Wasted Heart (8 page)

“Sure, sweetie,” I answer. Standing, I ask a waiter to take our picture.

“My mom and I thought it was you,” she states nervously, motioning to a couple of tables over.

I wrap my arm around her back and smile for the camera. After he snaps the picture, I turn towards her. “What grade are you in?”

“I’m in seventh grade. My mom took me and my best friend, Becky, to see you in concert last year. It was awesome.”

“Thank you so much. What’s your name?” I ask, smiling at her.

“Kelsey. My mom said not to stay long, so thanks,” she says, turning to walk back to her table.

I look over to see her mother waving to me, and I wave back. This part of being in the public eye, I can handle. It’s having your personal life plastered all over magazines and online that I can’t. People can be vicious. One minute they love you, and the next, you’re chopped liver.

Reaching into my bag, I grab some money and count out the right change plus tip. I turn to leave the eatery and walk back to the studio. Today, the sun shines and warms the cool autumn air. The streets are busy for the music district, many traveling to and from their work lunches.

My mind shows me a clear picture of Rhye. I can’t even describe the way seeing him for the first time made me feel. Alive. Need. I’ve only ever had that instant reaction to Tag, and this time, it’s much stronger. Rhye carries an intense sadness. I’m sure it would break most mere human beings. Is his internal struggle a reflection of his poor attitude? I don’t know, and I shouldn’t care, especially after what he said in the studio.

I’ve never had someone speak so roughly to me. I can’t even comprehend what it’s like to not care about how you act or what you say. Everything I do is constantly observed, and there is always someone just waiting for me to make the wrong move. I feel ashamed to admit that, in this instant, I envy that about him. It’s a freedom I deny myself.

Crossing the street, I remember hearing his songs for the first time. The only music I love, other than country, is rock. One time, this guy friend from high school invited me to a homecoming dance being held in our old gym. I remember a slow dance where my date and I both loved the song that was playing. Even to this day, I remember the voice of the guy singing it captivating me, removing me from that overly-decorated gym to a place where only he and I existed. When the song was over, I asked my date if he knew who the singer was. I remember him saying that it was some new band called the “Mavericks,” and the lead vocalist was Rhye Clark.

As popular as country music is, very few artists attain the god-like status that rockers do, and that is fine and dandy by me. I don’t want the intense personal surveillance that comes along with it. I’m sure that Rhye’s “I don’t give a flip” attitude is a direct response to that overwhelming responsibility, or it could just be that he’s a jackass.

Rhye qualifies in abundance for the title of “rock star”. His voice. God that voice. The deep, raspy tone gives me chill bumps just thinking about it. It reaches down inside and tugs at every string you possess. He visually fits the bill. Any girl, no matter the age, would die to even have him notice her, unlike yours truly that he glanced over and seemingly forgot about. I’d like to examine every single tattoo he has inked on his body, ask him why he got them and what they mean, mainly just to hear him speak. I can’t imagine what it would feel like to have him turn that excruciating pain, that deep loss, into focusing on something or someone else. My body trembles at the thought, and I have to stop on the sidewalk to compose myself.

Reaching my destination, I look up at the recording studio in front of me. Am I ready for round two? Part of me wants to keep on going, but the other pauses, not knowing if I can handle being in the same room as him. Not knowing if he plans to look at me with the disdain he obviously had earlier or ignore me as if I am truly insignificant to him. I fear both. The unknown causes me to doubt myself, something I’ve never experienced. Syn Landry! Get your act together. It’s just a guy. A walking, talking moron. March yourself right upstairs and let him know how little you care. Okay, lie to yourself about how little you care.

I take a deep breath and walk upstairs. Once I open the door to the room, I immediately notice that Rhye and Mel are the only ones inside. I think about leaving, at least until Julie returns, but when Mel sees me, he smiles.

“Did you have a good lunch?” he asks, standing and walking towards me.

“Yeah. Julie and I ate at the deli,” I reply, frozen in place and concentrating solely on Mel.

“I’ve been meaning to try it. Hey listen, I need to run downstairs. Would you let Ryan or Julie know I’ll be right back?” he says, reaching the door.

“Sure,” I nod, moving to sit in my chair.

The door shuts with a sense of finality. I’m afraid to turn towards him. Minutes pass. The silence is deafening, but the tension in the room is at a fever pitch. I’m scared to turn and see that he doesn’t feel it, this pulsating need that threatens to engulf me. The air thickens, each breath I take highlighting the rise and fall of my chest, and my body reacts to the changing climate.

This is craziness. Just look at him, Syn. He’s just some rock star crush that you need to get over, and he probably doesn’t even notice you. You are imagining every bit of this in your head. Look up at him, you idiot. Get it over with!

Without another thought, I look directly at him, and he’s staring right back at me, those infinite black eyes looking right through me it seems. A sneer on his face says that he finds something about me very lacking. Great. Just wonderful. However, I can’t look away. As much as it pains me to see how he obviously dislikes the sight of me, it’s still more painful to turn away from him.

My heart doesn’t know whether it wants to run from the room screaming or to walk right up to him and kiss the ever-living life back into him. This internal war waging inside of me threatens to change my very being, tearing down every unwritten rule that governs my mind and body, granting him access to write my entire future.

He finally blinks his eyes, not realizing that we must have been in a staring match. Shaking his head, he looks away, only to turn back to me. He starts to say something but stops.

“Not much creeps me the fuck out, but your staring is starting to,” he states, looking directly at me.

“Yeah, the feeling is mutual,” I answer, not taking any offense. I understand exactly what he is saying.

“Whatever. I’m not interested,” he says, this time looking away.

“Again, feeling mutual,” I lie. What am I supposed to say?

Now he looks at me, with one eyebrow raised. Call my bluff, buddy. Then, I’ll call yours. This entire situation has gone from heated to awkward. We have to work together. I can be professional about this.

“Look, I guess we are going to have to work together. I say we get through this as civilly as possible. Agreed?” For some reason, I lean towards him and stick my hand out for him to shake. What are you doing, Syn Landry? Idiot.

He looks at my hand and gives this annoying, sneering laugh. I start to pull my hand back when, finally, he places his hand out to reach for mine. Everything seems to move in slow motion. The single touch of his fingers first touching my hand. His grip overwhelming mine. Tiny zaps of electrical current crawling up my arm. A pounding needs starts in my abdomen. I search his eyes, needing to know if he is, in anyway, connected to what is going on. Instead, I find those dead eyes resting on me. Nothing. I look down, realizing I’m the only one holding on, and I let go.

“Anyway,” I say, swallowing back this crazy, desperate emotion.

I turn away, reaching for my notebook and pen and praying that the liquid gathering in my eyes doesn’t fall. I don’t know why I feel this way. It’s so confusing, and I feel like absolute horse manure knowing that it’s only me. How could I expect someone like him to take notice of someone like myself? He dates movie stars for crying out loud. Experienced women. Probably whores. Dear Lord, I apologize for that thought. It was ugly…but true.

When the door opens and Ryan and his crew enter, I dare to take one more peek at Rhye. His eyes are still focused on me; however, I can now plainly see that I’m not the only one confused. For some reason, my stupid heart leaps at the realization.

I count the endless minutes until I’m released from this prison. We’ve been supposedly “writing” all afternoon. Yet, I still have zero on my page, well, other than the oriental dragon I drew for the hell of it. Between Ryan giving me slack all afternoon for taking smoke breaks and having to deal with whatever that shit was that happened with Smiley, I need a drink. Fuck that, I need a bottle.

Not that I want to admit it, even to myself, but damn if I didn’t feel something when our hands shook this afternoon. At first, I was numb to everything as normal, but when she pulled back, I felt…something. It sounds dumb, but it’s the first time in a while that I’ve felt anything remotely deep inside for anyone else. I stare at her, wondering what makes her different.

Around five o’clock, Mel goes out for pizza and beer, returning with enough for everyone. I try to force one slice down and guzzle several beers. For some reason, I keep having to stop myself from looking over at Smiley. She hasn’t said anything else directly to me this afternoon. I notice her take a slice of pie and opt for a coke instead of beer. The room seems to get smaller and smaller, closing in on me, and the day can’t end fast enough.

Several hours later, after more pretending to write and listening to Ryan and Mel’s ideas, we finally call it a day. I quickly stand and rush out, not looking to see what she is doing. The idea of returning to the apartment is about as appealing as staying one more minute in that studio. Exiting the building, I light one up and hold the smoke in before blowing it out. My unsteady hands worsened as the day progressed, now making it difficult to even hold my cigarette. Thankfully, this should be the hardest day on my body.

Darkness has fallen, and already, the night life is awakening the streets. The neon lights glow from the signs, announcing the clubs and bars that line either side. The ones that obviously have a country theme I stay the hell out of. I see one at the corner that reads “Mike’s Bar”. Taking a chance, I put my second cigarette out, and place my hands in my pockets before entering.

Walking in, I immediately notice the rock band setting up on the small stage that faces the bar. Just what I was looking for. I move directly to the far end and sit down on a stool, noting that there isn’t a lot of people in the place. Back in L.A., you can’t walk into a bar without at least one paparazzi bastard taking your picture and hounding you for the night. Most nights you party in V.I.P., not to be cool but to be left the fuck alone.

I drum my fingertips on the smooth wooden bar, enjoying the anonymity that the low light affords me.

“What can I get you to drink?” the bartender asks, looking uninterested in who I am or maybe he doesn’t know.

“Let me get a bottle of Jack and a Coke to go with it.”

“No problem,” he replies, turning away.

I look towards the stage and the guys setting up to play. They’re probably older than I am now, but I remember when we used to look like that, excited at the opportunity to get on stage to showcase our music. Let everything that was going on in our lives disappear and be gods on that stage. Rule the world with our instruments and feel as if nothing else matters but the music.

So many memories, that normally I can block out, assault me. I remember playing at our old spot in Athens, Georgia. Vortex was the first stage I ever stepped on. The first paying gig I ever had. Smiling, I think about the couple hundred dollars that we made and how we thought we were the shit. We had made it, getting paid to play was the absolute shit. Being on that stage was all I ever wanted. Well, almost all I ever wanted. I quickly push my thoughts to think about anything else but her. Jay. My old girlfriend from high school.

“Here you go, man. I’ll just put it on your tab,” he smiles, placing a bottle of liquor, a glass of soda, and a shot glass down in front of me.

Well, I guess he does know who I am, but he seems cool about it. I can deal with that. Nodding my head, he finally turns to leave. Not bothering to use the shot glass, I twist the cap off the bottle and down a fifth of it. The liquid burns on instant contact, hitting my stomach like a punch in my gut; however, I welcome the pain. Once you experience the high of drugs, getting drunk is never that appealing, not to mention it seems to take more and more alcohol to make that happen. Point in case: Me drinking the entire bottle.

I kill half of the Coke, drowning out the hard liquor taste. Nothing seems to happen other than the unease of fighting the nausea that threatens to empty my stomach. Only one answer to that. I pick the bottle up again and drink. This time, it doesn’t burn like a bitch going down, and my stomach is somewhat numb to the process. Finishing the last of the soda, I place it back on the bar. The bartender replaces it without asking.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

The band starts to play, getting ready for their set. They begin with a Pearl Jam song, and within seconds of the lead singer opening his mouth, I know why. He sounds a lot like Eddie Vedder. I close my eyes, tracing the individual sounds within the music. The drummer doesn’t miss a beat, keeping time for his bandmates. The bass player moves in synchrony with the head guitarist, preempting the melody. A unit, banded together, creating something so real. So alive. Their own army. When did I lose my respect for that ability? When did it cease to matter?