Wasted Heart (12 page)

Todd tells them that I’m in town recording my new album and with whom, which gets a round of “holy fucks.” The next ten minutes are spent answering questions about making it in the industry and touring. Of course, afterwards comes the questions on the other bands we’ve toured with, who’s the craziest of all, etc. I give them what they want to hear, the truth with a dose of the extreme. It’s a fucking madhouse on tour, but after a while, you become sick of the road, of playing, and of each other. Up becomes down and vice versa. The only sane ones are the married fuckers that travel with their families, not that I want that, but I’ve seen it keep them grounded long after I laughed at their pussy-whipped asses.

“What do you want to sing? We can pretty much cover all of your stuff,” Todd asks.

“What other bands do you cover?” I ask, deflecting the question. Everyone says different band names.

“We pretty much cover all of Pearl Jam’s songs because of Todd’s uncanny sounding voice to the legendary Eddie. I think we would all agree that we are huge Incubus fans, but Todd doesn’t have the chops for it,” the bass players says, ragging Todd. “You up for it?”

“Fuck yeah. He’s my boy,” I reply, smiling over the choice.

“Alright. Let’s do ‘Dig,’” Todd says. Everybody agrees and starts heading towards the stage.

Ah shit. Yeah, I know “Dig”. It’s one badass song; however, it has deep lyrics. Following the band, they walk up on stage where their instruments are ready to go. I hear the crowd around us start to notice me standing off to the side. My name seems to echo through the room, and everyone suddenly seems to rush the stage, getting as close as possible.

The lights go up, blindingly bright, and my heart pounds inside my chest as if I’m sprinting after the dragon. Damn, I wish. My body feels frozen in place, and I instantly think to myself, “
Am I going to be able to pull this off? How the fuck did I end up going on stage tonight? Oh yeah, one fucking reason. Her. Syn Landry.”

“How’s everybody tonight?” Todd asks, looking out over the people in the bar.

I squint my eyes through the blinding light to see several girls who are standing in the front yelling, including giant lips from the other night. I can’t help but remember that big ass mouth. She smiles up at me and says something to the ginger standing next to her.

“We’ve got something extra special for you guys tonight. I’d like to welcome Rhye Clark, lead singer of the Mavericks, to the stage to help us sing one of our favorite covers,” he says, turning to clap his hands towards me.

“Fuck it. Let’s do this,” I say to myself. Taking a deep breath, I step forward. I grab the microphone stand and look out over the bar. Once again, the room seems to be at capacity. I’m actually surprised at the calmness that spreads over me. This feels right. It feels like coming home.

“I just want to give a big motherfucking thank you to these guys for letting me sing with them tonight,” I say, nodding at each band member. The respect in each of their eyes reminds me of another time, a moment that I used to have with the guys in my band. Ever since Chris died, I’ve let myself forget why I started singing in the first place. It’s always been about the escape that music gave me but also about the respect and commitment amongst a group of musicians.

The first guitar chords of “Dig” are played, and I think about the lyrics. Once I hear a song for the first time and love it, I never, not once, forget the words. This song is tough to think about, but I can’t stop detailing each line in my mind while I sing it. I grasp the mic stand with both hands, close my eyes, and let the phrases speak to my soul.

By the time the chorus hits, I open my eyes, feeling completely in-tune with the music and the band. I can’t see most of the crowd because of the lights blinding me, but I hear their voices joining in unison with mine. I let the energy of the crowd fill all the emptiness inside, not worrying about how short-lived it will be.

Grabbing the mic off the stand, I move with the music, letting the lyrics tell the story. I step to the end of the stage, resting my foot against one of the speakers. Todd joins in singing on the bridge, our voices melding and blending. He plays his guitar, and for one moment, I feel my heart pound intensely, the feeling of belonging not with them but on this stage, reminds me what I need to fight for. It’s worth it, especially when everything else in my life has gone to shit.

The song ends too fast for me, the sound of the crowd echoing through the small bar. The guys in the band smile at each other, including me in their obvious camaraderie. My body is wired, feeling a complete natural high that overshadows anything man made. I’m light-headed, not only from the booze but the adrenaline rush streaking through my body. I try to hold onto this feeling, even if only for seconds, knowing it never lasts.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Todd says, smiling at me while offering his fist.

“Hell yeah, man,” I say, smiling back and pounding my hand to his.

I turn to the crowd and raise the mic to my mouth. “Damn, that’s the shit right there. Thanks to the kickass guys for letting me join in with them.” I place the microphone back on the stand and turn to walk off the stage so they can finish their set.

I hear Todd say something about me, and the crowd yells loudly. Stepping down, I’m bombarded with fans. Talking to everyone is impossible, and I’m glad when a couple of the bouncers walk over with the bartender, clearing a path. Big lips and her ginger friend stand to the side as I try to make my way out.

“Hey, Rhye,” Big lips yells. “You want to bring my friend and me home with you?” She turns her head and French kisses the shit out of the redhead beside her. Girl on girl action equals a definite hard on. I grab her arm, she grabs her friend’s hand, and they follow me.

I’m attracting way too much attention to stay which sucks because I’d like to see the guys’ set. The bouncers lead me to a side entry, and one asks if they need to call a car for me. Knowing I’m only a block away, I start tell him no when I hear the other bouncer mention there is a massive crowd out front. Evidently, word gets around fast, and people were coming to see me.

“Man, I’m staying at SR studios, and I walked here earlier.” The guy nods and says his car is parked on the side. Me and my kinky sidekicks slip through the door and follow him so he can give us a ride. I slide into the passenger seat while the other two slide in the back. I’m still running off the fumes from the stage high and a buzz from the alcohol. Music comes over his car radio, and I keep time with drumming on my knee. It only takes minutes to arrive at my apartment.

“Thanks, man,” I say, sliding out of the car and waiting for my bedmates to hurry the hell up. What the fuck up is with all the giggling?

I reach for the redhead and pull her under one arm, doing the same with blonde big lips. Draping both arms around them, we walk into the building and wait for the elevator.

“I’m your biggest fan,” the ginger replies breathlessly, looking up at me with big, brown, knowing eyes.

“Oh, you’re going to be an even bigger fan when you see what you get to play with tonight,” I reply cockily.

Again, a round of giggles irk the hell out of me, but I keep my mouth shut. Any straight man with a pulse, married or not, never turns down a threesome. It’s not the bust a ball blue that it once was back in the day, but I never turn down pussy times two, especially with freaks. That’s a guaranteed fucking good time. Literally.

“Reach in my pocket and grab my key,” I tell big lips, feeling her hand slide deep in my jeans and stroke my cock before retrieving the key. No complaints here, especially from my dick.

She opens the door and starts to slip the key into her own pocket. I remove my arm from her shoulders and reach for the key. “That’s not yours,” I say, winking at her. She’s not the first to try, and I’m sure she’s not the last. It doesn’t piss me off; it’s to be expected of the whores I fuck.

“It’s amazing. I didn’t even have to text you tonight,” Josh says, coming around the corner from the kitchen. Stopping, he sees that I’m not alone. “Figures.”

Ignoring him, I swagger past him, first kissing ginger on her overly red lips then turning to blondie’s much plumper ones. Fuck him and his curfew while I fuck these two. Opening the door, I lead them in and close it behind me.

They both walk over to sit on the bed, one unbuttoning her shirt while the other pulls her t-shirt up and over her head. Ginger leans over blondie, running her hands up and over her taut stomach, spreading her hands over laced cover tits. I watch her slip her fingers beneath the flimsy material, playing with those hard nipples underneath.

Knowing show and tell isn’t as fun as fucking doing, I remove my own shirt and join the fray.

I slip on my tennis shoes, tightly tying my shoelaces. I’m hoping a good run will clear my head. After another sleepless night of him invading my thoughts, I’m done, or so I tell myself. Every single time I convince myself that he’s an asshole to the bone, I start thinking about what causes someone to act like he does, and my bleeding heart makes excuses for him. Nothing, not even common sense, can change how much I want Rhye.

Shaking my head, I stand up, adjusting my running shorts and tee. I don’t grab my arm band because I want and need the silence to clear my head today. Reaching for my key to the apartment, I slide it into the small zipper pocket on my shoe.

I open my door and start to step out when the door across from mine opens. Looking up, I watch two girls in wrinkled clothing and mused hair stagger outside. The redhead and blonde both yawn from obvious lack of sleep. A great looking blonde guys walks out after them, standing in the doorway.

“Sorry ladies, but it’s time to go. I want to personally thank you for the symphony of moans that kept me up all last night. Job well done,” he says, watching them walk down the hallway and enter the elevator.

What an asshole. Really? His good looks seem to disappear behind his disrespectful tone and words. I take a step backward, not wanting to have any interaction with the jackass. The sound must attract attention, because he turns to look at me. He glances from my stare of disdain back towards the now empty hallway and begins to speak.

“Wait. No. They weren’t with me,” he explains, holding up his hands.

“None of my business,” I reply, rolling my eyes in disbelief.

“No, really. They’re with my roommate, who evidently hates my guts enough to keep me up all night. I took immense pleasure in waking him and his guests up early this morning. Needless to say, some had worn out their welcome.”

“Oh,” I mutter, blushing at the mental image of what he just implied. This is awkward with a capital “A.”

“Hey, you’re Syn Landry. Right?” he asks, stepping forward and closing the door behind him.

“Yes,” I reply without thinking. Great, Syn. You still don’t know if he’s some creepo.

“I’m Josh. I worked with a country music band last year, and those guys really liked you. I guess you can say they introduced me to your music.”

Not that liking my music doesn’t make him a weirdo, but I remember that I am staying in Sundial’s private apartment building, which means he’s more than likely a musician or connected with the music business. He doesn’t remind me of anyone in particular in country music, but he sure does look like Matthew McConaughey.

“Are you a musician?” I ask, turning to close my door behind me.

“No. I’m a Life Coach Therapist,” he says, walking beside me to the elevator.

“What the heck is a Life Coach Therapist?” I ask, amazed by his admission.

“Well, I’m like a mentor. I partner with clients who are trying to mainstream into everyday life after living through a personal struggle. I use thought-provoking techniques that help them surmount their own internal demons and help stimulate the creative process that inspires them to maximize their professional and personal possibilities.”

Once the elevator doors open, we both step forward, and I press for the bottom floor. “Wow. Interesting,” I say, turning my head towards him. “I’ve never heard of such. So your client now is a musician?”

He turns his face towards me and shrugs, “Employer confidentiality.”

I nod, totally understanding his position and respecting him for not saying anything.

“You going for a run?” he asks, smiling at me and changing the subject.

“Yeah, I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Hopefully not from the chorus of beauties from across the hall,” he says, nudging my shoulder with his.

I laugh. “No. Thank God.”

“So, you want some company?” he asks, smiling when I nod my head.

We walk out of the building and hit the pavement running. Starting out at a slow jog, I hear him clear his throat, and I look over at him.

“Can you talk and run?” he asks, smiling again at my nod. “Tell me about you. Where are you from?”

I find it easy to tell him all about me. We run for over forty minutes, and the entire time, I speak of my mother dying and growing up with a father who couldn’t let her go. He replies throughout my story, encouraging me to continue on. I talk about coming to Nashville, and then I mention meeting Tag. Of course, I don’t say his name, just refer to him as some “guy”.