Wasted Heart Page 3

  As if fate is on my side, my newest single, “What Country Girls Like,” plays over the radio. We wrote and recorded it all in one day while on tour. It is flying up all the country charts, and hopefully it will reach number one so I can tell my record label to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine regarding this “pop crossover” business. I’m not stupid though. I’ll go take advantage of the writing team and be grateful to be singing for a living.

  Pressing my foot on the gas pedal, I speed down the highway, shouting my own lyrics at the top of my lungs.

  Arriving at Nashville International Airport, I almost fight to find my way out. The hunger is coursing through my veins, fusing my thoughts and desires into one. If I let it, my addiction will control my actions, control me. I’ve gone there too many times, letting it rule me. Consume me. A real-life thoughtless zombie.

  Breaking free through the airport exit, the chill in the night air doesn’t soothe the heat that overwhelms me. I drop my guitar case and duffle bag to the pavement. Raising the back of my arm, I wipe the sweat pouring down my face. I try to slow my breathing. Slowly in, then out. My hands shake on their own accord, making it almost impossible to grab my cigarettes and lighter from my leather jacket. After several tries, I’m finally able to light one and take a deep drag.

  I close my tired eyes. The nicotine doesn’t satisfy my craving, but it takes the edge off. It brings it down a level so that I feel in control again. I take several more puffs, each one returning me closer to my motherfucking self. Looking around, I finally take in my surroundings and see a black car waiting where I was told it would be. The driver stands stoically beside it. I throw my cigarette butt down, grab my stuff up, and walk towards him. As I approach, he looks directly at me and asks, “Rhye Clark?”

  I nod, confirming who I am. He steps to open the door, and I stumble in, coming to sit next to my contact at the record label. She’s younger than she sounded on the phone, mid to late twenties maybe. Fuck. I can’t remember her name.

  “Glad to see you made it, Rhye. I’m Kelly,” she says, smiling at me then looking down to shuffle paperwork in her lap. Her cap of black hair is shorter than mine. “I really am a huge fan of yours. I can’t wait to see the Mavericks back on stage.”

  Again, I nod and try to focus on her face. I’m sweating like a son-of-a-bitch. I swear, one night after months of going green fucks you up worse than a month bender, which was my ultimate plan. What was the chick’s name that I left in my room? Lola? Lora? No, Lana. That’s it. Lana had some connections to major players in L.A. She can get as much pure shit as I need. Well, could have got. Damn, what the fuck am I doing here? I need to be there.

  “You and everybody else, lady,” I say out loud, not giving a damn what she thinks. Turning to look out the window, the night scenery passes us by in a blur.

  “Rhye, pay attention,” she says, looking at me with disappointment laced in her blue eyes. “Okay, here are the terms of your agreement,” she states beside me. “You will attend all song writing sessions with Ryan Poole and his team. There will be a mandatory curfew of eleven o’clock every night when you are not attending these sessions. You will be required to have mandatory drug testing every Friday morning at nine o’clock. Once these terms are met every week, a weekly sum will be deposited into you and your mother’s account. Should they not be met, your contract with Sundial Records will be terminated immediately.”

  Controlling the rage that threatens to boil over inside me takes a minute. I turn to look at the bitch beside me. “I don’t believe I’ll be agreeing to any of those bullshit terms. I will write when I want, with who I want, and smoke enough blunt or crack to choke a horse if I want. You can take your terms and stick them up your tight ass,” I finish, waiting for her outburst of admonition. She surprises me though by leaning towards me until our lips almost touch.

  “You will follow these rules,” she whispers in a stern tone. Her hand pats my knee then slowly traces the length of my jeans, straight to my dick. “Otherwise, you will be lucky to ever work in this business again. Unless, that is, you want to play back up for somebody else.” She stops her hand short of the prize and finishes. “Once you have another top record and are playing sold-out shows, then the record label goes back to not giving a damn what you do, but until then, you will abide by these terms without question. Do you understand, Rhye?”

  “You cu…,” I begin, stopping only because her sharp fingernail pierces my ball sack through my jeans. I gasp at the surprise attack.

  “Tsk…tsk, Rhye. I can have the driver pull over and let you out now. I’ll also make sure to inform your mother to not expect any money. I spoke to her today. What a sweet, charming woman,” she says, sarcasm bleeding between her words. “I’m sure she’ll find gainful employment before losing everything you’ve bought for her. Driver, please pull over.”

  I know my heavy breathing now has nothing to do with the drugs leaving my system or where her hand is still strategically placed. I’ve never wanted to hit a woman until this moment. Yeah, they’ve got me bent over. They know it. She knows it. Goddammit, I know it. I want to get out of the car as it stops on the side of the busy highway, jump out and walk away from it all. Looking down at my knuckles, I read the letters inked on each one spelling out “NEVER” across them. On that same wrist it reads, “Forget,” inked in matching black. It’s supposed to mean something, something I’ve forgotten over the years. Now, to me, it means to never forget that everyone leaves. Everyone.

  Why do I give a flying fuck if my mom has to work or loses everything I bought her? It’s her problem, not mine. I don’t care. I don’t fucking care. Yeah, she wasn’t there for me growing up because she was a single mom working two jobs. Nobody asked her to do it. I didn’t need her then. I don’t need her now. I don’t need or want anyone.

  Roughly, I grasp her hand and yank it from my leg. I reach for the door handle, grasping it tightly and squeezing it. Closing my eyes, I scream silently within my head and chant, “Get out of the car, Rhye.” God! Damn! Me! I fling my tense body back against the seat. “Drive,” I whisper through gritted teeth, opening my eyes to look out the window.

  Without a word from her, the driver pulls back onto the highway and proceeds to our destination.

  Several minutes later, she finally comments, “Smart decision, Rhye. Now, where was I? Oh yes, non-negotiable drug testing. You will have a facilitator living with you. You can call him a ‘babysitter’ if you want. Same difference. Again, non-negotiable. We do realize that you will probably test positive now, so we will test you once we reach the apartment and expect that nothing else show up in the following weeks. Speaking of, your apartment is directly beside the recording studio located on Music Row. Several bars surround the area along with restaurants. They all have open accounts for you to use,” she states, placing a sheet of paper directly in my lap. “Sign this. It’s just saying that you understand exactly what I have explained to you and you agree.”

  I take the pen she offers and sign. Doesn’t mean that I’m going to agree to shit. It just means that I want out of the goddamn car and away from Satan’s whore. Under my breath, I sing the lyrics to “Fade to Black” by Metallica, keeping rhythm by drumming my fingers on my knee.

  Getting off the highway, we drive to Music Row, only to stop in front of a set of matching brick buildings. One has a huge sign that reads, “Sundial RC Studios.” The driver opens the door, and without waiting, I grab my stuff, not wasting a second to get the hell out. Satan’s mistress follows but immediately walks ahead of me, indicating I should follow her into the second building. Once inside, we take the elevator up, and she stops to knock on the first door on the left. A guy, several years older than me, opens it.

  “What’s up, guys?” he says smiling. Stepping back, he motions for us to enter.

  “Hey, Josh. Meet Rhye Clark. Rhye, meet Josh,” Satan’s spawn says, returning his smile and walking past him.

  “Hey, man,” he says, offering his hand.
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br />   He looks like that actor Matthew McConaughey. I ignore his outstretched arm and walk on by. So, this is my warden.

  Behind me, he obviously clears his throat and says, “I guess they told you about me. Rhye, listen. I have no desire to be your shadow. I only want you to know that I’m here to merely make sure that you don’t go off the grid. I’m also available should you need to talk.” Talk? Did he just say talk?

  “What does ‘talk’ mean exactly?” I ask, setting my bags down and turning to look directly at him.

  “Guess Kelly didn’t tell you everything about me. I’m a certified Life Coach Therapist. My specialty actually deals with recovering drug addicts trying to adjust to mainstream again,” he explains, placing his hands directly on his hips while nodding his head.

  Fuck. I literally have nothing to say to him. Grabbing my bags back up, I walk towards the living area. Satan’s ho lounges on one of the slate grey sectional couches. The apartment is the same red brick interior as the outside. Looking around, I notice a large ass plasma over a fireplace and several pictures of different shit hanging on the walls.

  “Okay, Rhye. Time for truth telling. Josh here is going to go into the bathroom with you to witness your instant drug screen. Now, before we deal with any of your shit, just know that we can do it here or at the hospital. I’m thinking here is a better choice. Less of a wait. So, let’s be a good boy and just do it. I have people to see and places to be.”

  It doesn’t cross my mind to argue. Getting her the hell out of my life sounds fine by me. Josh grabs a testing cup off the counter and walks down a hallway and into a room, so I follow. I’ve had several drug tests in my lifetime. Rehab counselors are paranoid fuckers which, in all honesty, they should be. The first time I tried blow was in rehab for my first court-ordered stay.

  “You know the drill, man?” he asks, handing me the cup then placing rubber gloves on.

  “As long as my bone doesn’t give you a boner then yeah, we are good,” I reply, unzipping my jeans and pulling out my dick. Pissing in a cup while another man stares at every single movement literally makes my nuts crawl up inside me. It’s not a pretty sight, which I guess is a good thing.

  It seems like an eternity before I can piss, but finally, I fill the cup and hand it over to Deputy Dewey.

  “You know what it’s going to tell me?” he asks, while sitting it down on the bathroom counter and beginning to test my urine.

  “I’m pretty sure opiates. Probably some cannabinoids. Possibly amphetamines. If you did an extended drug test, I would definitely add benzodiazepines and barbiturates,” I say, shrugging my shoulders and smiling at him. “That should be it,” I add, pulling my pants up and zipping them.

  “I guess I don’t have to tell you that high levels of those drugs combined would more than likely cause you to not wake up. Ever,” he replies, not looking at me while continuing to test my urine. “You can wash your hands now.”

  “I’m not that lucky,” I reply, turning towards the sink and reaching for the soap dispenser.

  “Mmm. Well, I guess you are right,” he says, looking down at the results. “Follow me.”

  We walk back into the living area where there is an office off to the side that I didn’t notice before. He goes into it and proceeds to make a copy of my bottle of piss on a copier machine. Weird fucker. Once he does that, he signs the paper and brings it over to Satan’s bobble head doll.

  “Interesting, but not surprising,” she comments, standing up then walking to the door. “Most of this should be out of your system by next Friday, Rhye. See you then.”

  I’ve never felt better to see anyone go in my entire life. Turning around, I see Josh staring at me while leaning against the wall. “You know, I understand the allure that you feel towards drugs,” he says, not moving while he speaks.

  “Is this where you tell me you are not only the hair club president, but a client too?” I reply sarcastically, watching him watch me.

  “Okay, smartass. Your bedroom is the second on the left down the hallway. I ride my bicycle every morning around six o’clock, and if you want to join me, I have an extra set of wheels. Don’t test me because I will turn you in if you miss anything mandatory. It’s my job, and you’re not worth losing it over,” he states, turning to walk down the hallway to another set of doors and closing them behind him.

  Looking around, I have to admit it’s nothing fancy but much better living conditions from what I found myself in before. My stomach growls, and I realize I haven’t eaten all afternoon. Finding the modest kitchen, I make myself a turkey sandwich and devour it in two seconds flat. I contemplate eating another but decide not to push my sensitive stomach.

  I grab my duffle bag and guitar case before checking out my bedroom. I’m sure that Josh has taken the master, which I really couldn’t care less about. Flipping the light on, I immediately notice the coal gray curtains covering the large windows with matching bed spread and pillows on a queen, black metal bed. A small bathroom sets off to the side with a shower, toilet, and sink. Throwing my bag in the corner, I set my case down on the matching black dresser and turn to sit on the edge of the bed. I look down at my trembling hands. Once these were used to play away my pain. They could take me somewhere else, make me someone else. Someone important. Someone better.

  Falling back on the bed, I stare at the white ceiling. This is a cluster fuck of epic proportions. I can try and score some smack, get high, and forget all this bullshit. Shaking my head, I remember who I’ll have to deal with if I do. I’m sure I’ll have to go head to head with Satan’s tramp, and I’m staying out of that bitch’s way. Closing my eyes, I will my mind to slow down and quit screaming for my next fix. It reminds me how good it will feel, “Like the best sex ever,” it commands over and over, resonating through my head. My body responds, my dick hardening at the memories of a good high. I’m sure the pussy will be just as easy to score as the drugs to take care of my hard-on. Maybe then I can get back to my music. Just one more time. For now. Then, I can get serious about this shit.

  I lean up, determined on my next course of action. Not bothering to change, I quietly open the door and slowly press it shut behind me. I walk down the hallway only to look up to find Josh leaning against the door, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

  “See, this is the part where your mind has convinced you that going out to satisfy your habit is actually the smart thing to do,” he says, commanding the space around him. “To be honest, you lasted about as long as I would expect.”

  “Fuck you, man,” I comment, placing my hands on my hips. “You’re not my boss.”

  “You are right, Rhye. I’m not; however, I am instructed to contact your boss should you leave this apartment after curfew which is…,” he replies, looking down at his watch and then back to me, “Wow, now. We can have Kelly come back here and officially throw your ass out before you mess this up. Why deal with the morning after, just get it over with now. What do you say? Save me and you the headache tonight instead of later?”

  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, h
oping 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.