson—yay!). It’s no secret I adore you. The minute I heard your big, hearty laugh I knew you were the one for me… I mean, for my son. I love that you will be a part of our lives forever and am beyond giddy for all the beautiful things to come. I promise to always treat you with the love, devotion, and respect that you deserve. You’re an amazing woman. Thank you for saying yes.

  Contents

  WikiMusic

  Prologue

  1. RJ: Death of a Heartthrob

  2. Dani: Repeat After Me

  3. RJ: Post-it Notes

  4. RJ: The Ambush

  5. Dani: Eyes On Me

  6. Dani: Not Chad

  7. RJ: World’s Worst Lois Lane

  8. Dani: The Scout

  9. RJ: AAA

  10. Dani: For a Good Cause

  11. RJ: Fading Fast

  12. Dani: To the Rescue

  13. RJ: A Close Shave

  14. Dani: Making Contact

  15. RJ: Time’s Up

  16. Dani: Sign from Above

  17. RJ: At What Cost?

  18. Dani: The Climb

  19. Dani: In the Nick of Time

  20. RJ: Patient Privilege

  21. RJ: Mommy Dearest

  22. Dani: The Command Center

  23. RJ: On the Dotted Line

  24. Dani: Some Like it Rough

  25. Dani: Post-Apocalyptic Fairy Tale

  26. RJ: Meeting Halfway

  27. Dani: Pop the Cork

  28. Dani: Doctor Dani

  29. RJ: For a Good Cause

  30. Dani: Romantic Gesture

  Epilogue

  First Chapter-Like The Wind

  Discover The Bestselling Cake Series

  The Cake Series Books

  About the Author

  Also by J. Bengtsson

  Award-Nominated Audiobooks By J. Bengtsson

  WikiMusic

  AnyDayNow is an American boy band formed in Los Angeles. Under the direction of famed manager Tucker Beckett, the group is composed of Bodhi Beckett, RJ Contreras, Shawn Barber, Dane Makati, and Hunter Roy.

  Propelled to global success after the release of their first album, the five members of AnyDayNow are considered teen idols and, as such, are often the objects of fan hysteria. Their followers refer to themselves as Dayers.

  AnyDayNow broke up following the near-death experience of band member Bodhi Beckett in a California firestorm. His story can be found in Like the Wind (J. Bengtsson, 2019)

  Prologue

  RJ: Born Ready

  The limo pulled up to the curb. Crowds gathered on all sides of the vehicle, held back by flimsy, plastic barriers and burly security guards well versed in young female hysteria.

  “Marry me, RJ,” screamed one woman with brightly colored locks.

  Another held up a cardboard sign reading Follow me with her handle in big block letters.

  Crushed up against the barricade, a crying girl called out, “I love you, RJ.”

  The funny thing about fame was you got used to it. Things that might have seemed foreign to you before, like women professing their love with their very last breath or a marriage proposal screamed through tinted windows, became so commonplace you barely registered the words. It didn’t seem that long ago that I was a nothing—a throwaway skateboard kid from Idaho with a tiny social media following and a nonexistent bank account. What happened next was what teen male dreams were made of—hand-plucked from obscurity to become one of the five members of this century’s biggest boy band, AnyDayNow.

  Brought together by the spin doctor himself, manager Tucker Beckett, we were manufactured in every sense of the word. From the songs we sang to the clothes we wore to the food that passed through our digestive systems, everything we did had to be cleared through handlers. Scheduling our shits, although not required, was highly encouraged. As much as I hated the oppression, I couldn’t deny the results. Tucker had made us into exactly what he’d promised—internationally revered superstars.

  For five years we performed together. Traveled together. Got stinkin’ fuckin’ rich together. And the fame? My god. It was beyond any of our wildest dreams. Me, Bodhi, Dane, Hunter, and Shawn. Goddamn, I loved those guys. None of us shared the DNA that defined a bloodline, but we were family all the same. It was that bond, one I’d never felt with my own brothers, that I missed the most after our breakup. But I didn’t miss the rest—the estrogen-fueled mobs, the micromanaging middlemen, the saccharine lyrics I was forced to sing.

  AnyDayNow had inevitably run its course, and the way I saw it, we’d gotten out just in time. Here’s the problem with boy bands—they’re never meant to last. In fact, there’s a simple mathematical formula—puberty plus eight—that accurately predicts how long a boy band can thrive in the wild. Our little girl fans didn’t want us to grow old. They wanted our youthful faces and smooth skin to stay frozen in time. But there’s no aging in reverse. Inevitably, we had to grow up, get hairy, and move on.

  I shook off the memories threatening to derail my big day. Today wasn’t about the band or the guys or Tucker Fuckin’ Beckett. It was about me and my new sound. I’d been working nonstop since AnyDayNow’s demise six months ago to polish my solo album, and now, finally, the day was here.

  “Look at that,” Roland beamed. “They love you, RJ.”

  Unimpressed, I didn’t bother looking his way. Roland Akers was my new manager—a yes-man through and through. He did whatever I said, when I said it. With Roland, there was no micromanaging. No rules. Roland said yes. Roland listened. Roland made things happen. For example, the three-song mini concert I was about to perform on the pier. Okay, look, I’ll admit to having my doubts when Roland had first proposed it to me. Sure, I knew my shit was good, but was it smart to unleash it on my teeny-bopper fans who weren’t used to this type of music? These tunes were harder, deeper, and heavier than the pop songs they knew and loved. But I also understood what Roland was saying. I needed these girls. They were the buzz required to launch my solo career.

  Tucker Beckett would’ve said no. He would’ve told me that celebrating the release of my album with a concert on the pier in front of a handpicked selection of AnyDayNow superfans was too splashy, too ego-fueled. He would’ve tried to stifle my creativity. Well, fuck him. Where was Tucker Beckett now? Oh, yeah—he was dying a slow post-AnyDayNow death, while I was on the cusp of superstardom all over again… with the cowering Roland Akers by my side.

  No one could say I lacked confidence. Even as a child, I’d wanted to be seen. To be heard. To be loved. And that meant I needed to excel at everything I did. There was no better way to stand out in a crowd than to be better than everyone else—or at least better than my older brothers. And so I embraced my skills, whether that meant sports or skateboarding or singing, and showed them off, earning myself more than a few enemies along the way. But what did I care? There were always more ‘friends’ waiting in the wings to skim a little off my shine.

  I’d concede to being a cocky bastard—bastard being the key word here. As a matter of fact, I was the result of a ‘break’ in my parents’ marriage, or at least that was how my mother des
cribed it. My father might not fully agree. According to his recollections of my illegitimate beginnings, they had been happily married with two kids, a dog, and a cat, and floating cherubs singing love songs in the rain. Obviously, the truth lay somewhere in between.

  All I knew for sure was that Mom got pregnant with me by some traveling musician who’d played a few gigs at the bar she used to frequent with friends. His name was Greg or Gary, or possibly Jack. She couldn’t remember exactly—damn those Mojitos—but she did remember having sex with him once or twice or possibly three times in the back of his van. And then, after he was long gone, Mom found herself pregnant with a busker’s baby and desperately trying to cover it up.

  How did I know the gritty details of my mother’s infidelity, you ask? Because it came up every time my parents fought… like every fucking time.

  How many times do I have to tell you to put the toilet seat down, Renato?

  I don’t know, Heather. How many times did you fuck that musician in the back of his van?

  Yeah. So, that was how I knew.

  Mom hid the truth for as long as she could, the two of them preparing for my arrival just as they had for my brothers before me. But when the doctor handed me to my father in the delivery room, Dad took one look at my light skin and bright-blue eyes and handed me back, insisting he’d been given the wrong baby. But no, I’d come straight out of his wife’s birth canal and into his waiting arms. There was no mistake, buddy.

  He just takes after my side of the family, Mom insisted, offering up her Irish freckles as proof. But no one in the birthing room believed her. Hell, I was minutes old, and I didn’t believe her. There wasn’t a drop of Renato’s side of the family in me. That much was easily confirmed in our first party of five photo. Ah, yes, it was a classic. My father with the look of death on his face. My mom nervously looking his way. And me, translucent, in the middle of my two older brothers. I was the human equivalent of the childhood game, ‘Which of these things just doesn’t belong?’

  But Mom wasn’t willing to part with her lie so easily, even naming me after him—Renato Junior—in her continued effort to deceive. How was that for a consolation prize? Sorry I slept around but here, I’ll name him RJ after you—just so you’ll never ever forget what I’ve done. As you can imagine, nothing about my existence sat well with the man. He’d gone from a proud, expectant father of three boys to a bitter man with another mouth to feed. This was no Hallmark movie. Renato never ‘came around.’ He never accepted me as his. And we never lived happily ever after. At least, I never did.

  Uhhh…not now. I couldn’t think about shit like that, not on the biggest day of my life. Three songs. That was all I needed to sing to have my adoring fans bowing down once more. That would show my family and all the other haters out there who took one look at me and immediately thought loser.

  “RJ, have my baby.”

  I glanced out the window at the woman offering me up fatherhood like it was such a simple endeavor. What she didn’t know was that there would never be little RJs running around in this world, not if I could help it. I hated kids; or at least I hated the ones who came to AnyDayNow concerts. The little screamers who burst my eardrums with their high-pitched squeals, the tiny tyrants who stomped their angry feet and demanded their mommies and daddies keep buying them more of our overpriced merchandise—the cash boxes that kept me in the goddamn lap of luxury. Also the ones I was now counting on to blast my solo career into the stratosphere.

  The car door swung open and Roland stood there, his megawatt smile nearly blinding me with its splendor. “You ready for this?”

  Ready? This wasn’t amateur hour. I knew how to work a crowd. Really, this was just like any other night’s work. I’d have these girls eating out of my hand before the night was through. I could barely wait to read the industry reviews the following day.

  Stepping out of the limo, I plastered a smile on my face and waved to the crowd. Fans surged, forcing security to form a barrier between me and the overexcited females.

  I turned to Roland. “I was born ready.”

  RJ: Death of a Heartthrob

  Five Months Later

  My eyes are open, but I can’t see. A chill prickles my skin as I inch forward, one small step at a time, using my hands as guides even though I have no idea what I’m reaching for. It feels expansive—dangerous—like at any moment I might plunge over the edge of a cliff. Intermittent pulses of light flash like the pops of a camera shutter. Darkness and then light. A low murmur can be heard from somewhere in the shadows. I tilt my head in the direction of the sound, trying to make out the words. A chant? The lights suddenly flick on, flooding my eyes and giving me the first view of my surroundings. I’m on a stage, microphone in hand, but I’m silent. Paralyzed. The audience studies me from their place of safety. The sound grows louder until I recognize it for what it is—booing.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Jolting upright, I panted wildly as my brain worked overtime, shifting me in and out of that nightmare world and dumping me here…into a not-much-better waking one. Reaching for my phone, I silenced the alarm before dropping back onto my bed and cursing the audience that mocked me whenever I closed my eyes. I wanted to scream or throw things at the wall. But instead I just lay there, silently seething.

  “Fuck you,” I grumbled to the haters in my dreams. “Fuck you all!”

  Dragging my ass out of bed, I wandered into the bathroom to take a piss, and inadvertently I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Whoa! Shit! I twisted my head around to make sure there wasn’t an axe murderer with my likeness sneaking up behind me. Nope. Just me. Damn—at least I looked the part of a pathetic, washed-up has-been. No one could say I wasn’t living up to my potential.

  God, what happened to me?

  No, seriously. What happened?

  I looked like I’d crawled out of a manhole. What was up with my hair? It was like there was a party going on front, back, and center. And to think there was a time when these bitchin’ tresses had inspired Instagram accounts and caused little girls to faint dead away. Yeah, those were the days.

  I sighed. This, right here, was why I avoided mirrors. They were a reminder of how far I’d fallen. Back when I was a bona fide heartthrob, industry people lined the block, eager to help me look the part. The hair, the clothes, the…okay, we weren’t going to talk about the man makeup. I’d bought into the hype, reveling in the thrill of being included with the heavy hitters, like with People magazine’s sexiest men alive. But now, examining my blank canvas up close, I saw that much of my looks had been manufactured through the Hollywood spin machine. I wasn’t all that. Hell, I wasn’t all this.

  Maybe if I shaved off the nastiness covering three quarters of my face, I’d feel better about myself. I mean, I wasn’t a bad-looking guy on a good day. But that beard—dude. I didn’t even know where to begin describing it, other than to say it ate other beards for breakfast. Migrating north and south, the unrestrained growth was climbing not only up my face but down my throat. It was only a matter of time before my wily whiskers joined forces with the lonely, south-of-the-equator happy trail, and then I might as well throw in the towel. This was not good. Even if I wanted to get back in the beauty-obsessed music business, the doors would be deadbolted shut for the new and unimproved me.

  Not bothering to flush, I slammed the lid down and sidestepped to the sink, never taking my eyes off the asshole in the mirror.

  “What the hell did you do to me?” I accused my reflection.

  It answered back with a flip of its middle finger.

  “Very mature,” I mumbled as I made my way back into the bedroom/living room/kitchen combo area of the space I now called home.

  I almost laughed at that one. Home. Let me be clear. I had a home—three, to be exact. One lavishly appointed mansion for myself in Los Angeles, one gigantic eyesore in Idaho for my blood relatives to squat in, and one ritzy penthouse suite in New York. Yet I preferred to lick my wounds here, in this bare-bones
apartment. With its white walls and dull-brown fixings, the 450-square-foot holding cell was no one’s idea of a relaxing spot to prop up tired feet after a long day of moping. If it weren’t for my guitar, my keyboard, and a pile of scribbled songs scattered over the Yeti cooler I was using as my coffee table, there would be nothing in this suck ass studio apartment that felt like home. I’d conceded defeat, and this was my place of worship.

  I think both me and the shithead in the mirror would agree. We’d hit rock bottom. Problem was, I didn’t know how to pull myself out of the crevasse I was now wedged in. I needed outside help, someone who could objectively analyze the situation…and maybe offer up some worthwhile suggestions.

  Sighing, I realized I was going to have to use a lifeline.

  “Alexa, make me not want to stick my head in the garbage disposal today.”

  “Playing grunge music,” her automated voice replied, as screaming melodies instantly blasted from her speaker.

  I stood there a moment, stunned at the lack of communication we shared before realizing maybe Alexa was onto something. Maybe I needed more shrieking in my life.

  “Ah, yes.” I nodded. “Perfect choice.”

  But by the end of the three minutes, I wanted to drive my car into a lake and not try to get out. No, this was the opposite of help. I needed something less ‘blow your brains out’ and more ‘keep that chin up, bud.’ So I asked Alexa for something upbeat, and she delivered by serving up a big healthy serving of bubblegum pop…and not just any bubblegum pop, but my bubblegum pop.