Because you said, p.1
Because You Said, page 1
BECAUSE YOU SAID
UP IN LIGHTS BOOK ONE
C. L. MENEGON
Because You Said
By C.L. Menegon
Copyright © 2022 by C.L. Menegon
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design: Quirky Circe
Editing: My Brother’s Editor
Proofreading: My Brother’s Editor
Formatting: Quirky Circe
CONTENTS
Dedication One
Dedication Two
Author’s Note
Playlist
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Epilogue
Bonus Scene
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To anyone that has ever been told they will never make it.
Shine your light so bright that it burns their eyes when you do.
To my sweet daughter, H.
My pillar of light.
Your dreams are never too big.
Own them, baby.
I’ll be right there with you—always.
I love you.
Because You Said is a romantic suspense with explicit sexual scenes, sexual assault, violence, suicide references, emotional trauma, foul language, adult themes, and mature situations.
There are certain scenes in this book that will be hard to read—hell, it was uncomfortable to write. I tried to avoid the details. I rewrote them many times, but in the end, I decided to stop trying to control the process. It wasn’t my story to tell, it was Harmony’s.
Please proceed with caution and if you require any more details, please feel free to message me.
I’m here for each and every one of you, always.
With those notes now floating through the music, it’s time to get lost in the beat.
Let’s do this.
Different - Maggie Lindemann
Adios - DE’WAYNE, Chase Atlantic
Lemonade - Andrew Lambrou
100 Ways - Austin Hull
Pour Some Sugar On Me - Def Leppard
Machinehead - Bush
Hells Bells - AC/DC
Feel Good Drag - Anberlin
Third Day of a Seven Day Binge - Marilyn Manson
Heart-Shaped Box - Nirvana
Lollipop - Framing Hanley
Tapping Out - Issues
Desire - Meg Myers
I’d Rather See Your Star Explode - SLAVES
Hollywood Whore - Machine Gun Kelly
Raise Hell - Dorothy
Victim - Vi
RIGGED - The Plot In You
ULTRAVIOLENT - Crywolf
Those Who Stand for Nothing, Fall for Everything - SLAVES
Doomed - Bring Me The Horizon
Bleed It Out - Linkin Park
In the Dark - Shaker
Love You Like Me - William Singe
Demons (Philosophical Sessions) - Jacob Lee
The Diary Of Jane - Breaking Benjamin
Dark Knights - TOKYO ROSE, Jonny Craig
Waiting Game - BANKS
Cherry Waves - Deftones
Rush - William Singe
Let The Flames Begin (Live at the Congress Theater) - Paramore
My pulse is thumping to the beat of the drums.
I can feel the steady buzz of the bass from the greenroom like the deep warmth of an inferno spreading through each and every vein in my body.
I lift my head from the vanity where I have just finished my final touches. Staring back at me, I see a girl viciously clawing at the sand as she tries to escape the fierce waves that threaten to draw her back into the pit of hell.
Breathe, I repeat to myself over and over again.
With a deep inhale, I tilt my head back and allow the air to coat my lungs. Closing my eyes and letting out a slow exhale, I try to envision a peaceful ocean but only come up empty.
When you stare into the ocean, you should find peace in the beauty of watching each wave roll in, glittering from the sun as it makes its way to kiss the shore.
Instead, I am sucked back up by the tide, barely holding on, barely finding any ounce of oxygen to simply breathe—suffocating at the hands of the sea.
I have never been one to be afraid of drowning. Fuck, the thrill of coming out alive after weathering a storm has always excited me.
That’s why I am still here.
Still breathing.
Right?
Peering into the mirror, a chill emanates through my body as I see the woman staring back at me.
I’ve been mistaken for weak, told I was nothing—but that’s where they’re wrong.
I have a voice and it’s time for them to hear my melody.
LA, California
Twenty Years Old
“Babe, we’re going to be late. Hurry up,” yelled Lance.
Fuck, that guy’s a pain in my ass.
“Go on your own, I told you I wasn’t coming,” I scream back at him, rolling my eyes as I sink lower into the water.
Immediately, I hear his footsteps as he makes his way up the stairs. I really wish he would pick his feet up.
With each shuffle, he drags and stomps them, much like he does when banging his damn drums.
Lance is my drummer and now, my boyfriend.
They say you should never mix business with pleasure, but I’ve never been one to stick to a simple beat.
I soak in the bath, sipping on a warm honey lemon tea as I listen to the music float from my speakers.
After spending the past twenty-four hours in the studio, throwing words, beats, and melodies around to come up completely empty, it’s needed.
My throat feels like it’s been ripped to shreds, my fingers ache from playing the keys, and my eyes feel like they have been scorched.
My management is trying to take my sound down a road that isn’t me and it’s honestly starting to piss me off.
What is music if you aren’t being authentic to who you are? I ask myself, wanting to erase the last twenty-four hours straight from my subconscious.
You are bound to fail, to plummet off the steep edge and with each climb you make to get back up, you’ll fall back down.
Actually, I’ll just jump.
Fuck climbing, I decide willingly.
If I can’t do what I love, I won’t do it at all.
Lance walks into the bathroom with a sour look on his face.
Fuck if I care. It’s not like he’s ever been concerned about me and my feelings.
He stands there, flicking through his phone without sparing me a simple glance.
“You have twenty minutes,” he says, still not looking in my direction.
Sometimes I wonder if he truly sees me or hears me.
Does he hear my muffled cries in the middle of the night as I sit on the window seat, looking out at the stars begging for an escape?
I want to fly away.
No one will miss me here anyway.
I’m completely burned out.
What would happen if I just disappeared? I ponder. I mean, I should know, I’ve done it before.
“Did you hear me, Harmony?” he demands, lifting his head from his phone.
“Whatever,” I deadpan, immersing myself completely under the water.
I really wish this guy would stop sucking up my ass. Not that he’s a bad guy, he is only doing the best with what I give him, and to be honest, it’s not much.
He is sexy with his shoulder-length brown hair and brown eyes, passionate about music, and doesn’t disappoint in the sheets, but there is only one problem. He isn’t him.
Asher.
A cold chill makes its way over my body, goose bumps covering every surface of my skin.
I hug my legs to my chest, resting my chin on top of my knees, feeling the knife drive into my heart again at the thought of his name.
A dormant ache pick s up in my chest, reopening the deep wound I thought had been stitched over.
Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him and how I disappeared without a word, without a goodbye, and without an explanation.
I had no choice.
I did what I had to.
If only he knew.
Two Years Earlier
New York City, New York
Eighteen Years Old
Growing up, I was forced to believe that I had to act, dress, and hold myself in a certain manner to be respected. Apparently, I had to have a pole up my ass and stick my pinkie finger out as I drank my cup of tea to keep a smile on my parents’ faces.
“If you dress like a whore, you’ll be treated like one.” I hear my father’s vile words run through my head.
After one of his acquaintances thought my niceties were an invitation into my pants, I confided in my parents and the venom that was spat all over me still makes my skin crawl.
My father threw his hands out in front of him. “What do you expect, Harmony? Look at you.”
After that day, I simply stopped giving a fuck. I rebelled, and I rebelled hard. I was no longer going to respect someone that didn’t respect me.
I went on a blood spree, running our last name through the mud with a smile on my face. I ensured everyone knew who the cruel narcissists my parents really were.
It wasn’t long before I was thrown out on my ass accompanied by a black eye gifted from my father, my mother’s hand imprinted across my cheek and the memories of the fuck that tried to take something from me that wasn’t his to take.
It’s been six months and I haven’t heard from them, forgotten about like the trash you take out at the end of a day.
“Music is not a realistic career. You will never make it. Stop wasting your time on your songs and go and do something constructive that will make you real money.” I hear their cruel voices circle through my head.
It makes me want to slam my fist through the plasterboard of the wall, let my knuckles bleed out, and watch the blood trickle down my skin.
At least the pain will cover some of the wounds I feel every time I think of how they stabbed me in the chest with their shitty degrading words that still haunt me to this day.
Grandpa welcomed me with open arms and allowed me to express myself and be who I wanted to be while encouraging me to reach for the stars and to fight for my dreams.
I miss him every day. He didn’t get long enough on this planet, taken from me in a devastating car accident. He was hit at full force, head-on, his car flipped, and he died instantly.
It broke me. I’m still broken. I swear part of my heart got lost in the wreckage and I don’t think I will ever find it.
I lie on my bed, watching the sun tuck itself slowly behind the mountains.
I just finished up an eight-hour day at the record store. I love my job. I enjoy spending my hours shuffling through records and listening to new music.
We had one lady make her way in today just to complain about how loud the music was.
My boss had kindly told her to “fuck off.” I couldn’t help but burst out laughing as she ran out of the store with a look of utter disgust on her face. He proceeded to boot the volume up higher while we both fell into hysterical laughter for the next ten minutes.
I chuckle again at the thought before pushing myself up from my bed and gazing out the window. My eyes are drawn to the sky. I watch the dark emerge across the expanse of my vision, the gloomy clouds rolling in. I can hear the slow rumble of the thunder over my music, bringing me back to when I was a little girl and sat on the balcony with my grandfather.
We bonded over thunderstorms, and we used to bet which part of the sky we would see the next lightning strike.
“In light we find happiness, Harmony—shine your light, be the light, look for the light, see the light, and keep going.”
I miss those days. I like to sit here in comfort, knowing that he is up there, making sure he can put on the best light show for me.
He was a pillar of strength and everything good.
Turning away from the window and making my way to the vanity, I sit down and pull my hair back from my face before starting to work on my makeup for the evening.
It’s a Saturday night, which means it’s gig time.
You’ll always find me performing three-hour sets in the bars every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. It’s where I am happiest.
Music has rippled through my blood since I could remember—it’s what makes up my identity.
Lucky for close connections with the bar owners and being able to score myself a fake ID, they simply turn a blind eye, pour me my next shot, and hand me over my cash at the end of the night.
As a musician, starting at the bottom and working your way up is essential. You never know who could be watching, scoping you out, or what deal you might strike.
Sure, I get a lot of fucked-up interactions with drunk assholes. Mostly it’s players who think they’re God’s gift to women and their girlfriends who glare at me, unable to stand the fact that their boyfriends are eye fucking me while keeping their arms wrapped around their shoulders because apparently, it’s my problem.
Go figure. I roll my eyes at the thought.
Stella should be here any minute. That girl is my backbone. There hasn’t been a gig she has missed.
After shows, we like to hit the town, get ourselves into trouble, dance all night, drink too much, and subsequently wake up every Sunday morning regretting our life choices. Yet, we then proceed to do the exact same thing the following week.
“Babe, I’m here, and I’ve got the goods,” a voice I’m well acquainted with shouts through the room.
Looking over my shoulder, I see Stella walk through the front door with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a brand-new pair of black-and-white high-top Chucks in the other, which undoubtedly are mine.
This girl spoils me.
“Girl, you didn’t have to do that, I can’t—” I begin to say, but she cuts me off.
“They’re yours, and I will be offended if you make me walk my ass back to return them. Just take them and say thanks.”
“Thanks.” I hug her as I take the shoes and feel a blush make its way up my cheeks. I’m not one to accept gifts easily, but I know Stella won’t take no for an answer.
“Time to get fucked up,” Stella yells, grabbing my hand to pull me into the kitchen. Lining up some shot glasses, she pours the clear liquor out into them.
I throw mine back, bringing my wrist to my mouth as I start coughing and spluttering. “You’re lethal,” I state around a chuckle to the empty shot glass in my hand.
After spending the next hour dolling ourselves up and talking shit, I look at the half-empty bottle of vodka and begin to recount how many shots I’ve actually taken. My limit is usually two. I need to be able to perform without slurring my words. Two always calm the nerves. It’s the perfect note to ease me into the next three hours.
When we are ready to head out, I pour two more shots, handing one over to Stella. We hold them in the air as she says, “Here’s to hopefully getting you picked up tonight by a record label and a guy.” We both burst into laughter.
“Yeah, both would be nice,” I reply with a grin.
I tap my glass against hers. Throwing my head back, I feel my long hair skate over my ass as the clear liquor burns down my throat.
“Gross, ugh, it never gets easier,” I cough out before opening my eyes and running a finger over the drop of vodka that’s rolling down my chin as I feel my loose black crop top riding dangerously high on my torso. I make a mental note to slip a bralette on before we leave.
