Wasted Heart
Copyright © 2013 by Nicole Reed
Published by Nicole Reed
Cover Design ©
Hang Le
Cover Photo © Picture This Cover
Edited by
Erinn Giblin
Interior Design by Jovana Shirley,
Unforeseen Editing
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Contents
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.
~Nicole Reed
We all have a weakness. Something that unleashes our eternal demons to gnaw away at our morality until it is picked clean from the bone. Sometimes, it leaves us with nothing. Numb from all emotion. Blind from what is right in front of you. What happens then? What’s left?
I tightly close my eyes, blocking out my thoughts and the harsh, neon light that illuminates the small, dingy bathroom. My teeth sink into my bottom lip, but any pain I should feel is nonexistent. The annoying sound of dripping water from the leaky faucet magnifies in my mind. Each tap of the water against the basin sounds like a small explosion in my already altered reality. Opening my eyes, I see the stranger staring back at me.
“Who are you?” I quietly ask him.
The image in the mirror feigns disinterest. Rock star? Soon-to-be-washed-up-musician would be a more apt description. Recovering addict? Well, fuck. That went out the window last night. Murderer? Yeah, that holds true. I didn’t pull the trigger or drive the truck, but the sentiment is the same.
The banging on the bathroom door reverberates through my pounding head. My teeth ache for my next hit. In fact, my entire body feels beaten and bruised from within. The internal suffering starts to commence as the heroin flees my system. My skin crawls with the sensation of thousands of tiny ants trickling up and down my spine.
Gripping my hands on both sides of the sink, the cold porcelain cools my skin from the heat that courses through my body. Leaning forward, I don’t know the brown eyes that stare back at me anymore. Empty. Lifeless. Hungry. Yeah, the hunger I remember. I’ve had a serious habit for the last two years and spent several stints in rehab at the insistence of my record label. Fuck knows I have no desire to quit most days. It’s the only relief from my own thoughts. Who wants to live this life sober when the alternative makes you feel abso-fucking-lutely nothing?
“Rhye?” a masculine voice calls to me from outside of the bathroom door in my hotel room.
Ignoring whoever it is, I continue to glare at my pale reflection. My greasy dark hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in days, and my unshaven facial hair looks grizzly. In fact, I look like a Manson reject, the killer not the singer. I quickly glance over the small ink tear drop in the shape of a lowercase letter “j” underneath my eye. Once, it was a remembrance of a broken girl in my life, but now, it serves as a reminder of why it’s better to not give a damn. Everyone I’ve ever cared about turned away, chose someone or something else.
For weeks, two to be exact, prior to last night, I had been living clean and on my own, in Los Angeles. The time before that was months spent in and out of a rehab facility in Pasadena, California.
“Open the goddamn door, Rhye!” This time, loud banging accompanies the yelling. “You’ve got two seconds before I kick it in!”
Cutting my eyes toward the loud commotion, I grit my teeth when I realize who is causing my brain to implode. The Mavericks manager, Jimmy Brunson, who also is a major pain in my ass, continues to rattle the doorknob. Knowing that he means what he says, I hang my head once more and turn to open it.
Reaching for the door handle, I rotate and pull, catching Jimmy mid-swing. He halts his hand in the air, and his dark, beady eyes scan me up, then down with a scathing look. Shocker.
“Really?” he asks, shaking his head. “You promised me no more shit. Remember?”
My mouth feels as if dozens of fuzzy cotton balls have magically appeared in it, making it almost impossible to swallow. Without answering, I step by him in nothing but my tattered boxers, ignoring his overt huffing.
“Rhye, I should drop you right now,” he threatens for the hundredth time behind me.
“Fucking do it, Jimmy,” I answer honestly without looking at him.
Walking directly to my bed, I step over the passed out, naked chick on the floor. Most of the time, I don’t even remember their names or what the hell happened the night before, and that’s fine with me. I bend over and pick up my t-shirt, pulling it over my head. Looking around, I spot my jeans and slide them on.
“Why? I’m trying to get you back on that stage. Where, I might add, you belong. You still have loyal fans that beg for you. You’re a good-looking kid. Why chance all of that?” Jimmy says, glancing around the room in disdain.
This time, I do ignore him. How can you explain to someone what it’s like not to care? Not about yourself or the person standing next to you. I’ve lost that inside of me, the ability to feel and show affection; however, I have a heart. Sometimes when I chase the dragon, it thunders through my head like a drum, reminding me that it still beats. It’s still there. Hollow. Empty. Wasted.
Sitting down on the bed, I continue to drown out whatever Jimmy is saying as I put on my black Doc Martens. He must be hard up for money to be checking in on me. The Mavericks have been his big money maker for a while. Four years ago, we were called “The Mavs” when he heard us play at an impromptu music showcase. He encouraged us to change our name to “Mavericks,” and within a year after working our asses off, we were headlining arenas across the globe, playing some of the biggest music festivals and even winning a couple Moonman Awards.
A year after that, fame got the best of us, and everything went to shit. The music doesn’t run through my veins like it used to. It doesn’t lead me. It doesn’t sing through my blood and bleed out through my lyrics. It doesn’t make me feel anything anymore.
“Rhye, are you listening to me? The record label is giving you one more chance. One shot to get your act together.”
His words finally penetrate through my haze of thoughts.
“What?” I ask, clearing my impossibly dry throat.
“Boy, are you listening to anything I’m saying?” Walking over to the mini-fridge, he grabs a bottle of water and tosses it to me.
My hands instinctively reach up to catch the cold plastic. Twisting the lid off, I tip the water bottle back and chug the cool liquid. My throat, which is feeling as dry as sandpaper, is finally soothed; however, my stomach churns with hot coals for my next hit.
“Look at me, Rhye,” his voice pleads, so I glance up at him. “I know you don’t care anymore. You’re just on this earth to pass time. I see it every time I look into your eyes, and there is not a damn thing I can do about it.”
An image flashes in my mind. A girl. Dark hair. Someone that I once saw the same thing in her sad grey eyes. A deadness. No, a peace, with death. Whenever. However. Didn’t I say the same thing to her long ago?
“You can recapture what you had. I know that it won’t be the same without Chris, but the Mavericks can have a fresh new beginning,” he states, arms stretched out in front of him.
Standing, I roll my stiff shoulders and silently add, “Don’t ever say his name to me again. I’ve warned you repeatedly. Next time, I’m going to knock your fucking head off your shoulders,” I threaten, turning to slide on my watch. I run my tongue over my teeth, trying to stop the constant itching that coming down is causing. Reaching into my pockets, I try to remember if I bought anymore smack or if we smoked it all last night. Unfortunately, I come up with zip. Zero. Nada. Not even a damn cigarette.
“Damn it, son.”
Turning back to look at him, I answer, “I’m not your goddamn son.”
“And thank God for that. I’m going to say this once and be out of your life. I only ask that you seriously listen to me for two damn minutes. As your manager for these last four years and the shit I’ve put up with, you owe me.”
Glaring at him, I mutter, “Go.”
“This is not about you anymore. If you choose to kill yourself, then you need to know that it’s not just you that will lose out. Your mom called me since she can’t reach you. She ran through the money you gave her again, and this time, you’re almost out of money yourself. She hasn’t worked these last several years, and finding a job in this economy is going to be hard for a woman her age. Like I was trying to say before, the record label is willing to send you to Nashville to work with a top song-writer and his crew for your entire next album. They are also willing to front the money needed for your mom and will give you a weekly stipend following mandatory drug testing. Just so we are clear, that is non-negotiable.”
