by Rye Hart
“What's going with my little girl?” I said.
“Please, Mr.--”
One of the doctors turned off the beeping machine and said quietly, “Time of death, nine-fifty-five pm.”
I pushed my way past the doctors and the nurses and stared down at Ava's sweet face. It was so still. So peaceful. She looked like a perfect little angel. I stared at her little upturned nose, a trait she got from Shannon, the freckles along her nose and cheeks. She wasn't dead, she couldn't be.
The nurse who'd tried to take me out of the room earlier, grabbed my arm, pulling me from the room as gently as she could.
In that very moment, my entire world fell apart.
***
Two and a half months after the funeral, Landon stopped by and found me sitting on my front porch. Empty bottles littered the steps beside me. He didn't say anything as he sat down. I just handed him a beer, and he took it.
“Listen, man, I'm so sorry – ”
“I wish everyone would stop with the sorry bullshit,” I said, drinking down the last of my current beer.
I reached for another one and popped open the top. I tossed the cap away, where it clattered on the porch, spinning and rolling. I took a long drink and stared down into the bottle like it held all of the secrets to life and the universe. Like it could teach me how to bring my wife and daughter back to me.
“I'm so tired of everyone apologizing to me,” I said. “It's not gonna bring them back. They’re dead. They’re both dead.
“I know,” Landon said quietly. “But you know Shannon wouldn't want you to live like this.”
I scowled at him. “It hasn’t even been three months! I have a right to grieve.”
“You do,” he said, sipping his beer. “But you also need to come to terms with it and make some decisions.”
I sighed, running a hand through my greasy hair. It had been far too long since I'd seen a shower, and I probably smelled rank. My diet consisted of beer and booze these days. I couldn't even recall the last time I'd had a real meal. Probably Shannon's meatloaf, the night she died.
“This about the band?”
“Not just the band, but everything,” he said. “The ranch. Your music. Your life. We're worried sick about you, man.”
“I'll be fine,” I said.
“Look I know I’m coming across as a dick by asking, but I need to know. Just give me something. Do you intend to keep playing music?” he asked, side-eyeing me. We have shows lined up still, Drake.”
“I know,” I said, taking a long pull from the bottle. “I'll be ready for them.”
“You will?” he asked, the surprise in his voice evident. “You're gonna keep playing and singing?”
I shrugged. “I have to. I need to pay for Elsie's care. I don’t want my Mom working night shift anymore.” I said. “And besides, music is how I deal with shit.”
Elsie was my one and only sibling. She had autism and needed specialized care to help her manage. My mother had been struggling to pay for her care over the years, but she was getting too old now. We’d also talked about arranging for Elsie to move in with me, now that I was living alone. She’d always loved growing in our dad’s farm. It brought the both of us peace to be here.
Landon nodded, looking pleased with that answer. “Glad to hear it,” he said. “I know your fans will be happy to see you back on stage too.”
“I'm not doing it for them.”
“What about the ranch?” he asked. “I can get my sister out here. She's a realtor you know.”
“I'm keeping it,” I said. “Shannon and Ava loved this place. And, Elsie is moving in with me so I can look after her. We need the space.”
“I'm glad you won't be alone,” Landon said.
Later that night, I sat down with my guitar and started writing a new song, one that had been playing in my head for days now. It wasn’t my usual up beat style. I let my pain come out through my words, the chords providing the backdrop, and let it all out.
Music was my therapy. Always had been. I knew it was going to be the only thing that kept me going.
If it hadn't been for Elsie, my sister, I might have done something stupid. I might have ended it right then to be with Ava and Shannon once again. I couldn't do that to my sister though, she needed me.
So instead of ending my life, I put all those feelings into my music.
CHAPTER 1
Drake
The stadium was filled with thousands upon thousands of screaming fans, all of them chanting my name as I stepped out onto the stage. No longer did I play the guitar, Stone handled that. I was the front man, the singer, the voice of the operation. Landon was still on drums, hammering out beats just like he had back before we were household names.
The song playing was for Shannon and Ava, and most of our fan base knew the story behind it. My music was raw and often painful. My torment came out in almost all the songs - at least the verses I wrote and had control over.
I was no longer the man I once was. I’d shut the door to that poor bastard years ago. The only time he came around was when I sang these songs. It was my own version of torment.
I sure as hell deserved it.
I stared out at the audience, tears welling in my eyes as I saw the same hallucination I’d often see in my opening act. It was of Shannon smiling back at me. Long, blonde hair and vibrant sapphire blue eyes, and a sweet smile. It was like she was there with me, Ava in her arms, swaying to the song I wrote just for them.
Just like always, I fought back the tears. It has been four years since they passed, and I had the same emptiness inside. I finished the song, and I already knew what came next.
We sang the melodies most of our fans came to hear from us, the ones Hank insisted we put on the album. I reached for my first beer of the night, popping the tab and downing it to a crowd of cheers, as Landon and Stone played the backup music to one of our greatest hits.
I needed the alcohol to get through this song and the others that followed.
The pounding of the drums and the thickness of the bass filled the stadium as I sang the words to my latest hit. The crowd was going wild, and silky thongs and lacy G-strings were being tossed on stage.
I should have been eating it up, but the emptiness inside reminded me I would always be alone. Others envy me for living my dream, but living it without my girls was never what I’d imagined.
As I sang, my band played behind me to a sold-out stadium, filled with thousands of fans who had come to hear our music. People were jumping up and down, and some even passed out, some from the shock of seeing me in person, others dehydrated. Some were hauled away on gurneys with beer bottles still dangling from their hands. The concert was getting wild. Several women fainted or grew dizzy, and even more reached out for me. Picking up my bottle of beer, I guzzled it as the crowd went wild.
Stone was wailing away on the guitar, causing a rowdy cheer to percolate through the crowd. I took a running start and threw myself out into the throngs of women holding out their hands. I knew they would catch me. They always did. Even as the room spun with my alcohol-induced stupor, I could feel their hands passing me along.
My body surfed above their heads as Stone passed the musical interlude to Landon. He pounded on his drums, filling the stadium with beats that blurred together as my beer settled in my stomach. I felt hands all over me, running down my legs, wrapping around my chest. The alcohol dulled so much of the concerts nowadays that I didn’t give a shit what they touched.
They fed me back to the stage as the countdown back into the song began. Eight measures of music and I would be back to singing away. I climbed up onto one of the massive black speakers and looked out among the sea of painted faces.
I pointed down to a blond. One of the bouncers brought her up on stage as I started singing again, her hips were twisting around. I started up the chorus of my latest hit song as women continued to scream for me.
I downed yet another bottle of beer while dancing with the girl. S
he was hot, and she’d be a perfect distraction, just like all the other girls.
Security began pulling the girl from the stage, but she looked determined to get back to me, somehow. The crowd was going wild, and I could see the nervous faces on the security team hired to keep the peace. The band wound down our concert as women cried at our feet, begging for an encore, and throwing their bras on stage. Lacy bras, red bras, sports bras, and polka-dotted bras. You name it.
We wound down the show and were whisked away to the bus. Security got us out of signing autographs so they could calm down the crowd, but not before Stone had worked his magic. We all piled onto the bus, sweating and panting from a night of awesome music. Security was trying to figure out where Stone was, and they all scattered to go find him.
Then that was when he appeared-- with many groupies at his side -one of which was the thin blond woman from the stage earlier.
The party continued on the bus as we pulled away. Our driver closed the partition, separating himself from whatever debauchery was about to occur. I sat on one of the couches and kept mostly to myself. Landon placed a bottle into my hand, and I tossed it back, guzzling down the brown drink that burned on its way to my stomach. From there, I had another. Maybe even a few more shots, I'm not entirely sure. I didn't want to participate in the partying so much as I wanted to numb the pain.
Then from there, things went hazy.
I remembered naked girls and their dancing. I remembered someone sliding their hands down my chest. I remembered the thumping of music and my cock being pulled from my pants, but then it all went blank.
I woke up the next morning to the stale smell of alcohol and debauchery. The smell of sex permeated the bus as rays of sunlight streamed through the curtained windows. My head was pounding, and my bed felt cramped. I raked my hands through my hair, peeling my eyes open to try and figure out where the fuck I was.
The first thing my eyes landed on was the naked girl next to me.
I studied her as I tried to get my bearings. I pulled up the covers from my naked stomach, trying to remember that the hell happened last night. I still had my jeans and boots on, but the woman lying next to me was completely naked.
As the woman slept in my bed, I slid from the mattress. Stumbling into the kitchen, I shielded my eyes from the glaring sun. I found an open bottle of beer on the counter and picked it up, chugging back the flat taste as I woke myself up. I leaned against the counter as I sighed, my eyes closed as I tried to relieve the headache forming at my temples.
But the sharp bang of the bus door opening didn’t help and caused Stone and Landon to roll out of their beds.
“I’ve fucking had it with you,” Hank said.
“Could you be any louder?” I asked.
“The fuck’s going on?” Stone asked.
“Shit. That’s Hank,” Landon said.
“Yes. It’s Hank, you assholes,” I said.
“I’m done with the antics. Where is she? Hank asked.
“Sorry, y’all,” the woman said, as she slipped past us. “Just gotta find my pants.”
“Her pants—she’s gotta find her fucking pants,” Hank said.
She covered up with her pathetic excuse for a pair of pants. They fit her snugly, tucked up underneath each ass cheek. Those jeans left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and Stone grinned as I brought the stale, warm beer back to my lips.
But Hank snatched the bottle from me as the girl scampered off the bus.
“Enough is enough,” Hank said. “I’ve helped you climb to the top of your fame, and this shit’s gonna ruin it all.”
“Relax Hank. The boys wanted to through a little party after the show,” I said.
“A little party. Do you even fucking remember last night?” Hank asked.
“Not necessarily,” I said. That’s how I preferred it. To forget everything.
Stone and Landon snickered as I tried to keep my grin at bay.
“I’m fed up with this shit. You fuck the wrong woman and she goes to the media with all this shit, and you’re done. Bang, just like that, your fame is over. Your dedicated fan base will see you as nothing but an alcoholic womanizer.”
“Watch it. I’m not a fucking alcoholic,” I said.
“You drink like a fish on stage, Drake! Of course, you’re an alcoholic. I know you’ve been through a lot in your life but you can’t just go about acting like your actions won’t have any consequences. You haven’t gone one performance without beer in your stomach.”
“That’s part of my persona, Hank! They expect me to come on stage shit faced. It’s part of my shtick.”
“Is part of your shtick bringing groupies onto the bus, having them dance around naked, then drinking yourself stupid until you can’t remember whether or not you fucked one of them or all of them?” he asked.
“I didn’t fuck that girl.” I honestly wasn't sure, but I'd hoped I was right.
Stone and Landon fell apart in laughter as I stumbled over to the couch.
“This has gone on long enough. If you don’t turn this shit around, I’m gonna hire someone to help you do it,” Hank said.
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll take the information to heart,” I said.
“It’s not information for you to take to heart, asshole. It’s what’s going to happen if you don’t fucking shape up, Drake. In fact, I’m tempted to go ahead and take care of this shit right now.”
“And just what the hell are you gonna do? Hire someone to babysit me and count my beers?”
“No. But I am gonna hire you a public relations representative. Or a private assistant. Someone to help your fucking ass with this drinking of yours. Your drinking and your antics are gonna get you into trouble, and you’re gonna need someone like them to help when shit hits the fan.”
“Your knickers are really in a knot this morning, aren’t they?” I asked.
“I’m fucking done with you,” Hank said.
“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t walk away from me. You’re employed by me, remember?” I asked.
“No, better check your damn contract, buddy. I manage you. There’s a difference. And if I feel you need a fucking P.R. representative or an assistant or a fucking rehab for that matter, you’ll damn well do it! Otherwise, the concerts come with me, and I toss your ass out on the street. Got it?”
I clenched my fists as Hank left the bus. Who the fuck did he think he was? I was Drake fucking Blackthorn. He couldn’t get rid of me. I was half his damn paycheck every fucking month! He didn’t manage anyone else like me. He didn’t have some roster of fucking famous singers he could fall back on. I was the biggest name he had.
He needed me. Not the other fucking way around.
Long ago, I didn’t need a manager to tell me how to live my life. I was happy without a stadium full of fans. I performed in front of a crowd because it was my passion and it brought me to life.
Now, I barely even recognized that man. I was a fucking actor. I was in so deep in this fictitious character I’d created for myself, so I could avoid the reality of my fucking life. The reality that had I just driven them with me that night, Shannon and Ava would still be with me now.
That man was gone.
Now. I was just fine being an empty fucking vessel.
Fuck Hank.
Fuck the world.
CHAPTER 2
Delia
My phone alarm rang at exactly ten in the morning. I cracked my knuckles and pushed back from my desk, grabbing the yoga mat stored by my feet. I rolled it out in my little cubicle and started to stretch out my limbs, ready for my five-minute break. Working at a desk all day was murder on my back, so I had to make sure I kept moving. I stretched my hands down to my toes and flattened my palms onto my mat, then walked them forward. I groaned as my lower back stretched.
Working through college was tough, but I was getting by. I refused to go into debt with my schooling, so any debt I accrued was quickly paid off within weeks of taking out the loan. I was splitting my time between c
lasses and being a personal assistant. I sat at my desk, helping people who bought my time to coordinate their schedules and make it to their meetings on time.
It was a decent job and one that paid well. Depending on the package someone bought, they got a certain amount of my time during the week. Sometimes, people wanted counseling, someone to talk to and use as a soundboard, sharing their frequently terrible ideas before I changed everything. Sometimes people wanted me to tap into their schedules remotely and help them with their time management skills. Every once in a while, people purchased more expensive packages that required face-to-face time, but luckily, I hadn’t built a reputation for any of that.