Wasted Heart (2 page)

Shit. My mom. I’ve taken care of her financially since the first record. We aren’t that close, but she’s all I’ve ever had. I bought her a house, car, and set her up with a bank account. Unfortunately, she likes the slot machines and keeps running out of dough. Jimmy reaches into his back pocket, flinging a folded piece of paper on the bed behind me.

“On that is your flight time for this evening to Nashville, Tennessee. It’s also the information for the apartment they have set up for you to use right next to the recording studio. You need to call the contact person and let them know where to send the money to your mom. That is, if you decide that’s what you are going to do. I’m not going to warn you again, but this is your last chance. I’ve already argued that line one too many times with you. I’ll just leave you with this: Life is plain out shitty sometimes. It sucks. But Rhye, I promise it’s better than being dead. This is it. Your one shot. Your one chance. Not at singing. Not at playing. At living.” He turns and starts to leave, but he pauses before turning back.

Jimmy ages before my eyes. Standing before me is a broken, tired, old man. This is what happens to everything and everyone in my life. It all goes to shit.

“I’d rather see you on a stage than in a wooden box the next time we meet.” With those last words, he walks out of my hotel room.

His words play over and over in my mind as I look back over my shoulder to the paper on my bed. I sit back down, hanging my head between both of my hands. My chest feels heavy, like a seven-hundred pound bitch of an elephant is sitting on it. Jimmy’s words run rampant. Fuck! I don’t care, but something in me won’t let me leave my mom like this.

“Motherfu…,” I start to say to the silent room when the body on the floor groans and then lets out a loud fart. I look down at the once beautiful brunette and shake my head. This is my life. Hotel rooms and random hos. It used to sound so cool when I was a teenager. My dream come true, but now, I look around at the dilapidated, faded brown interior of the hotel room and the junkie skank passed out on the floor. Be careful what you wish for because you might get it, just not in the way you wanted.

Grabbing the paper, I push it into my jeans pocket and stand. I turn around to grab my duffle bag out of the closet and begin stuffing all my worldly possessions into it. Walking around the room, I continually pack everything haphazardly within. Reaching for my hard black guitar case, I stand with it and one green army duffle bag, representing my entire life in L.A. I think about calling one of my suppliers, but at the last minute decide I can find someone in Nashville once I get out of this drug screening business. What a crock of shit. Half the musicians in this town are hooked on smack or something else.

Looking around once again, I walk out and close this door for the last time. I’ll either come back to L.A. knowing I can afford something better, or I won’t come back at all. I switch my duffel bag to the same hand holding the guitar and reach into my pocket for the piece of paper. Grabbing my phone, I dial the number. When a female answers, I take a deep breath.

“This is Rhye Clark.”

“What amazing things are you going to do today, Syn Landry?”

I’ve asked the same question in the mirror every morning for the last five years. Reminding myself that nothing is promised and everything is possible. It’s what got me out of this one horse town and, ironically, the same reason I came running back to it.

As I stare at my image, I note that my yellowish-green eyes are more of a gold color today, reflecting the sunny-colored blouse I have on. When I was little, my mama would always call them cat eyes because of the unusual color and slanted shape. A tiny ping of pain invades my heart just thinking about her. It’s been ten years since she died in a car accident, but my vivid memories never fade, and well, life goes on regardless.

Scrunching my nose up at my reflection, I continue to fight with my unruly curly blonde hair while torturing it with the straightener. The abrupt sound of clanking pots and pans coming from downstairs shatters the silence of my thoughts. For the past nineteen years, my dad has utilized cookware as an alarm clock, employing it to eliminate slumber instead of scramble eggs. The sound of
home
. Home. At one point, I ran from it like the hounds of hades were chasing me. I needed an escape from every single heart-wrenching reminder of my mother, from the same agonizing pain of loss that my dad can’t get over.

Before the ink was even dry on my high school diploma, I hopped into Old Blue, a 1973 Ford truck my grandfather gave me, with all the money that I had saved from working at Macon’s Hay & Feed Supply since I was fifteen. I didn’t date during school because, whether on the farm or at Macon’s, I worked from sun up till sun down. I figured out at an early age that keeping myself busy was the best way to stay out of trouble. When you live an hour from the nearest mall and movie theater, kids out in the sticks make their own fun. It usually involves some type of moonshine that somebody’s daddy illegally brewed and screwing like bunnies in the back seat of some guy’s Chevy. If you were lucky, your date even owned the vehicle, otherwise the front seat was occupied while you were in the back. In fact, I’m pretty sure I was the only seventeen year old virgin ever to make it out of Macon County.

That rainy morning after I flung my graduation cap in the air, I drove the long, paved road to Nashville, got a job as a waitress, and started writing lyrics every chance I could get. Night after night, I would take my guitar to any open stage dive that I could find and play. I literally strummed my guitar until my fingers bled some days. There were bars that would have songwriter nights where everyone would sit down and sing, playing their instruments on the spot. It was Heaven. The open camaraderie was, and still is, amazing. I wrote my entire first album that month, sitting in a cigarette smog and surrounded by talented musicians that most people will never get to hear.

Some music critics have written that I was a lucky lady, and I agree. Within the first six months, I was discovered, and my first single went to number one within the next several. This last year, I have had three top-ten hits, been nominated for a Grammy, and even opened up for one of country music’s finest on her world tour. Fans love my feisty country twang, which is different than most of country music’s Southern sweeties.

Coming off tour, I was homesick for the very same reasons I left. Instead of going home to this beautiful piece of land my agent suggested I purchase outside of Nashville, I high-tailed it to my childhood house to be with my daddy. I needed some balance in my life. A dash of reality. When you are on tour, you don’t know if you are coming or going. My mind was overfilled with nonsense, and I was ready to explode. I needed to slow everything down and remember why I love being a musician.

I eat, breathe, and live for my music. My daddy used to blast Hank Williams and George Jones out of his small, transistor radio that he tied to his green tractor. He would work the farm twenty hours a day, listening to his favorites. From age five, I was singing “Your Cheatin’ Heart” and “Hey, Good Lookin” from the church pulpit, because it was my pretend stage while my mama cleaned the church pews every Saturday with the other good Christian women.

By the time I was eight years old, I was singing specials during Sunday morning services, and even then, people told my Daddy I would be famous one day. I don’t think he ever believed it until the first time he heard me on the radio ten years later.

Who could have imagined the life I would lead these last several years? Certainly not me, not even in my wildest dreams, but with it, you pay an unimaginably high price. Every day you lose a little of yourself that you started out with. For some, I guess it’s a blessing, a new lease on life of sorts. For others, like myself, I don’t want the old me to ever disappear. My morals, my values, my sanity. It’s a slippery slope that leads straight into shallowness. I’ve watched it happen to others. They get caught up in the lights and the hoopla, and down they go. Not me. Not ever.

I’m grateful for so many things that music has brought into my life. Loyal fans are what keep me going. People who get me, support me, and understand me. Writing lyrics is the best. Being able to pour my heart and soul onto paper is flipping amazing. It’s saved me from spending butt-loads in therapy, that’s for sure. The one hole in the bucket would be the whole celebrity issue. I adore my privacy. No, I crave it, especially regarding my love-life or the lack thereof. The paparazzi has had a field day at my expense this past year because of my ex-boyfriend. It seems as though he likes detailing our issues in his music. I’ve warned him repeatedly to stop, but the jackass keeps it up.

In the midst of coming home so I can keep it real, I received a call from my manager that my record label wants me to become a “pop crossover” artist. Me? Uh, hello? What part of “country bumpkin” do they not get? I understand the popularity of it. I’m just honest enough to say that most people listening to pop and rock music are not going to like my voice. I mean, I end up repeating myself, over and over, when I travel above the Mason-Dixon. My Southern drawl turns into a foreign language up there.

Trina Ray, my music manager, called me yesterday morning to impart the good news. She also said that I have to meet up with some music writer and his team to prepare for my next album. When I told her not just, “no” but, “heck no,” she reminded me that I’m owned and operated by my label. Case closed. They say jump, and I grow frog legs and start hopping all over God’s green earth.

So with a smile in my voice and not on my face, I told her I would be there first thing tomorrow. Right before she hung up, she did tell me that I would be sharing time with another artist from Los Angeles. Great. I’m sure it’s some beach-bunny west-coaster trying to fake a country accent and sing. All types of music artists are flocking to Nashville for inspiration. There is just something magical in the air there. Something contagious. Every day, new stars are created, and number one hits climb charts in all genres of music.

Finishing my hair, I start to pretty up my face and polish off with a dab of perfume. Walking into my old room, I grab my suitcase from the closet and begin packing to go “home.” The land I purchased outside Nashville has a small log cabin that sits right next to a tiny stream; however, it’s still a good hour away from the city, and with traffic, possibly more. I’ve decided to take advantage of the apartment Trina mentioned they are providing next to the music studio.

Taking one last look in the mirror, I take a deep breath and turn to go say goodbye to my dad. I lug my bags down the stairs and sit them on the floor in the foyer. Walking into the kitchen, I notice that he has poured us both a cup of coffee.

“Time to go I see,” he says, standing against the kitchen cabinets and taking a sip of his drink.

Reaching for my mug, I test the lukewarm, dark liquid against my lips before swallowing the strong, bitter java. My dad has got to start adding more water. Looking up at him, I smile before saying, “Yeah, they want me back in the studio to work on the new album.” I watch for his reaction. He’ll never admit it, but I see the pain of my leaving age him every single time.

“Well, looks like rain. I could drive you if you want,” he replies, his weary green eyes pleading with me.

“Dad, it’s a six hour drive. You’ve got things to do here. I’m okay,” I add, looking earnestly at him. Sure, I could have flown, but I enjoy driving. Sometimes, it’s the only place I have control over my life.

Placing his cup down, he looks out the window, wanting to say more but not knowing how. Suddenly, I feel twelve again, a lost little girl with a broken father, both trying to figure out how to live once more. Sitting my own cup down on the kitchen counter, I walk towards him and straight into his open arms. He envelops me in his warmth, and I feel safe, but I know within that same encounter I’ve felt smothered at times. Against his shoulder, I mumble, “Love you, Dad.”

“You too, kid,” he quietly adds.

I pull back, giving him a small kiss on his heavily-stubbled cheek and turn to leave. “I’ll call,” I say exiting.

Grabbing my stuff in the foyer, I walk down the steps, lugging it to Old Blue. I sling open the creaky door, toss my bags on the seat, and climb in. When I crank her up, a puff of black smoke shoots out of the muffler. It rumbles and shakes, and with a huge smile on my face, I pull out of my driveway.

Reaching down, I turn on the radio, flipping the channel to the local country station. Brantley Gilbert’s new single flows out of the old speakers. God, I love him. I belt out the lyrics and sing along. I have no idea how this whole “pop crossover” business is supposed to work. You have the very popular Taylor and Kelly. They both are incredibly awesome at what they do, but it ain’t me. I love a bluegrass riff streaking through my music, and I don’t mind singing about the fact that I’m a little crazy. All true country girls are.

The next song that blares on the radio stops my thoughts cold. Tag McGraw’s latest mega-ballad hit, “It Ain’t Over,” plays, and that sexy Southern voice of his smoothly makes promises. “It ain’t over when my heart still longs for you. And it ain’t over when I know you feel it too. I’ve said the words you wanted, even though you left me anyway. So just know girl, it ain’t over with me and you.”