Wasted Heart (7 page)

She can’t be older than sixteen. Not to mention, she is too squeaky clean looking, and damn. Why the fuck is she smiling at me? I bet she doesn’t have a single thought running between those ears of hers. I’m paying for my sins right here on earth. Sin. Her name. I can’t stop the laugh that escapes. The irony is not lost on me.

At the look of annoyance on her face, I cover my mouth with my hand and pretend to cough. Good start, Rhye. Not that I care. It seems I make friends wherever I go lately. Whatever. I swear, if only someone would shoot me, or shoot me up, now.

Ryan finally continues, adding, “Currently, we are working on her new album. Your record label thinks that it may be beneficial for both of you to share this time together, given that several recent top country, pop, and rock hits have been duets of mixed genres. I happen to agree. So, we will be working with you separately, and then, we will have you try to write a song together, one that could possibly feature you both, depending on the sound.”

My head is going to implode. I cut my eyes to him, letting him read exactly what I think of the idea on my face, which he obviously ignores. I think about giving him my middle finger so that he clearly gets my drift, but I’m already swimming in deep shit.

“We have been spending the morning free-writing lyrics. What basis did you come up with, Syn?” Ryan asks, looking over at her.

“Love. That first moment when it happens and the feelings of unknown. Not knowing where it will take you, but having the strength just to let it lead,” she says, not looking over at me but directly at Ryan.

Her voice annoys me right off the bat. This low-pitched, sugary sweet, Southern accent. I’m sure it’s always peppy. I’m nauseous again. Not sure if it’s from the sound of her voice or withdrawal. Either way, I want to close my eyes and go to sleep. That’s it. That’s all. I don’t want to listen to her feelings. Her worst day probably consists of chipping a nail and not being within a mile of a nail salon to get it fixed. Or horror of all horrors, having a hair out of place.

“Who gives a fuck?” I say out loud, rolling my eyes away from her.

“Excuse me?” she asks.

Glancing back over, I see the “eat shit” look she is sending my way. Now, we are talking. It’s better than that stupid ass smile she has been giving me.

“Let me slow it down for you. I said, ‘Who. Gives. A. Fuck.’”

“Obviously not you,” she replies, running her eyes over me and evidently finding me lacking. “More’s the pity.”

What? I shake my fist up and down, mimicking jacking off, and she just smiles back. Did she just mouth, “You wish”? I laugh again. I’m pretty sure she did.

“That’s enough you two. I’m not here to play nanny. Rhye, this shit isn’t going on in here. You get me?” Ryan says, glaring daggers directly at me.

“Whatever, man,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders.

“Let’s break for lunch. Rhye, since you just joined us, why don’t you work on some lyrics while we are out. Get a feel of where we want to go with your record,” he says, not really giving me a choice.

Not that I could stomach any food, but I’m not ready to write either. Everyone stands to leave, including smiley herself. I finally get a good look at her. Long, blonde, wavy hair, jeans, plain t-shirt, hardly no makeup. If I had to describe her, I would say,
“Wholesome
.” Makes me want to puke. It’s so fake. Ten dollars says she rides cowboys like the winning bronco rider every night. Probably could make a sinner like me blush if I was interested. Which I’m not. I’d rather my girl look the way she acts. What you see is what you get. No lies and no expectations.

Ryan is the last out of the room, but before he leaves, he turns back to me. “Dude, I’m serious. I will have no qualms about quitting your ungrateful ass. Are we straight?” he asks, not waiting for me to reply. “No drugs. No shit. And leave your opinions about Syn at the door. Put them in your music for all I care, but keep your fucking mouth shut. Are we clear?”

I glare at him. Let him think what he wants.

“I expect an answer when asked. Are we clear?” he barks, the anger causing his face to flame red.

“Crystal,” I answer, shrugging my shoulders. Damn, don’t have a coronary.

Nodding, he walks out and slams the door behind him.

What is up with people lately? Everyone is so sensitive. I’ve always said that if everyone smoked large amounts of weed, we’d be a more peaceful planet. Unfortunately, unless we all had medical prescriptions for it, we’d be a peaceful lot rotting in prison. I’m sure the kumbaya spirit would wear off pretty quick. Total anarchy. Fuck, yeah.

Resting my head back against the chair, I pray for sleep to come. The insomnia is wearing thin on my nerves. I feel the black nothingness within start to eat me from the inside out. All my demons coming out in full force, seeking to control me. Mentally, I know it is all part of the process of detoxing, but physically, I can’t control the feelings that seemingly overwhelm me. My past threatens to destroy me. Jay. JT. Chris.

Closing my eyes, I try not to think about any of them. They haunt me, awake or asleep. How do you run from a ghost? You don’t. They never leave unless I’m high. They can’t touch me when I’m nodding on smack. That’s the only safe place where nothing seems to reach me, but that’s not going to happen right now. Unless, of course, I want out. Forever. I’m not sure I’m ready for that next step. Yet.

Yawning, I try not to think about any of that. Only sleep. I slow my breathing and start to count backwards from one hundred. Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight. Ninety-seven. Ninety-six.

“What else can you do to possibly fuck your life up even more than it already is?” A familiar voice speaks to me.

I look around to notice that I’m sitting in mine and Chris’s old apartment that we shared in Los Angeles. I’ve known him since we were kids. He was several years older than me and the person that got me interested in music when I was fourteen. He’s also the person that supplied whatever drug I was into at the time. Chris was a guitar player for the Mavericks, and though he wasn’t the best, he got the job done.

Now, I turn to see him sitting on the couch beside me. Dead. I never dream of him alive anymore. Usually, he’s carrying on a conversation with me while the bullet wound to his forehead pulsates, blood bubbling out. When something he says or I say makes him laugh, it pumps out faster. Ruby thickness.

“Not another fucking dream,” I mutter to myself.

“You lucky, bastard. You still can score drugs and chicks. This is all I get,” he says, nudging my arm with his.

I close my eyes tight and will myself to wake up. For fuck’s sake, wake the fuck up.

“Chicks don’t dig the hole, man,” he says, laughing at his own joke.

I open my eyes in time for droplets of blood to splatter across my face from his gruesome wound. I lean my chin down to wipe it against my shirt, staining it with smears of crimson.

“Rhye, you’ve got to liven up. Life is way too short. Let me get you a beer,” he says standing, blood pouring in rivets down his face.

I finally notice the music blaring in the background. Trent Reznor, lead singer of Nine Inch Nails, sings “Came Back Haunted.” The bass reverberates through the room, seeming to bounce the pictures hanging on the walls until I realize that humanlike forms are actually dancing within them. The pictures move from their exaggerated gyrations. Faceless heads and arms stretch through the sheetrock, swaying to the movement.

Fear settles over me, freezing me in place. Chris comes back into the room, a beer in each hand and dancing along with the music. Streams of beer suds fly from the cans, landing all over the room as he sings. My mind threatens to break at the scene unfolding in front of me. Finally, the music comes to a dramatic end with a thrashing crescendo. He falls backwards onto the couch, beside me once again.

I look around, thankful to see that the fuckers in the walls have disappeared. He hands me a can that should be empty but feels full. I start to take a swallow when, at the last second, a big ass roach bug crawls out of it and almost into my mouth.

“What the fuck?” I yell, throwing the can down and watching hundreds of large, brown insects sprinkle out, crawling, and covering the floor.

“You used to be cool man. What happened?” Chris asks, sitting back and crossing his legs like nothing is wrong.

“I didn’t used to dream of my best friend with a fucking bullet wound to his forehead or people getting their groove on in the walls,” I say, leaning forward to place my elbows on my knees and cradling my head between my hands.

“Why do you dream about me, Rhye? Why do you obsess over something I did? Something you can’t change?” he asks quietly beside me. “Why?”

Not lifting my head, I answer, “You know why. If I hadn’t bought that bad shit. If I hadn’t had that fucking gun in the first place. If I hadn’t ragged you about that show. If I hadn’t,” I choke up, not able to finish what I’m saying.

“Rhye, wake up man,” a voice calls to me.

My eyes flash open, and I lift my hands to protect them from the brightness of the room. I blink back the sleep and try to focus on who is in front of me. That song writer guy, Mel I think it is, stands in front of me holding a Styrofoam container and cup.

“I brought you back something to eat. Thought you could use it,” he says, placing the food down next to me.

Sitting up, I try to orient myself to my surroundings. The dreams are almost impossible to deal with. Every emotion that I thought I couldn’t feel anymore comes back in full force. I suffer greatly for my sins. I’ve never needed a judge or jury because I crucify myself just fine.

“Thanks, man,” I say, nodding to him. The thought of food turns my stomach inside out, and I swallow the bile that rises; however, I reach for the drink and take a sip of the ice cold Sprite.

“Listen, I’m a huge fan of the Mavericks. I’m really excited about working with you. In fact, I have actually been working on some material that I would like to share if you are interested?” he asks, sitting down beside me.

Considering that I couldn’t care less right now about writing a single lyric myself, I answer him with the only possible solution, “Sure. Let me hear it.”

That arrogant, handsome as sin, jackass!

Even an hour after meeting him, I don’t know whether I want to cry or kick him. My heart is carved into tiny pieces, each one bleeding for a different reason. I imagine, for a moment, what it would be like to stare into a dark abyss of nothingness. I’m sure it would be the same sight as when I glanced into his eyes. Tightly closing mine, I still feel the overwhelming sense of loss. My stomach clinches in response. God, I sound crazy even to myself.

I’m thinking way too much. I should be asking him who he thinks he is. Okay, well, other than obviously who he is. I stare down at the uneaten salad, stirring the lettuce around my plate and fuming on the inside. After leaving the studio, I went with Julie to grab something to eat at the corner deli. I’ve completely lost my appetite, and I can’t think about anything but him.

“Don’t let him get to you. The guy’s gone barmy,” Julie says, sitting across the table from me.

I let a low growl escape. Stabbing through a cherry tomato with my fork, I look up at her. “What’s his story? I know I’ve read something about drugs and rehab online or in the magazines,” I ask, watching her shrug her shoulders.

“I only know some things. A little over a year ago, his bassist committed suicide. The story I’ve heard is that Rhye and Chris were both heavily addicted to heroin. One night, after botching a big show, there was this huge row in front of everyone. It continued to escalate at a party hosted back at their apartment, and here, the story gets a little pear-shaped. Some say Rhye gave Chris the gun and dared him to pull the trigger. A little Russian roulette. The other story is that Chris was upset because Rhye fired him from the band that night and shot himself in front of him. Either way, the situation is beastly,” she replies, taking a sip of her drink.

“What about for the last year? Has he been playing?” I ask, my curiosity peaked.

She shakes her head, replying, “As far as I know, no. He’s been in and out of rehab and has a distaste for authority. From my understanding, this is his record label giving him one last chance before they wash him out. You’re only as good as your latest hit, ducky.” Standing, she lays down money on the table. “Hey, I’ll meet you back at the studio. I need to ring someone.”

“Sure,” I say, smiling up at her.

My mind is overloaded with the information she just shared. I can’t imagine witnessing someone killing themselves in front of me. Yeah, it might even turn me into a drug addict or a crass pig. God, those eyes of his. Nothingness. Darkness.
“Keep your distance, Syn,”
my mind screams in response. I’ve never wanted to fix anyone, and I’m not about to start now.

“Syn Landry?” A girl of about twelve steps up to my table.

I smile and answer, “Yes?”

“Can I get a picture with you? I love your songs,” she says, reaching for her phone.