Wasted Heart (16 page)

It’s killer what time and clarity brings. Now, I question those words over and over. Every day. When I asked Josh about them several days ago, he said he didn’t remember what he said. Fucking liar. I know he’s been meeting her to run or ride bikes almost every morning and have breakfast. I reminded him that he’s too old for her, and he laughed, walking away. Fucker. He knows what I’m trying to throw down. Bastard.

I finish getting dressed and grab my guitar case to head out. Josh sits at the bar in the kitchen when I walk by.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, laying his newspaper down.

“You want my piss now?” I ask, setting my guitar down. I do not want to have to worry about it later.

“You seem anxious. What’s the rush? Hot date?”

“Yeah, with you watching me provide a golden shower in a cup.”

He stands, smiling and saying, “Since you are so adamant about doing it, let’s go.”

I follow him and complete the test with everything being negative. It wasn’t a surprise. I think I would remember getting high. The worst part is I still want to get fucked up, but I just can’t seem to make myself do it.

When we walk back into the kitchen, I grab my case and head for the door.

“Rhye, you’re doing a good job...” he starts to say, but I slam the front door on his words.

Fuck him. I don’t need his stamp of approval. My phone buzzes in my pocket. Looking down, I see it’s my mom again. She’s called several times, and I haven’t answered it. Staring at my phone, I tap my thumb on the accept button.

“Hey,” I answer.

“Hey, sweetie. It’s Mom,” she says, her voice gravelly from smoking a pack a day.

“Yeah. Hey, Mom.”

“I just wanted to check in and say thank you for helping me out. The money has been a godsend, but I’m actually calling to let you know I got a job.”

I take the stairwell down. “Mom, you don’t have to do that. Listen, the new album is going to be great. I’m back in the game, and you don’t have to worry about working again.”

“Rhye, I want to. I’ve applied over the years to several different places, but with the economy and all...” she says, pausing. “I just wanted to tell you thanks and I love you. Maybe you could come visit me soon?”

“I’ll try. Listen, I have to go. I’m about to walk into the studio.”

“Okay. I’m proud of you, Son. Love you.”

I press the end button. I still feel uncomfortable hearing those words. There is nothing about me to be proud of. There never has been. I walk through the doors of the recording studio.

“What’s up, man?” I ask, seeing Mel sitting at the sound board.

“Dude, you have to listen to this track we worked on yesterday. It’s madfunk with some swampy blues.”

I sit beside him, settling in to get this shit out pronto. We work through lunch, and I don’t see anyone else around the studio until late in the afternoon. Ryan walks in with a group of guys, definitely alternative folk music junkies with their beards and bushy hair. He introduces them, and I notice the band name immediately. I haven’t been living under a rock, just strung out these last years.

“If it’s okay, I thought they could help out with the two songs we are getting ready to record. What do you think?”

I shrug before saying, “Fucking cool with me.”

We continue to work until late in the evening. These guys are the shit, super cool, and the sounds they work with are fucking crazy. I’m down with all of it. Around nine, I hear them talking about hitting up this retirement strip club out by the airport. I’ve heard of it but haven’t ventured to check it out.

“Hey, Rhye,” the lead singers says. “You want to hit up the Marble Lounge with us? We are looking for entertainment tonight instead of pussy, plus Jack’s wife is okay with him checking out the retirement strip club versus fresh, new titties.”

My first thought is fucking curfew. Oh hell no! I’m done with this permission shit. “Fuck yeah. Let’s do it.”

It takes about thirty minutes to reach the lounge. When we pile out of the car, I look up at a gold colored building with a big blinking 3D breast at the top. Hell yeah, this is what I’m talking about. I rub my hands together in anticipation. We all had a couple drinks in the car over, and some of the guys are already lit. The bouncer in front recognizes us, but warns us several times that they don’t give two fucks who we are. Any pictures or videos taken, and they will throw our asses out.

Walking in, I laugh at the interior. It is all red shag carpet walls, shiny, black, cracked vinyl booths, and faded gold ceiling. Fucking priceless. A big girl in a bikini leads us to a table up front where an old woman in a g-string dances on a pole to the song “Cherry Pie”. It’s like a train wreck that you can’t turn away from but you know you need to. The mental image will probably damage you for life, but you keep on watching.

We order massive amounts of booze and cut up with all the women who visit our table. Short, fat, young, or old, we have a blast. My favorite is Miss Kitty who swears up and down that I’m going to love her famous stage act.

“I’m going to rock your world, sweet thang,” she purrs, sitting her big ass on my lap. “I love me some skinny white boys.”

When it comes time for her performance, I’m all fucked up. We all stand around the stage as Miss Kitty lays on her back and proceeds to shoot ping pong balls from her pussy. Holy. Fuck. The guys and I go shitballs crazy, screaming and yelling for more. I remember getting on stage with my phone, trying to record it, and the next thing I remember is getting our asses booted out.

We continue to all out fucking drink it up on the way back. I start to feel sick which usually doesn’t happen with alcohol, and my headspace goes from chill to somewhere darker. I hear the rest of the guys cutting up around me, but it’s like I’m outside of my body, watching everything happen in “slo-mo” instead of being in the moment. Oh fuck! This only happens when I take ecstasy or some shit like that. I start to have these uncontrollable thoughts. Fucking images of guns. I should just end this all. It’s never worth it. Everyone’s dead because of me. They will not stop. It’s almost like my brain is screaming them all at me.

The car stops, and I bust out the car door with voices sounding behind me. I ignore them and stumble inside the apartment building, making my way to the elevator.
End it. END. IT
. The chanting in my mind doesn’t stop. I grab my head, pulling at my hair. The four silver walls of the elevator look like they’re closing in. I bang on them, screaming to get out. My hands feel so heavy that I can hardly lift my arms. When the doors open, my feet won’t work when I try to run to get out, and I trip, landing on the floor. “Fuck!” I yell, laughing hysterically. “Goddamn it that hurt!” I crawl to sit and lean against the wall.

The hallway seems to stretch double its length. Motherfucking figures. My life is never easy. I die laughing because crying doesn’t exist for me. Shit, my ankle really hurts, and my damn door seems way too fucking far. Why am I doing this? I could be fucked up for real now and all this shit wouldn’t matter. I’ll just go back to using eventually. I always do. Of course! Get this fucking album out, and I’ll be rich as fuck again, and then, fuck them all! Fuck it. Fuck them. Fuck me. That’s pretty fucking hilarious.

Is he for real? It’s four in the morning, and the idiot is obviously high as a kite or drunk as a skunk as he loudly giggles like a little girl. More than likely, it’s both. It’s been a little over a week since I’ve spoken to him. Touched him. Kissed him. That night, I regret everything but taking the packet of drugs from him. I can’t regret that. Ever.

I wish I could say that I didn’t care about him, that I stopped wanting him, but the truth is, my feelings have only grown. I’ve Googled him, his past, as much as possible, trying to find out about Rhye. I poured over interview after interview, trying to attain small clues to his actions. What I’ve learned has been so incredibly sad. He was abandoned by his father when he was a baby and grew up with a single, working mother who wasn’t there. From what I’ve gathered, he’s been on drugs since he was fourteen, never really having anyone who cared where he was or what he did.

That wasn’t the worst of it though, just the foundation. I found gruesome crime scene photos online of his friend’s apparent suicide. The story that seems most factual is that Chris and he had been fighting for weeks because of Chris’s inability to perform on stage due to his drug habit. They both were addicts, but Rhye used sparingly and was able to continue to sing and play without any problem, where Chris was using twenty-four-seven and couldn’t function anymore. They had to cancel several shows and even played often without him. On the night Chris died, he pretty much passed out on stage after urinating on the crowd. Rhye and the bandmates didn’t agree on firing Chris, but Rhye did it anyway.

The article went on to say that Rhye scored some bad drugs the day before, and he and Chris used them. Something was mixed in that shouldn’t have been and was found in Chris’s autopsy results. Of course, they didn’t know it until it was too late. At their apartment, after the show, Rhye smoked some and became agitated and paranoid. He had a purchased a gun and was said to be walking around with it. At some point, Chris gets the gun and threatens to kill himself if Rhye doesn’t reinstate him into the band. Rhye tells him he doesn’t believe he will pull the trigger and calls his bluff, which ended up not being a bluff after all. Chris blows his brains out, literally, all over Rhye.

The following year, he spent most of his time in and out of rehab, primarily at his record label’s insistence and court ordered stays for minor misdemeanors. Online, the Mavericks are said to be on “hiatus,” but their fans are still numerous and loyal. In the four years he’s been on the music scene, not one serious girlfriend has been mentioned, except once online. A short videotaped interview with the band. It was early in their career, and Rhye was asked, “What was his inspiration for the songs he has written?” All the guys laugh and look right at him. Rhye just shakes his head, and in unison, all the guys shout a name, “Jay.” Rhye looks pissed at their answer, but Chris continues saying, “Man, he loved that girl. She’s actually one of the reasons we are here right now. She got us out to L.A. and to the music showcase in time, and ultimately, we were discovered that night.” The girl interviewer looks at Rhye and asks, “So are you guys still together?” Rhye looks away at first, then back at her, shaking his head, “No.” The interview goes on, but nothing is mentioned again about her.

That night, I lay in bed when finally it hit me. The lowercase “j” tattooed underneath his eye. The teardrop. It has to be for her, but what does it mean? I tried to find more information about her and him, but came up with nothing. I also began obsessing over his hand and wrist tats. “Never” spelled out across his knuckles and “Forget” on his wrist. They were clearly inked on before Chris died, so it’s something entirely different.

I tried to act as if I didn’t care this past week, ignoring him when we were in the studio together, but it was a living hell. My own music has suffered. I can’t write anything that makes sense. It’s all doom and gloom. All I want to do is scream at him to wake up and see that he has everything to live for. His fans. His music. Me.

The last several nights, I’ve spent holed in my apartment, afraid to go out and see him bringing random girls back. Just the thought causes my chest to ache. My heart to shatter. It should make me hate him, but I believe, deep down in my soul, that he just needs someone to truly care about him. Josh and I mutually decided that next morning not to talk about Rhye. Josh, because Rhye’s his job, and myself because I was crushed emotionally. Josh has turned out to be just what I need, a friend. We have a lot in common, and as it turns out, I remind him of his youngest sister who he is close with and misses. It seems we both fill voids for each other.

At the sound of gurgling laughter, I look down the hallway at Rhye again. He’s missed curfew, and I can’t believe Josh is not pacing the hallway waiting for him, unless he doesn’t know he’s out. Julie is the one that told me about the curfew and drug testing. She said he gets fired on the spot for violating either one.

I know I should knock on the door and tell Josh to get him. What do I know about taking proper care of a drug addict? He sits there, his back against the wall, with one knee propped up. His head is tilted down, and his shoulders shake with laughter. What he is laughing at? I don’t think any of this is funny whatsoever.

Making a rash decision, I walk slowly towards him. “Rhye?” I call out softly. He doesn’t move at all. I’m not sure if he’s passed out or what. “Rhye?” I ask again. The closer I get, I see that his chest is heaving and his shoulders now tremble instead of shake. I feel waves of despair permeating the air around me. I stop right beside him, and in my short bathrobe, lower myself to my shaking knees. My breath catches in my chest, and I’m afraid of what is happening. The thundering of my heart seems to echo in the hallway.

“Rhye, please. Look at me,” I beg, tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. His pain resonates through my soul, and I silently pray that I can take all of his suffering into me. Away from him.