by Grey, Priya
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title
Be The First
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Other Books
About the Authors
Copyright
Healing Melody
By Ozlo & Priya Grey
Copyright © 2015 by Ozlo & Priya Grey. All Rights Reserved.
Edition: December 26, 2015
Be The First
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CHAPTER ONE
I shouldn’t be here – in an abandoned warehouse on the East Side of LA, fighting a dude ten years younger than me. I’m not ready for this fight. I didn’t have enough time to train. The only reason I’m here – getting the shit kicked out of me – is because of my son.
Max is five years old.
I’m fighting to save his life.
Damn it! This sly motherfucker just hit me with an elbow strike. My right eye is swelling shut. Now, I only have one good eye to keep track of him. It won’t be easy because this dude moves fast.
Figures, he’s Brazilian.
Shit! He just hit me with another leg kick. My knee buckles. I struggle to stay on my feet.
Sensing an opportunity, the Brazilian storms forward and launches a spinning back kick. Losing my balance, I crash to the floor.
The crowd outside the cage roars with approval. They’ve come for a real fight. They want to see blood. Well, it looks like they’re going to get what they paid for.
Unfortunately, most of the blood being spilled is mine.
The Brazilian, whose name is Jose Silva, jumps on top of me and pounds me with a hammer fist. I thrust my pelvis forward to get him off of me. Quickly, I roll to my side.
But like I said: This fucker’s fast.
Before I know it, he’s got his legs wrapped around my waist. His arms squeeze my neck in a chokehold. By applying pressure, he hopes to cut off the oxygen and blood flowing to my brain.
This Silva dude has been fighting regularly for the last two years. He’s good, real good. He’s an expert in Jiu Jitsu and Muay Thai. He actually trained at my gym once. I taught him a couple of moves. I freakin’ taught him how to properly apply the chokehold he’s using on me right now.
Fuck.
I feel my head getting lighter from the chokehold. I picture my son, Max, lying in his hospital bed. He may only be five years old, but he has the heart of a tiger. He’s been stuck in the hospital for the last month fighting what doctors’ call acute myeloid leukemia. All I know is that it’s a rare form of cancer. The doctor’s are trying their best. It’s going to be a tough battle.
Max is a fighter, though. He won’t give up.
Neither can his old man.
I slam my elbow – hard! – into Silva’s side. His grip loosens. I slam my other elbow into his other side. With a loud grunt, I fling my head back, and head-butt the Brazilian. He falls backward, finally letting me loose. Swiftly, I whirl around and try to place him in a neck crank. But he predicts what’s coming and rapidly rolls away.
We both struggle to our feet.
I try to catch my breath.
This is the longest five minutes of my life. I just need to get through this round and hopefully get my second wind.
Through my one good eye, I stare Silva down.
I can’t believe it. He doesn’t have a fucking scratch on him. In fact, he looks like he just stepped out of the shower and is ready to go out to the club.
My chances don’t look good the longer this fight goes on. I just don’t have the stamina. If I had more than two days to train, maybe it would be a different story. But I can’t use that as an excuse. Max doesn’t need excuses; he just needs the best medicine money can buy.
That’s why I’m here: Money.
If I win this fight, the money I’ll take home will help pay for some experimental drug treatment. The doctors believe it may be the only chance Max has at beating the cancer.
I can’t let my son down.
I lurch forward. I throw a superman punch at Silva followed by a liver kick. But he surprises me; he wraps his arm around my extended leg. Suddenly, he squats and punches me with an uppercut – straight to my groin. FUCK!!!!
I should have seen that coming. This is an underground fight. Anything goes.
No Rules.
There’s no time to recover from the scorching pain shooting through my nuts. Silva still has his right arm wrapped around my leg. I look up and see the sinister look in his eyes.
He’s going in for the kill.
“Desculpa, velho,” he says with a grin. Which means “sorry, old man” in Portuguese.
He flips himself over, taking my leg – along with my entire body – with him.
My head slams down on the mat. Silva then pins me in a knee bar, twisting my leg. Excruciating pain bolts through my lower extremity. He keeps applying pressure. I should tap out – quit – but I can’t.
Max is counting on me.
Silva keeps twisting my leg. I struggle to get free.
“Tap out, old man,” Silva screams in English. “I don’t want to break it.”
“No,” I shout.
I won’t tap out.
I can’t quit.
I try to punch him, but I just hit the mat.
I hear the crowd outside the cage roar once again.
Silva keeps applying pressure and my leg bends further. The pain is unbearable.
I pray for a last burst of energy, hoping that I can somehow get out of this position.
“Tap out,” Silva screams again.
I shake my head. “No!”
The pain burns through me like a raging fire.
I won’t tap out, ever.
Then I hear the tear.
My leg snaps.
The fight is over.
I’ve failed as a father.
I’m sorry, Max.
CHAPTER TWO
I’ve been sitting at my piano all day. All I have to show for it is some shitty verse and a forgettable chorus. This song blows. I can’t save it. It’s terrible – just like all the other songs I’ve tried composing this week.
I ruffle my long brown hair. Then drop my head onto the piano.
I’m creatively fucked.
The record label has been waiting months for my new songs. My last album, A Different Melody, spawned five number-one hits and launched a sold-out world tour. I’ve performed to adoring fans all over the world: London, Rio, Sydney, Tokyo…
I’m the hot, new music se
nsation. My label doesn’t want too much time to pass before releasing my follow-up record.
“We have to strike while we’re hot!” my agent Randy keeps saying.
She checks in daily to see how the songs are coming. She says if the next album is as successful as the last one, I’ll be bigger than Taylor Swift and Beyoncé combined. I think she’s exaggerating but maybe not by much.
No one, including me, saw this kind of success coming.
In little over five years, I’ve gone from an obscure YouTube singer/songwriter to one of the most popular entertainers in the industry. And the funny thing is, I don’t even put on much of a show. I don’t dance on stage with an entourage, wear crazy outfits or even twerk. It’s just me – my voice and my music.
But fans can’t seem to get enough of me.
And even though I’m not much of an actress, it turns out fans like to see me on the big screen too. I’ve acted in two movies that have done really well at the box office. So besides being a successful musician, I also have a nice little acting career on the side. I guess you can say I’ve won the lottery: I’m doing what I love and everybody seems to love me.
But there’s a problem: Now, everyone has expectations. I’m feeling the pressure big time to deliver on my next album.
In their last issue, Rolling Stone called me ‘the voice of a generation.’ Well, if that’s the case, my generation is fucked. Because right now, every song coming out of my mouth is total garbage.
With my cheek still pressed against the piano, I dance my fingers over the keys. I’m trying to find some inspiration, but nothing’s coming. I lean back on the piano bench and shout, “Fuck!!!”
My voice echoes off the walls of my living room.
Randy says if I’m having a tough time, she can call in some collaborators… aka ghostwriters. But that goes against everything I believe in. I write and perform my own music. If I sang someone else’s words and tried to pass them off as my own, I couldn’t respect myself. I’d be a fraud.
I look at my phone. It’s almost midnight. I can’t let another night pass without a decent song. I’m Melody Swanson for crying out loud. According to that same Rolling Stone article, ‘I’m the next Lauryn Hill, the next Jodi Mitchell.’ The way the article describes me, it’s like I’m not even human: “Melody Swanson has the face of an angel and the voice to match. As the whole world anxiously awaits her next album, we can only hope it’s as relevant as A Different Melody. If Miss Swanson delivers, than her status as musical juggernaut is assured. She will be a torchlight for these bleak times.”
See what I mean by pressure?
I’m screwed! Every time I try to write a new song, I can’t stand what I come up with. I just can’t seem to get into a groove.
I can’t be dried up already, can I? I’m only twenty-four.
Questions race through my mind.
Was my last album all I had in me? Was that all I had to say?
It can’t be.
I need some inspiration, fuckin’ pronto.
Should I meditate?
I tried that. It didn’t work.
Should I roll another joint?
What’s the point, the last one didn’t help.
Should I get laid?
Now, that’s something I haven’t done in quite a while… but not by choice. My therapist strongly believes I should abstain from sex for at least a month. She’s worried I might become a sex addict on account of my escapades during my last tour.
You see, some people like to do a shot of whiskey before they go on stage, others, a line of coke.
Me: I like to fuck.
Sex unleashes something magical inside of me. It inspires me. And after a good round of fucking, I always feel extraordinary and want to take on the world like some sort of super hero.
And usually, after having sex, is when I write my best songs.
But my therapist, Jeanie, is really worried I’m developing a sex dependency problem. I told her she was a full of it. So, she challenged me to prove her wrong.
“Go without sex for a whole month,” she said during my most recent therapy session. “If you can do it without any trouble, then you don’t have a problem.”
She had me cornered, so I agreed.
I’m nine days into my abstinence. And it’s a living hell.
Maybe if I just play with myself, I’ll get inspired and write something good. But I just know there’s something about a nice hard cock that always does the trick for me.
I drum my fingers on the piano.
Damn it! Now I can’t stop thinking about cock. I really want a nice hard one buried inside me. I want to feel it driving in and out of my wet pussy. I picture myself wrapping my legs around the waist of a strong, muscled stud. I squeeze his firm butt as he plows me toward bliss. I’m getting so freakin’ hot just imagining it.
This desire to get fucked is overwhelming.
Shit, maybe I do suffer from sex addiction.
But then I realize I’m dealing with extenuating circumstances here. I’m on a deadline. I have an album to compose and a career to sustain. The whole world is counting on me… or at least Rolling Stone is.
That settles it: Fuck abstinence.
It’s time for a booty call.
I pick up my phone and quickly scroll through my contacts. My fingers stop instantly when Antonio Moreno’s name hits the screen. I have a flashback to the hot sex we had after the Grammys. I remember running my hands over his flawless brown skin, over each clearly defined muscle. I lick my lips as I remember his cock. Damn, that drop-dead-sexy Dominican sure knew how to use it.
Antonio is one of the hottest Latin singers in the business, and also a very bankable Hollywood actor. He's not only good looking, but since he knows a thing or two about rhythm, he’s also spectacular in bed.
Antonio is exactly what I need! As I dial his cellphone number, I hope he’s in LA and not in Miami, his home base.
“Well, hello gorgeous.”
My pussy tingles at the sound of his smooth and sexy Latin voice.
“Please, tell me you’re in LA?” I breathe into the phone.
“That depends. What do you need?” he says calmly.
“You.”
He laughs. “Melody, if you didn’t have such an amazing ass and great pair of tits, I’d think you were a guy.”
“Why?”
“Because all you want is sex and get straight to the point.”
“It’s the twenty-first century, Antonio. Women own their sexuality. Didn’t you get the memo?”
“I guess I’m old fashioned,” he responds. “I like leading the slow dance before I fuck.”
“So, does that mean you’re not interested?”
“Now, I didn’t say that. Did I?”
“Great, come over,” I reply with a wide smile.
“Now?”
“Yes, Antonio. Now. This is a booty call. That’s how it works.”
“But I’m already in bed.”
I check the time on my phone. I’m surprised he’s in bed this early. Antonio is usually a late night party animal.
“That’s unlike you,” I say. “It’s only ten past midnight.”
“I know,” he complains. “I’m doing a guest appearance on Criminal Element tomorrow. My call time is 5 A.M… so,” he says with a playful tone, “if you want what I can give you, you’re going to have to come over to my place. But make it fast; I want to make sure I get my beauty sleep.”
I hesitate. Antonio’s been renting a beach house in Malibu, on the coast. I’m in the Hollywood Hills. Do I really want to drive all the way there just for a quickie?
“The clock is ticking, Melody. If you want my cock, you better hurry.”
“Fine,” I blurt into the phone. “I’m leaving now.”
Ten minutes later, I reverse my blue Maserati out of the garage and drive toward the gates at the end of my driveway.
As I pull into the street, I notice an old, red Volkswagen Beetle parked a few feet aw
ay. That car has been there all week. I drive off, and in my rearview mirror, I see the lights of the beetle flick on. The car starts following me. Just as I suspected: Paparazzi.
I make my way down Nightingale Drive, toward Sunset. That red Volkswagen bug follows close behind. I need to lose it before I hit the Pacific Coast Highway and make my way into Malibu. The last thing Antonio and I want is our names linked in the papers. Especially since he’s going through a bitter divorce in Miami involving the custody of his two kids. That wouldn’t be good for either one of our public images. Rolling Stone called me an angel, remember?
I’m forced to stop at a red light. That red Volkswagen pulls up alongside me. The driver’s passenger-side window is rolled down. I glance over and see a camera lens pointed straight at me. Behind the lens, I see a familiar round-faced guy with an unruly beard.
Fuck, it’s him. I think his name is Charlie. He’s the WORST of these LA paparazzi scumbags. He doesn’t believe in boundaries. And lately, he’s made getting footage of me his number one priority.
“Smile, Melody,” he shouts. “Everyone wants to see a smile on America’s Sweetheart.”
I want to give him the finger. But again, I have an image to protect. I shoot him a stupid smirk instead. “Don’t you get tired of following me around?”
“You?” he replies with grin. “Never. Now, Melody, why don’t you tell us where you’re going this Saturday night?”
I don’t respond. Like I’m going to tell him. I need to lose this fucker, Charlie, before I hit Malibu. I take another look at his car and an idea springs to mind. The minute the light turns green; I’ll slam on the accelerator. My Maserati will blow the doors off his old Volkswagen bug. Then, I can easily lose him in traffic.
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, waiting impatiently for the light to turn. The whole time Charlie floods me with questions.
“Are you going to go see your boyfriend for a midnight rendezvous? Or is it a girlfriend? Come on Melody, the people have a right to know.”
“No, they don’t,” I mutter to myself.
The light turns green and I slam my foot on the accelerator. From the corner of my eye, I catch a fleeting glimpse of something big and white. That’s the last thing I remember.