Lyrical Odyssey Rock Star Series: Box Set 1

by Charli B. Rose

  Our fans were amazing. They were worried about me. It was time to explain a bit more, so they’d understand the inspiration behind the song.

  With pad and pen, I started scribbling my post. The words flowed in a way they hadn’t since Izzy had left. Effortlessly.

  When I was done, I read over what I’d written. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get through it without my voice cracking. Maybe I should just type it.

  After hitting the button to go live, I realized I was shirtless, and I hadn’t even brushed my hair yet. Oh well.

  “Good morning, Loyals. Please refrain from posting any comments. I have something I want to post in the first comment when I’m done. Anyway, you guys were on my mind first thing this morning. You can see I just rolled out of bed. Your response to my song tease last night has overwhelmed me. I know without a doubt Lyrical Odyssey has the best fans ever.”

  I winked at the screen and flashed my famous smile. “So, the song I teased last night sounds sad. And it kind of is. But it’s not a song of despair. It’s a soul-searching song. I don’t have many of the words written yet. But I know the goal of the song is to find answers from the power out there that holds the solutions. And as you should be able to guess, the source of the questions, the start of my search, all begins with a girl. Because ladies, you’re the ultimate source of all the mystery in the world.” I laughed.

  “This girl is special. Without her, I never would’ve even become a musician. The first time I ever sang a song, it was with her… for her. Anyway, I just wanted to reassure you all that I’m OK. Just in need of answers. I’ll explain more in the comments. And if you have any good advice, send it my way.”

  Once I stopped the live feed, I clicked in the comment box and began typing what I’d written down.

  ♪ Open Your Eyes by Alter Bridge

  Dear Universe,

  I’m an idiot. Words have always mattered to me, whether they were scratched in childish scrawl with a crayon underneath a drawing or written in beginner’s cursive in a note passed in class or inscribed in a beautiful looping script within a sketchbook or shorthand text speak or quick messages of encouragement in my inbox or etched on my heart, forming a song.

  They’ve always come easily, even when I don’t let them out. But for the first time in my life, I think words may fail me. I don’t know what to do. It’s my hope that if I share some of them with you, you can help me find the right ones to regain what I’ve lost. I swear I’m not nuts. I’m just a man who loved a girl, and then like an idiot left her behind to chase my own dreams. But even the brightest of dreams coming true lose their sparkle without someone to share them with. Without the one to share them with. I need to go back to the beginning, back to when it all started with a note.

  When I was six, I was lonely. Until she became my best friend.

  When I was nine, I was miserable. Until she became my refuge.

  When I was eleven, I was lost. Until she became my song.

  When I was sixteen, I was in hell. Until she became my heaven.

  When I was nineteen, I was falling. Until she became my rope.

  When I was twenty-one, I was soaring. Until she became my anchor.

  When I was twenty-three, I was a star and on my way to having it all. Until it all became a black hole with no sun in sight.

  Now I’m twenty-five, and I’m lonely and miserable and lost and in hell and falling. And I’ll continue being all those things until I either crash and burn or… Until I convince her to be my anchor, my rope, my song, my refuge, my best friend, my everything once more.

  What do you think? Can I win her back? I know I don’t deserve her back in my life. She was always there for me when I needed her. And I didn’t return the favor. What should I do? She has a chance at happiness. Can I stand in the way of that?

  Sincerely,

  Dying in my Dreams (aka Dawson)

  My life would’ve been so different without Izzy in it. Much worse.

  Music never mattered to me until I was nine years old. I mean, a catchy song on the radio might have made me bob my head. But I never paid attention to lyrics before…

  I was in my room doing my homework when the yelling started. They’d been arguing a lot lately. I pressed my hands over my ears to shut them out, so I could finish my reading. When I finished, I put on my PJs and climbed into bed. Even with my head under my pillow, I could still hear them. I couldn’t take it.

  I tucked my flashlight in my waistband and opened my window. The branch that stretched across the fence to my window was thin, but I wasn’t that heavy. Very carefully, I climbed out and wiggled my way to Izzy’s yard. When I jumped down, I tried to be really quiet.

  I clicked on my flashlight and made my way to the treehouse. One, two, three… I counted the rungs as I went up. The trapdoor made a creak that was super loud. But no one yelled out from the house. I turned on Izzy’s battery-powered light, then climbed into the sleeping bag she kept in the corner. I’d just sleep here where it was quiet and then go home in the morning.

  The sleeping bag smelled nice, like Izzy. Strawberries and cookies. I closed my eyes and drifted off.

  I didn’t know how long I was asleep, but something nudged my arm and woke me up. When I opened my eyes, Izzy was sitting on the floor beside me. It was still dark outside.

  “What are you doing out in the middle of the night?” I asked her.

  “Why are you out here, Dawson?” she whispered back.

  “Sleeping. What does it look like?” Duh.

  “I see that, silly. But why?” She chewed on her bottom lip and twirled a piece of hair around her finger.

  I shrugged and sat up. “Mom and Dad were arguing. They were so loud, I couldn’t fall asleep. So, I came out here. Is that OK?”

  “Sure. How about I stay with you, so you don’t have to be alone?”

  “That’d be nice.” I yawned.

  A rustling sound filled the space as Izzy spread out the other sleeping bag right beside me. She pulled over her bean bag chair. “We can put our heads on this to be more comfy.”

  That was a good idea. The floor was hard.

  When she climbed in her pink sleeping bag, I relaxed. She reached over with her hand and laced our fingers together. Peace filled me. Izzy began humming a song by my ear, and I drifted off to sleep.

  The next morning, we both made it back into our houses without anyone realizing we hadn’t slept in our beds.

  Over the course of the year, I showed up in the treehouse more and more frequently after dark. My parents’ arguments got more intense. After the first couple of times, Izzy left her favorite teddy bear in the treehouse for me to hug on the nights she couldn’t sneak out. But most nights, she was able to be with me.

  We didn’t talk about what my parents fought over. We didn’t really talk at all. But every night, Izzy sang me to sleep. She sang all kinds of songs to me. Her voice was really pretty. When she sang “This I Promise You” by some boyband, I started paying attention to the words.

  ♪ This I Promise You by NSync

  The words in songs never really registered to me before that night. But in Izzy’s voice, the words started to matter.

  After she sang “If You’re Gone” by Matchbox Twenty, I wondered what it would be like to make songs that made people feel better. I started paying attention to the words of every song I heard.

  ♪ If You’re Gone by Matchbox Twenty

  Months after the first treehouse sleepover, Izzy started singing “Wherever You Will Go” by The Calling. I recognized it from the drive to school, so I joined in and sang along with her.

  “Wow, Dawson. Your voice sounded amazing. You should sing more often,” she said when the song ended.

  ♪ Wherever You Will Go by The Calling

  After that night, we sang songs from the radio, and I’d make up songs for her. Usually the songs were funny, because her laugh was the best sound in the world. I also sang stories to her. She always drew pictures to match my best song stori
es and left them in my mailbox to make me smile.

  My life would’ve certainly been dark without the light of Izzy in it. The two most important facets of me wouldn’t exist.

  Chapter 11

  Izzy

  When my eyes cracked open the next morning, I looked at my closed fist. Unfurling my fingers revealed the small representations of love I’d clutched all night. My heart felt light for the first time in ages. I rolled over, and the red numerals on the clock made me do a double take. I’d overslept for the first time since … I couldn’t remember the last time I’d overslept. I was sure it had happened at some point, but it was a rarity. Sitting up quickly, I tossed my covers to the foot of the bed and didn’t bother straightening them. I quickly dashed around my room, pulling on clothes. In record time, I was ready. Stuffing my cell phone in my pocket, my eyes caught a glimpse of pink. The paper hearts. Without examining my motives, I slid one of them into my pocket.

  As I walked out my front door, I scooped up my gear, which I’d thankfully placed by the door yesterday. I hurried down the sidewalk to the park. Normally, I liked to be at least forty-five minutes early for a shoot, so I could scout things out. Today, I had to settle for ten minutes of getting my wits about me. Thankfully, the Miltons were repeat clients, and they were a dream to shoot—young couple completely in love and their toddling little boy. The session passed quickly. They completely forgot about me as they frolicked in the grass. I knew I’d captured their love, their devotion, their joy. That knowledge gave me a little happiness of my own.

  By the time we were done, my stomach was demanding food. The air was brisk but refreshing. I grabbed a taco from the vendor at the edge of the park. The spicy mixture was delicious. Once my hunger was sated, I lifted my camera and began snapping away at everyday scenes that held sparks of inspiration.

  Eventually, I had to head back home. As soon as I got inside, I attached my camera to my laptop and started uploading the images to the cloud. My phone alerted me to a video chat as I was fixing a cup of coffee. I swiped to answer, and Beckett’s face filled the screen.

  “Hey there.” His whole face smiled at me.

  “Hey yourself. You’ve got good timing. I just got home.” I grinned at him.

  “How’d it go at the park?”

  “Great. I can’t wait to see the shots.” I added milk and sugar to my mug.

  “So, I have some time before I need to crash if you want some help choosing things to show Charles.”

  I took a sip and left my mug on the counter. No food or drink allowed near my art.

  “OK.” I walked down the hallway towards the spare bedroom. “The room is kind of a mess because I started pulling pieces out last night.”

  He laughed.

  “Let me show you the pieces I already selected.” I carefully showed him the sketches from the park—a young boy chasing after a puppy, an elderly lady feeding the ducks, a little girl with a balloon and a young couple with their arms around each other.

  “Those are nice,” Beckett offered.

  “Thanks.” I showed him the desert landscape and the Eiffel Tower painting. I worried he might recognize me on the canvas.

  “I really like the painting of the Eiffel Tower. We should plan a trip there, so you can paint another one.” His face didn’t hold even a hint of recognition. I shouldn’t be surprised. I didn’t recognize the girl depicted in the painting—so carefree and so in love. She was gone.

  Then I held up the painting of the fans waiting to get inside the LO concert. When I panned the camera to show him the larger painting of the band against the lights, he said, “Is that LO?”

  “Yeah.” I put the smaller piece down on the floor.

  “I didn’t know you’d painted them. That’s a pretty amazing piece. Do you have more of them?” his voice held the first note of excitement since I’d started showing him my work.

  I sucked in a deep breath. “A few.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Show me.” He rubbed his hands together anxiously.

  “Hold your horses. Keep an eye out for suggestions. I need to pick four more pieces to show Charles.”

  I propped the phone up against the rack on my desk. I held up paintings of the bassist, drummer and guitarist for his perusal. None of the lead singer. As he raved about the band, I moved about the room and spread out a few pieces against the walls.

  “I’m going to show you some more now,” I said from across the room.

  I showed him a moonrise over the ocean, the Blue Ridge Mountains at the peak of color, a tornado of butterflies, a young hand holding out a bouquet of wildflowers to a hand with pink fingernails, a bridge spanning a whitecapped river, a sailboat on a glassy surface, a shattered mirror, a lion from the zoo, a series of sketches from Sonora Cavern.

  “How many pieces have you created?” he asked in wonder.

  “Hundreds.” I didn’t even look his way as I sorted through more canvases.

  “I had no idea you had so many. You never said anything to indicate that your hobby was so large.” I turned to the screen then. He leaned forward as if trying to get closer to the pieces.

  “It’s my passion,” I offered in explanation.

  “Those cavern sketches look familiar. Have I seen them before?” He frowned.

  “They’re the ones I did of Sonora Cavern in Texas last June.” I turned back to the stacks on the bed.

  He nodded. “I remember now. They were scattered in your hotel room when I had to come get you. I remember packing them up and trying to be extra careful not to mess them up.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think you should show Charles the moonrise, one of the cavern ones, the flower one and the butterflies piece. All those pieces seem different than the ones you already picked out. Well, besides the Eiffel Tower one. I don’t know anything about art, but something is different between them.” He tapped his chin.

  “Thanks for your help,” I said as I pulled out the ones he suggested and stacked them on the pillow.

  “Anytime, babe. Maybe Charles will be able to find a way to display your whole collection.” He grinned at me.

  “Why?”

  “Well, you don’t plan to stay in your apartment forever. And it’s going to be quite a job to move all those drawings,” he reasoned.

  “I’m sure if I ever move, I could pack up my art just like all my other belongings.” Of course, I’d pack up my art. Why would he think I’d leave it behind?

  “True. I just didn’t know you had so many pieces that you needed a whole room just to house them in. I mean, I knew you used the spare bedroom for your art. I just didn’t realize the spare room was full of art,” he said incredulously.

  “It is a lot. I’ve been creating since before I can even remember.” I didn’t really want to have to explain it to him.

  “I hate to rush off, but I need a nap before I have to go in and check on some of the new research trial patients.”

  “OK. Have a good shift. I’ll talk to you soon. Sleep well.”

  He blew me a kiss and said, “Talk to you soon. Dream of me tonight.”

  I chuckled and ended the call with a blown kiss of my own. I moved the pieces he suggested to the grouping by the door. Well, except for the cavern one. I spread out the series and tried to examine them with a critical eye. I remembered vaguely the day I created them.

  Distraught when I arrived at the Sonora Cavern, I sketched mindlessly until my fingers cramped from gripping my pencils so hard, and my eyes ached from all the tears they’d leaked for hours.

  Sorting through one of the drawers, I unearthed a painting I’d done of Lake Hamilton. Placing it next to the cavern pieces, I could easily see the shift in emotion. My trip to Lake Hamilton was peaceful and easy. The painting was very tranquil. The brushstrokes were smooth and even.

  In contrast, the cavern pieces seemed dark and ominous. The walls showed dark cracks. The stalactites were sharp and dangerous looking. The stalagmites were equally treacherous. The
two never met in any of my drawings. They were like two lost souls reaching for each other but forever separated by an uncrossable space. My heart hurt looking at them. The pain from that day still so sharp and vivid in my mind…

  Once I’d gotten the all clear on my health, I decided to start traveling. Life was too short to let it pass me by while I waited for things to be perfect. They were never going to be again. I had to learn to live with that.

  ♪ Life Must Go On by Alter Bridge

  I’d been taking trips here and there for about six months when I decided to go to Lake Hamilton, near Austin Texas.

  While I waited in the rental car line at the Austin-Bergstrom International Airport, I overheard some young girls talking about a concert they were excited about going to. I only listened with half an ear, my mind already in Lake Hamilton. I rolled my eyes recalling how I had once been a giggly teenage girl excited about going to see one of my favorite bands.

  “Dawson is so hot,” one girl gushed. The mention of his name fine-tuned my hearing, like dialing in a radio station with a knob to eliminate the static.

  “I can’t believe we managed to score tickets to see LO,” the other girl enthused.

  Without much thought, I whipped out my phone and pulled up their website. It had been months since I’d allowed myself to visit it. I shouldn’t have been visiting it then, but what were the odds he’d be performing while I just happened to be visiting? It was a sign. Right?

  Before I could examine my intentions, I had purchased a ticket to the show. By the time my transaction had gone through, it was my turn at the rental car counter.