Wasted Heart Read online

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.”

  “Get over yourself,” I loudly yell to no one and switch the radio off. Gripping the steering wheel tightly with both hands, my knuckles turn white, and my teeth grind against one another. I’ve tried to forgive the cheating bastard. Sorry Lord, but that is what he is. My grandma always said, “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I’ll burn your house down with you in it.”

  Tag and I started out together in Nashville. He had connections while I had to scramble for every contact I could find. His dad is a famous guitarist in bluegrass music or “hillbilly rock” as some would say. Tag would show up at a lot of the same songwriter bars, and instantly, I couldn’t help being attracted to him. Tag is, well, Tag, and probably the finest guy I’ve ever seen. Wavy brown hair with blue-green eyes, and he’s tall and built like a well-bred bull. Not overly muscled but all steel underneath that tanned skin, just enough to make your mouth water. I like a country boy with a lift on his truck and big ol’ tires, and Tag fit the bill perfectly.

  I actually caught him staring at me from across the room several times with those ocean colored eyes before we actually met. He’s charismatic, and people take notice when someone like him walks into the room. Women and men alike gravitate to him, just to be in his presence. At that time, being inexperienced with males in general, I tended to keep to myself, remaining as invisible as possible in baggy t-shirts, jeans, and a cowboy hat with my hair pulled up inside. He told me later that he saw through it, straight into the heart of his soul mate.

  Even now, in my mind, I remember the first night he finally spoke to me. I can still see the small, smoky bar filled with patrons, their guitars in one hand and a pen usually in the other, ready to jot down any inspiration that comes to them. Lyrics, music notes, and sometimes curse words when you have a brain fart flood the wrinkled notebook pages. That day, I had my Gibson Hummingbird guitar in my lap that my dad gave me for graduation. Actually, it was the only one I had at the time. I have no idea how he paid for it, but I cherish it more
than life itself.

  On the bar table in front of me sits my black and white composition notebook where I write down everything. Big Kenny, one of the local musicians, has asked for help to come up with some chord changes for his new song. People brainstorm around the room, shouting out comments and playing different riffs on their guitars. I strum and switch up a couple chords to see what works best when I look up to catch him staring again. Even from across the room, his gaze causes a tingle to course up my spine, stealing my breath. I bow my head, secretly peeking up through the brim of my cowboy hat to watch him.

  Gripping his guitar in one hand, he strolls over to the side of the bar that’s not ten feet from me and leans his hip against it. Several guys stop to talk to him, but not once does he take his eyes off me. His shaggy brown hair escapes out from under his straw cowboy hat. The blue of his eyes stands out against his tan face, and two matching indentions of dimples are created on both sides of his mouth when he smiles at my assessment of him. A grey, raggedy t-shirt flattens over a defined, god-like chest, and blue jeans cover solid thighs. My gaze travels down to his well-worn brown cowboy boots. He looks like he just stepped off the farm which, in my mind, equates to a New York City runway.

  My mouth waters, and I squirm in my chair under his direct gaze. Despite our past run-ins, he’s never attempted to speak to me. Instead, he’s kept his distance, playing and singing with the crowd, but when I would catch him sending covert glances my way, a big grin would emerge on his face.

  This time, he smiles that charming smile and proceeds to walk my way with his Martin guitar. He has an innate swagger that screams, “I know exactly what I’m doing.” I’m glad someone does because I’m trying to keep my untouched body from twitching and looking like a cat in heat. Every drop of liquid dries up within my mouth, and I instantly wish I had ordered a Sprite as soon as I sat down. He comes to a stop inches in front of me, still giving me that megawatt smile with gleaming, pearly white teeth. I get a good whiff of whatever cologne he has on, and my senses go haywire. He’s got a nice guitar, a nearly perfect grill, and he smells like something I want to lick. Wait. Did I just think lick? I giggle at the thought and look down to write it in my notebook. Maybe a song about looking good enough to lick?

  “Any other guy would probably feel intimated by a beautiful girl laughing and ignoring him,” he jokingly remarks, laying his guitar down on the table.

  At the sound of his voice, I slowly raise my head, allowing his almost perfect vision to fill my sight. God, he is crazy good-looking up close. The Lord knew what he was doing when he created this boy. Guys don’t make me tongue-tied. I only stay away from them because it’s better than putting myself in a situation that I can’t talk my way out of, not that I would want to talk myself out of anything to do with him at this moment.

  “Any other girl might feel a little intimated by a country cutie finally talking to her,” I reply, grinning back at him.

  “Something tells me that’s not the case in this situation. Can I?” he asks, indicating the empty barstool.

  He starts to sit, but I slap my hand down on the stool before he can. Angling his sweet behind away, he looks at me with raised eyebrows.

  “What’s your intention?” I ask, raising my own eyebrows in question.

  “Why? You got a shotgun-toting Daddy if they’re not all respectable?” he asks, his grin getting bigger by the second.

  “Maybe. Or maybe I know how to fill you with buckshot myself. I don’t need my daddy to do my dirty business,” I reply, trying to keep the smile off my face but failing miserably.

  “Fair enough,” he states, leaning down until his nose almost touches mine. “Well, I’ve had this girl on my mind for weeks now, and I can’t seem to get her out. So, the way I figure, go up and see if she is feeling me. I have to admit though, I’ll be completely crushed if she isn’t,” he finishes, raising his hand to hold over his heart.

  All the great songs ever written deal with love, either finding that one person or losing them. Never having experienced much romance myself, I tend to fake it when writing material, or I stick with longing because I do know about that. At seventeen, you pretty much long for everything. For the first time in my life, I know why women lie, cheat, or even steal for the men they love. Not that I love the handsome devil in front of me, but I long for him, and by Jesus, if I did love him, I’d do whatever it took to keep him.

  The words he just spoke finally compute in my frazzled brain. Me? Wait. What? Before I can answer, he reaches for my hat and lifts it off in one swoop. My long curly blonde hair drifts around my shoulders.

  “Hey! Give me that!” I yell, reaching for my hat that he holds above my head while trying to hold onto my guitar.

  “I knew it!” he says loudly, placing my hat back on my head while sitting down next to me. “I knew there was pretty underneath that hat.”

  I can’t help but notice the attention we are drawing, so I go back to playing on my guitar. He reaches for his off the table and strums a couple chords.

  “You know what else I knew was under that hat?” he asks quietly, not looking at me.

  “What?” I stop to peek at him. The seriousness of his tone sparks chill bumps that cover my entire overly warm body. Those lovely blue-green eyes twinkle as he stares at me now. My body reacts to them. To him. To this moment. Places that have never shown any interest before prove that they obviously work. I hunch my shoulders slightly, hoping he doesn’t notice that my personal headlights are on. Dang it! I should have worn a better bra.

  “Sweetness,” he says, grinning again and going back to playing. “Give me that pen of yours.” Taking my pen out of my hand, he begins to write in my notebook.

  My dry mouth now waters at the sight of him writing in my music journal. His large hand, so much bigger than mine, has flawless penmanship, something I’ve always lacked. He pauses, and my heart skips one, tiny beat. Then, with that grin of his, he goes back to writing. Is it a note for me? My eyes can hardly tear away from pursuing his face, but I’m curious to know what he is doing. Finishing, he lays the pen on top of the paper and immediately starts playing his guitar.

  His baritone voice softly sings, “I don’t know you, but I think I do. Did we know each other in a past life a time or two? I come close to you, and my heart finally starts to beat. It’s what you don’t show that I find crazy sweet.”

  The words are stupid and corny, but I love them. He stops to make a different chord change and returns to humming and singing while strumming his guitar. He’s amazing. I could sit here for eternity and watch him.

  “You could join in you know?” he says, not looking up while intently playing. “Make this moment less awkward.”

  I look down at my guitar and try to control the goofy smile on my face. Almost as if we’ve been performing together for years, I merge our sound. My country accent coincides perfectly with his. We continue to play for minutes, singing the same words while expanding our music. We both strum the final chord, letting it rest in a soft harmony as our eyes seem glued to one another.

  At the sound of applause, we wrench our gazes from each other to see the entire room is in quiet agreement with our performance. Evidently, it was that good. We both smile then turn to Big Kenny with apologies. He shrugs them off, and everyone returns to helping him.

  “Whoa,” I say under my breath, hoping he doesn’t hear.

  “No, let’s don’t slow this down,” he says, reaching over to softly grasp one of my hands. “What’s your name?”

  His strong, calloused hand oddly brings me peace. It all feels so right that I don’t want it to be wrong. I clear my throat to answer, “Syn Landry.”

  He laughs, and the sound is warm and full of life. “Sin, huh?” he asks. Our hands play with one another, sliding back and forth.

  “S-Y-N,” I spell out for him.

  “Nice to meet you, Syn. I’m Tag McGraw,” he says. His thick country accent is such a turn on for me.

  “Tag, huh?” I as
k, repeating his words back to him.

  “It could be worse. It’s a family name. Taggert. I’m definitely grateful for the shortened Tag. It saved me from getting my ass kicked in elementary school. Can you imagine?” he jokingly replies, cocking his head and wiggling his eyebrows.

  A soft giggle escapes me, and I snort trying to hold it in. Great, Syn. Now you sound like a little piglet. I shake my head and add, “I had my fair share of comments regarding my name, which my grandmother picked out after reading it in a romance novel.” I have no idea why I just shared that with him. Dear sweet baby Jesus, really? I pull my hand away from his, instantly feeling the loss. Placing them back on my guitar, I replay the song we just created, and minutes later, he joins in.

  The sound of a blaring horn ushers me back to the present. I’m sitting in my truck at an obvious green light. It’s been two years since I spoke with him that first time, but it feels like yesterday. It physically hurts like knives carving my chest out. Reliving any part of us is like experiencing it all for the first time; therefore, I still feel the loss of him like the last time we were together.

  We spent months with each other, hour after hour, but never taking it farther than I was ready to go. He respected that I was waiting, or he said he did. It’s hard because once you’ve been betrayed by someone you love, you never know what moments were real, if any of them were even genuine, or all just lies. The worst part is, I believe that, more times than not, he was honest.

  I swat at the moisture that leaks from my eyes. I don’t want to feel this way anymore. Too many days spent feeling as though I’m the one that lacks something vital inside when I didn’t do anything wrong. Why is that? Why do I even waste my time allowing him one more second inside my mind when I obviously never trusted him with my body? Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that I’m only nineteen and Tag is just a painful reminder to take better care of my heart.