Healing Melody (2 page)

See what I mean by pressure?

I’m screwed! Every time I try to write a new song, I can’t stand what I come up with. I just can’t seem to get into a groove.

I can’t be dried up already, can I? I’m only twenty-four.
 

Questions race through my mind.

Was my last album all I had in me? Was that all I had to say?
 

It can’t be.

I need some inspiration, fuckin’ pronto.
 

Should I meditate?
 

I tried that. It didn’t work.
 

Should I roll another joint?
 

What’s the point, the last one didn’t help.
 

Should I get laid?

Now, that’s something I haven’t done in quite a while… but not by choice. My therapist strongly believes I should abstain from sex for at least a month. She’s worried I might become a sex addict on account of my escapades during my last tour.
 

You see, some people like to do a shot of whiskey before they go on stage, others, a line of coke.
 

Me: I like to fuck.
 

Sex unleashes something magical inside of me. It inspires me. And after a good round of fucking, I always feel extraordinary and want to take on the world like some sort of super hero.
 

And usually, after having sex, is when I write my best songs.

But my therapist, Jeanie, is really worried I’m developing a sex dependency problem. I told her she was a full of it. So, she challenged me to prove her wrong.
 

“Go without sex for a whole month,” she said during my most recent therapy session. “If you can do it without any trouble, then you don’t have a problem.”

She had me cornered, so I agreed.
 

I’m nine days into my abstinence. And it’s a living hell.
 

Maybe if I just play with myself, I’ll get inspired and write something good. But I just know there’s something about a nice hard cock that always does the trick for me.
 

I drum my fingers on the piano.
 

Damn it! Now I can’t stop thinking about cock. I really want a nice hard one buried inside me. I want to feel it driving in and out of my wet pussy. I picture myself wrapping my legs around the waist of a strong, muscled stud. I squeeze his firm butt as he plows me toward bliss. I’m getting so freakin’ hot just imagining it.

This desire to get fucked is overwhelming.

Shit, maybe I do suffer from sex addiction.

But then I realize I’m dealing with extenuating circumstances here. I’m on a deadline. I have an album to compose and a career to sustain. The whole world is counting on me… or at least
Rolling Stone
is.

That settles it: Fuck abstinence.
 

It’s time for a booty call.
 

I pick up my phone and quickly scroll through my contacts. My fingers stop instantly when Antonio Moreno’s name hits the screen. I have a flashback to the hot sex we had after the Grammys. I remember running my hands over his flawless brown skin, over each clearly defined muscle. I lick my lips as I remember his cock. Damn, that drop-dead-sexy Dominican sure knew how to use it.
 

Antonio is one of the hottest Latin singers in the business, and also a very bankable Hollywood actor. He's not only good looking, but since he knows a thing or two about rhythm, he’s also spectacular in bed.

Antonio is exactly what I need! As I dial his cellphone number, I hope he’s in LA and not in Miami, his home base.

“Well, hello gorgeous.”
 

My pussy tingles at the sound of his smooth and sexy Latin voice.
 

“Please, tell me you’re in LA?” I breathe into the phone.

“That depends. What do you need?” he says calmly.

“You.”

He laughs. “Melody, if you didn’t have such an amazing ass and great pair of tits, I’d think you were a guy.”

“Why?”

“Because all you want is sex and get straight to the point.”

“It’s the twenty-first century, Antonio. Women own their sexuality. Didn’t you get the memo?”

“I guess I’m old fashioned,” he responds. “I like leading the slow dance before I fuck.”

“So, does that mean you’re not interested?”
 

“Now, I didn’t say that. Did I?”

“Great, come over,” I reply with a wide smile.

“Now?”

“Yes, Antonio. Now. This is a booty call. That’s how it works.”

“But I’m already in bed.”

I check the time on my phone. I’m surprised he’s in bed this early. Antonio is usually a late night party animal.

“That’s unlike you,” I say. “It’s only ten past midnight.”

“I know,” he complains. “I’m doing a guest appearance on
Criminal Element
tomorrow. My call time is 5 A.M… so,” he says with a playful tone, “if you want what I can give you, you’re going to have to come over to my place. But make it fast; I want to make sure I get my beauty sleep.”

I hesitate. Antonio’s been renting a beach house in Malibu, on the coast. I’m in the Hollywood Hills. Do I really want to drive all the way there just for a quickie?

“The clock is ticking, Melody. If you want my cock, you better hurry.”

“Fine,” I blurt into the phone. “I’m leaving now.”

Ten minutes later, I reverse my blue Maserati out of the garage and drive toward the gates at the end of my driveway.

As I pull into the street, I notice an old, red Volkswagen Beetle parked a few feet away. That car has been there all week. I drive off, and in my rearview mirror, I see the lights of the beetle flick on. The car starts following me. Just as I suspected: Paparazzi.
 

I make my way down Nightingale Drive, toward Sunset. That red Volkswagen bug follows close behind. I need to lose it before I hit the Pacific Coast Highway and make my way into Malibu. The last thing Antonio and I want is our names linked in the papers. Especially since he’s going through a bitter divorce in Miami involving the custody of his two kids. That wouldn’t be good for either one of our public images.
Rolling Stone
called me an angel, remember?

I’m forced to stop at a red light. That red Volkswagen pulls up alongside me. The driver’s passenger-side window is rolled down. I glance over and see a camera lens pointed straight at me. Behind the lens, I see a familiar round-faced guy with an unruly beard.
 

Fuck, it’s him. I think his name is Charlie. He’s the
WORST
of these LA paparazzi scumbags. He doesn’t believe in boundaries. And lately, he’s made getting footage of me his number one priority.

“Smile, Melody,” he shouts. “Everyone wants to see a smile on America’s Sweetheart.”

I want to give him the finger. But again, I have an image to protect. I shoot him a stupid smirk instead. “Don’t you get tired of following me around?”

“You?” he replies with grin. “Never. Now, Melody, why don’t you tell us where you’re going this Saturday night?”
 

I don’t respond. Like I’m going to tell him. I need to lose this fucker, Charlie, before I
 
hit Malibu. I take another look at his car and an idea springs to mind. The minute the light turns green; I’ll slam on the accelerator. My Maserati will blow the doors off his old Volkswagen bug. Then, I can easily lose him in traffic.
 

I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, waiting impatiently for the light to turn. The whole time Charlie floods me with questions.

“Are you going to go see your boyfriend for a midnight rendezvous? Or is it a girlfriend? Come on Melody, the people have a right to know.”

“No, they don’t,” I mutter to myself.

The light turns green and I slam my foot on the accelerator. From the corner of my eye, I catch a fleeting glimpse of something big and white. That’s the last thing I remember.

When I open my eyes, I see a blinding bright light. Then, I make out a man’s face. I don’t recognize him. Through my blurred vision I notice a nametag on his white lab coat. It takes me a moment to read the letters. Finally, I manage to string them together: Dr. Mercer.

I attempt to ask him where I am, but I can’t speak. That’s when I realize there’s a tube down my throat. I glance around nervously as anxiety rips through my body. I try to raise my head, but I can’t move a muscle. A faint beeping sound quickens its pace.

“Relax, Melody,” he says in a soothing voice. “You’ve been through a lot.”

Relax. Where the fuck am I? What has happened to me?

Doctor Mercer turns and looks at someone. I can’t move my head to see.
 

Fuck, am I paralyzed? Is that why I can’t move?

“Now that’s she out of the coma,” Dr. Mercer says softly. “Administer 10 mg every four hours to help with the pain.”

“Yes, Doctor,” I hear a woman respond.

Coma? Will someone tell me what the fuck has happened?
I want so badly to yell from the top of my lungs.

Doctor Mercer turns and looks at me again. He offers a heartfelt smile but I can tell everything he’s about to say will be devastating.

“You had a terrible car accident, Melody. You’ve been in a coma for two weeks. You suffered 3
rd
degree burns on over fifty percent of your body, including your face.”

He continues talking but I stop listening.
 

Coma. Car Crash.
 

Third Degree burns. Fifty Percent.

My Face!

Dr. Mercer finishes talking and gives me another warm smile.
 

“We’re going to get you through this,” he says reassuringly before stepping away. As he leaves, my eyes overflow with tears.
 

Once he’s gone, a nurse appears in my vision. She concentrates on the IV pump next to my bed. As she adjusts a setting, it beeps. Then she glances down at me. I see the pity emanating from her eyes. With a soft, sad smile she takes a seat beside me. I see a needle in her hand. She pricks my skin with it. As she pulls back on the plunger, she says, “This will help with the pain, sweetie. I’ll come back to check on you in a bit.”

What pain? I can’t feel a thing. I’m numb.

The nurse leaves the room. She draws all the energy out with her.

Chilling, scary thoughts ricochet through my mind. How did this happen to me? Why did it happen? Dread and shock sweep over me. I want to throw my hands up in the air, scream and cry all at once… but I can’t move. I can’t feel a single muscle in my body. The air around me recedes. I’m trapped. Trapped in a badly burned, damaged body. This can’t be real? It’s a nightmare. That’s what it is, a nightmare. I just have to wake up.
 

But then I begin to feel the pain. This pain is real. It’s not a dream. My body is suddenly wracked with it. Tears of agony fill my eyes. Then, thankfully, I feel an unfamiliar, warm sensation run through me. The pain subsides. It must be the drugs the nurse administered. Slowly, a soothing feeling washes over me. My eyes get heavy and I begin to fall asleep.

When I wake up, my nightmare continues. For the rest of the week, I’m in a drug-induced fog as Dr. Mercer and several nurses try to manage my pain. Slowly, I am able to piece together what happened the night of the crash. Images assemble themselves together like a jig saw puzzle, creating a devastating memory that loops in my mind over and over again. They hit me like flashes of lightening: my foot slams on the accelerator when the traffic light turns green, a white truck flies out of nowhere, the truck t-bones my Maserati, my car spins into oncoming traffic. The windshield shatters, the glass prickles my skin. I feel the weight of something hard, and cold as metal, press into my side and face. Everything around me fades to black. When I regain consciousness, a wave of heat engulfs me. Fire. The car is on fire.
 

I’M ON FIRE!
 

I recall trying to scream as the flames scorched my skin.

“Help Me! Help Me!” I tried to shout. But the words just wouldn’t come out.