Wasted Heart (5 page)

Rage flames high inside of me, fueling the fire of hate deep within. I want to hit him, knock that self-righteous look right off his face. My hands ache with the desire to do it. I step closer when a memory of my mom coming home from a long, twelve hour waitress shift at the truck stop to the shitty apartment I grew up in. I remember her brown hair, streaked with gray, falling from the bun on top of her head, her pressed uniform from that morning no longer crisp but soiled and wrinkled from a hard day of slaving over sleazy, fat fucks. Her eyes tired and her smile strained as she walks through our small apartment to her bedroom. The crystal clear memory freezes me in place. I open and close my fists, trying to understand what my mind is showing me. Damn. If I do this, I end it. All of it. Not just for me. Without another word, I hang my head and turn away to return to my room. I don’t dare look back at him. Let him think what he wants. Fucker.

I slam the door behind me and throw myself onto the bed. Placing my fingertips at my temples, I rub, hoping to calm the pounding of need. Want. Longing. I lay there for hours. No amount of self-soothing calms the internal pain, and the peace of sleep is evidently denied to the damned.

My guitar rests on my lap as I sit in a black, thick-cushioned leather chair in the studio. It’s a small room outside of the recording booth with several large chairs placed around the walls. I arrived yesterday and met the famous music writer and composer, Ryan Poole, along with his crew in this very same room. He graciously spent time explaining that he loves my sound and doesn’t want to change a thing. The idea of moving in a more pop direction isn’t to alter the style of my music, just to work on new techniques and stay current. We discussed ideas for the new album and decided to begin this morning.

When I walked in early this A.M., Ryan wanted to immediately get started. He introduced me to Julie and Mel, two of his best music composers and producers. Julie looks like a real life pixie fairy with her elfin looks and dark, boy-cut hair. Mel, on the other hand, looks like every other wannabe country singer in this town with his trucker hat and handsome looks. After everyone becomes acquainted with one another, it seems like we are finally ready to get down to business. We all discuss a couple different ideas before Ryan answers his phone and has to excuse himself.

Julie smiles at me and ask with a quaint, British accent, “Is there a certain direction you want to take this next album?”

I instantly realize that she is asking if I know what I want to write about. What drives me to drink or doesn’t, so to speak. “Not sure yet. My newest single that I want to include on this record is more of a fun, flirty song. My first record centered on the pain and loss I experienced growing up. I really would like to change the direction for this one. Honestly though, I’m not sure where it’s going to go until I start,” I answer, looking directly at her.

“Sounds good. Let’s get to work then. We’ll start out writing what comes. Then, in about an hour, see where we all end up,” she says, reaching over to open a notebook similar to the one I have beside me.

I place my guitar next to me and reach for my pen to write down my ideas. Tapping it against the paper, I close my eyes and try to make sense of the nonsense floating around my brain. My thoughts, however, go back over last night. I spent it in the apartment they had arranged for me to use. As expected, it was nice, but not close to the warm, fuzzy feeling you get from being in your own home. It reminded me too much of being on tour.

Music tours aren’t all they are cracked up to be because of the frequent change of scenery, especially on a tour bus. That’s the hardest part of being on the road for most people. The view on the outside is constantly replaced by the landscape of the next town. Living on the road was fun for about the first two weeks, then I missed the very things that I was so happy to leave behind when I left home. The same bed that I had slept in since I was a little girl, my dad making sure I knew when curfew was for the hundredth time, and the ever constant reminders of my mom. I missed it all and wanted it back with a vengeance.

A sad smile spreads across my face. I remember that, for the first time in my life, I felt like a solitary traveler. The irony was that I was surrounded by people. My manager, the band, backup singers, and my driver just on my tour bus. Not to mention, at that same juncture in my life, I was experiencing the loss of my first love. Tag’s betrayal gutted me. Because of love, he was able to rip out my heart, crush it with only a thought, gather it up, and burn it to ashes.

Love. A four letter word. So beautiful in its spelling. So simple in its arrangement. So innocent in its meaning. So fragile in its time. So devastating in its aftermath.

I don’t want to think about that anymore, the pain that sliced me to my core. I survived. There were good times, stolen moments when my world opened up to the possibilities of becoming a woman. Seconds when I would have given him anything he asked for because I thought that what I held in my arms was the most precious thing in my life.

The first time we kissed. That night still makes me ache with longing. I didn’t know kisses could be so…sexual. Sure, I had kissed my share of frogs, and a couple of princes along the way, but nothing close to this. God, that kiss was earth shattering. Eye-opening.

For some ungodly reason, I had decided not to go out that night, and instead, I invited him back to my one room apartment above the bakery. It was the only thing I could afford while still being able to eat, especially considering I was constantly hungry thanks to the heavenly smells of freshly baked breads, cakes, and pies drifting from downstairs. Asking him over was a dangerous move for a young girl not wanting to tempt fate, but teetering on the edge of desire, hormones won out. Lust is a living, breathing creature, tempting little girls and boys with glimpses of pleasure.

For several nights, I had lain in bed, feeling guilty about the thoughts running through my mind. I dreamed of my hands tickling across his chest, up over his well-defined shoulders, and back down to drift over the solid muscles shaped like the letter “V” on his lower abdomen. When he called that morning to see what my plans were for the evening, I stammered like a school girl, finally blurting out that I wanted to stay in and finish some lyrics, knowing he would offer to come help, and of course, he did.

The knock on the door causes me to raise my head from my cross-legged position on the bed. Taking a deep breath, I look down at my tight, white tee and tiny, grey gym shorts that I pray don’t look too obvious. I did leave my curly hair down because I know that’s how Tag likes it. Jumping up, I look around at my sparse living quarters and sigh. It’s too late to worry about that now.

Opening the door, I can’t help the smile that covers my face. “Hey,” I say to him, my grin growing bigger by the second.

“Hey,” he says back, holding a pizza box with a six-pack of soda on top in one hand and his guitar case in the other. “I come prepared.”

I reach for the food, walking over to sit it on the small table in the corner. He follows me the few steps in and shuts the door behind him. He’s dressed in his regular jeans, t-shirt, and, tonight, a baseball hat. Setting his guitar on my bed, I notice him inspecting my current habitation. I grasp my hands in front of me, rocking back on my heels. To say that I’m nervous is the understatement of the century. I don’t know exactly what I expect or if I even expect anything at all.

We’ve been seeing each other for weeks, and he hasn’t even tried to kiss me. We have discussed my inexperience, only because it was brought up while writing lyrics one night. He was fascinated that I was a virgin. Obsessed almost. It’s sweet, but I’m not sure if he realizes that I’ve done other things. That wasn’t discussed nor did I feel like I had to divulge that information. I kept myself from getting in trouble at home. I didn’t, however, act as if I was living in a nunnery. Tag’s held my hand and rubbed my arms when we’ve sat side by side, but his lips haven’t ventured in my territory. Maybe he’s not that interested in me. He seems like it, but I’m getting mixed signals here.

“Nice place,” he says, finally looking back at me.

I give a small laugh, “Yeah, I’m into the whole minimalist mentality.”

“Really?” his asks, one of his eyebrows arching in question.

“No. ‘Minimalist’ is my word for the day. Trying to broaden my vocabulary. Large words, combined with my country accent, always throw people off,” I reply, winking at him and biting my bottom lip.

He laughs, the sound stealing the very air I breathe. My body tightens, and things start waking up. Uh-oh.

“You’re so crazy…,” he says, smiling at me, “but I love that about you. Let’s eat. I’m starving.” He walks over to the pizza and grabs a slice.

I feel my eyes go big as saucers as I stand not two feet from him, frozen by his words. Did he just say the “L” word? No, I had to have misunderstood him. We’ve only known each other for three weeks. I need to move my feet before he turns around and finds me stupefied. Wait. I need two seconds to filter what he just said. It could be that he just used it in context of, “I love you like a sister” or “I love cupcakes.” It doesn’t have to mean that he’s saying that he’s “in love” with me. God, Syn. Are you crazy?

My thoughts spur me into action. Reaching for my own slice of pizza and grabbing a can of soda, we both sit around my tiny table.

“So, what did you do today?” he asks while picking his pepperonis off and eating them separately, one by one.

I tell him about my boring day, well boring because I can’t tell him about the vivid daydreams I’ve had about him. With me. Us. Together. He tells me about watching his dad film some music interview and hoping, one day, that it’s him on the other side of the camera. He then talks about helping his grandfather on his horse farm this afternoon, something he enjoys.

After we both inhale several slices of pizza, I resume my cross-legged position in the middle of my bed, grabbing up my guitar. He stands to open his case and sits back down in the chair with his. If you take away the breathtaking, sexual tension, it’s a comfortable friendship between us. We both tune our guitars in silence.

“Want to hear what I’ve been working on?” he asks, giving me a shy smile. He strums a couple strings then begins to play, singing in that sexy voice of his. “…pure and sweet as the sunshine in the summer time. That’s my girl. Something worth fighting for.” The warmth of his voice calls to me, whispers to my soul.

I know, in this instant, he will be famous one day. Tag will command audiences, capturing them with that velvet voice and timid smile of his. He’s the boy next door that every girl will dream about and every guy will want to be. A spike of energy courses through my body, again reminding me that I’ve never felt this way about anyone. It has to mean something. I’ve never felt that I was “saving” my virginity for marriage. What does “saving” myself mean anyway? It’s not like I have a golden patootie, but I’ve always told myself that I would wait for something extraordinarily special. Is this it? How do you know?

“Earth to, Syn. Come in, Syn,” he taunts, trying to get my attention.

“What?” I ask, shaking my head to clear my thoughts.

“You spaced out on me. What do you think of the song? I really like the chord change in the middle, but I’m not sure whether to go back or not. What do you think?” he asks, looking back down to play it again.

What do I think? I think he should put those pretty little lips right against mine. Quit talking. Stop singing. Make music instead of playing it. Should I make a move? What if he’s not feeling me? What if I have something black in between my teeth from the pizza? I close my mouth and run my tongue over my teeth, not feeling anything. God, my breath. Should I go use my toothbrush? I place my hand in front of my mouth and blow, discreetly trying to smell if it stinks.

“Syn, look at me,” he says, standing and placing his guitar down then removing his hat. Taking only one step brings him right next to my bed. He sits down, the bed dipping underneath his weight and my body automatically leans toward his. Raising his hand, he reaches for a strand of my hair, rubbing it between his fingers. Slowly, he places it behind my ear. “You scare me.”

His words completely freeze me in place. “What?” I stammer, looking into his eyes for an answer. I scare him? Wait, one darn second. What?

He smiles and laughs, looking down and away from me. Glancing back up, his cheeks are slightly pink and those bright blue-green eyes search mine. Forget this! As fast as my agile body will move, I rush into him; my greedy lips literally smack against his. My eyes never close, and I catch the look of surprise on his face. His lips, so soft, feel like a little piece Heaven, and once again, strange tingles run hot through me. My body burns with need, and this alien feeling of longing is painfully magnified. I brush his mouth with gentle, tiny kisses while he stays motionless. My hands tightly grasp my bedcovers as I try to make sense of him. Maybe I misread everything between us? My lips go rigid with the thought, and I start to tilt away.