Wasted Heart

by Nicole Reed

  Copyright © 2013 by Nicole Reed

  Published by Nicole Reed

  Cover Design © Hang Le

  Cover Photo © Picture This Cover

  Edited by Erinn Giblin

  Interior Design by Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author/publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Find out more about the author and upcoming books online at nicolereedbooks.com or facebook.com/authornicolereed

  Contents

  Love.

  Chapter 1: Rhye

  Chapter 2: Syn

  Chapter 3: Rhye

  Chapter 4: Syn

  Chapter 5: Rhye

  Chapter 6: Syn

  Chapter 7: Rhye

  Chapter 8: Syn

  Chapter 9: Rhye

  Chapter 10: Syn

  Chapter 11: Rhye

  Chapter 12: Syn

  Chapter 13: Rhye

  Chapter 14: Syn

  Chapter 15: Rhye

  Chapter 16: Syn

  Chapter 17: Rhye

  Chapter 18: Syn

  Chapter 19: Rhye

  Chapter 20: Syn

  Chapter 21: Rhye

  Chapter 22: Syn

  Chapter 23: Rhye

  Chapter 24: Syn

  Chapter 25: Rhye

  Chapter 26: Syn

  Chapter 27: Rhye

  Epilogue: Rhye

  Coming November 2013

  Euphoria Prologue

  About Me

  A four letter word.

  So beautiful in its spelling.

  So simple in its arrangement.

  So innocent in its meaning.

  So fragile in its time.

  So devastating in its aftermath.

  ~Nicole Reed

  We all have a weakness. Something that unleashes our eternal demons to gnaw away at our morality until it is picked clean from the bone. Sometimes, it leaves us with nothing. Numb from all emotion. Blind from what is right in front of you. What happens then? What’s left?

  I tightly close my eyes, blocking out my thoughts and the harsh, neon light that illuminates the small, dingy bathroom. My teeth sink into my bottom lip, but any pain I should feel is nonexistent. The annoying sound of dripping water from the leaky faucet magnifies in my mind. Each tap of the water against the basin sounds like a small explosion in my already altered reality. Opening my eyes, I see the stranger staring back at me.

  “Who are you?” I quietly ask him.

  The image in the mirror feigns disinterest. Rock star? Soon-to-be-washed-up-musician would be a more apt description. Recovering addict? Well, fuck. That went out the window last night. Murderer? Yeah, that holds true. I didn’t pull the trigger or drive the truck, but the sentiment is the same.

  The banging on the bathroom door reverberates through my pounding head. My teeth ache for my next hit. In fact, my entire body feels beaten and bruised from within. The internal suffering starts to commence as the heroin flees my system. My skin crawls with the sensation of thousands of tiny ants trickling up and down my spine.

  Gripping my hands on both sides of the sink, the cold porcelain cools my skin from the heat that courses through my body. Leaning forward, I don’t know the brown eyes that stare back at me anymore. Empty. Lifeless. Hungry. Yeah, the hunger I remember. I’ve had a serious habit for the last two years and spent several stints in rehab at the insistence of my record label. Fuck knows I have no desire to quit most days. It’s the only relief from my own thoughts. Who wants to live this life sober when the alternative makes you feel abso-fucking-lutely nothing?

  “Rhye?” a masculine voice calls to me from outside of the bathroom door in my hotel room.

  Ignoring whoever it is, I continue to glare at my pale reflection. My greasy dark hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in days, and my unshaven facial hair looks grizzly. In fact, I look like a Manson reject, the killer not the singer. I quickly glance over the small ink tear drop in the shape of a lowercase letter “j” underneath my eye. Once, it was a remembrance of a broken girl in my life, but now, it serves as a reminder of why it’s better to not give a damn. Everyone I’ve ever cared about turned away, chose someone or something else.

  For weeks, two to be exact, prior to last night, I had been living clean and on my own, in Los Angeles. The time before that was months spent in and out of a rehab facility in Pasadena, California.

  “Open the goddamn door, Rhye!” This time, loud banging accompanies the yelling. “You’ve got two seconds before I kick it in!”

  Cutting my eyes toward the loud commotion, I grit my teeth when I realize who is causing my brain to implode. The Mavericks manager, Jimmy Brunson, who also is a major pain in my ass, continues to rattle the doorknob. Knowing that he means what he says, I hang my head once more and turn to open it.

  Reaching for the door handle, I rotate and pull, catching Jimmy mid-swing. He halts his hand in the air, and his dark, beady eyes scan me up, then down with a scathing look. Shocker.

  “Really?” he asks, shaking his head. “You promised me no more shit. Remember?”

  My mouth feels as if dozens of fuzzy cotton balls have magically appeared in it, making it almost impossible to swallow. Without answering, I step by him in nothing but my tattered boxers, ignoring his overt huffing.

  “Rhye, I should drop you right now,” he threatens for the hundredth time behind me.

  “Fucking do it, Jimmy,” I answer honestly without looking at him.

  Walking directly to my bed, I step over the passed out, naked chick on the floor. Most of the time, I don’t even remember their names or what the hell happened the night before, and that’s fine with me. I bend over and pick up my t-shirt, pulling it over my head. Looking around, I spot my jeans and slide them on.

  “Why? I’m trying to get you back on that stage. Where, I might add, you belong. You still have loyal fans that beg for you. You’re a good-looking kid. Why chance all of that?” Jimmy says, glancing around the room in disdain.

  This time, I do ignore him. How can you explain to someone what it’s like not to care? Not about yourself or the person standing next to you. I’ve lost that inside of me, the ability to feel and show affection; however, I have a heart. Sometimes when I chase the dragon, it thunders through my head like a drum, reminding me that it still beats. It’s still there. Hollow. Empty. Wasted.

  Sitting down on the bed, I continue to drown out whatever Jimmy is saying as I put on my black Doc Martens. He must be hard up for money to be checking in on me. The Mavericks have been his big money maker for a while. Four years ago, we were called “The Mavs” when he heard us play at an impromptu music showcase. He encouraged us to change our name to “Mavericks,” and within a year after working our asses off, we were headlining arenas across the globe, playing some of the biggest music festivals and even winning a couple Moonman Awards.

  A year after that, fame got the best of us, and everything went to shit. The music doesn’t run through my veins like it used to. It doesn’t lead me. It doesn’t sing through my bloo
d and bleed out through my lyrics. It doesn’t make me feel anything anymore.

  “Rhye, are you listening to me? The record label is giving you one more chance. One shot to get your act together.”

  His words finally penetrate through my haze of thoughts.

  “What?” I ask, clearing my impossibly dry throat.

  “Boy, are you listening to anything I’m saying?” Walking over to the mini-fridge, he grabs a bottle of water and tosses it to me.

  My hands instinctively reach up to catch the cold plastic. Twisting the lid off, I tip the water bottle back and chug the cool liquid. My throat, which is feeling as dry as sandpaper, is finally soothed; however, my stomach churns with hot coals for my next hit.

  “Look at me, Rhye,” his voice pleads, so I glance up at him. “I know you don’t care anymore. You’re just on this earth to pass time. I see it every time I look into your eyes, and there is not a damn thing I can do about it.”

  An image flashes in my mind. A girl. Dark hair. Someone that I once saw the same thing in her sad grey eyes. A deadness. No, a peace, with death. Whenever. However. Didn’t I say the same thing to her long ago?

  “You can recapture what you had. I know that it won’t be the same without Chris, but the Mavericks can have a fresh new beginning,” he states, arms stretched out in front of him.

  Standing, I roll my stiff shoulders and silently add, “Don’t ever say his name to me again. I’ve warned you repeatedly. Next time, I’m going to knock your fucking head off your shoulders,” I threaten, turning to slide on my watch. I run my tongue over my teeth, trying to stop the constant itching that coming down is causing. Reaching into my pockets, I try to remember if I bought anymore smack or if we smoked it all last night. Unfortunately, I come up with zip. Zero. Nada. Not even a damn cigarette.

  “Damn it, son.”

  Turning back to look at him, I answer, “I’m not your goddamn son.”

  “And thank God for that. I’m going to say this once and be out of your life. I only ask that you seriously listen to me for two damn minutes. As your manager for these last four years and the shit I’ve put up with, you owe me.”

  Glaring at him, I mutter, “Go.”

  “This is not about you anymore. If you choose to kill yourself, then you need to know that it’s not just you that will lose out. Your mom called me since she can’t reach you. She ran through the money you gave her again, and this time, you’re almost out of money yourself. She hasn’t worked these last several years, and finding a job in this economy is going to be hard for a woman her age. Like I was trying to say before, the record label is willing to send you to Nashville to work with a top song-writer and his crew for your entire next album. They are also willing to front the money needed for your mom and will give you a weekly stipend following mandatory drug testing. Just so we are clear, that is non-negotiable.”

  Shit. My mom. I’ve taken care of her financially since the first record. We aren’t that close, but she’s all I’ve ever had. I bought her a house, car, and set her up with a bank account. Unfortunately, she likes the slot machines and keeps running out of dough. Jimmy reaches into his back pocket, flinging a folded piece of paper on the bed behind me.

  “On that is your flight time for this evening to Nashville, Tennessee. It’s also the information for the apartment they have set up for you to use right next to the recording studio. You need to call the contact person and let them know where to send the money to your mom. That is, if you decide that’s what you are going to do. I’m not going to warn you again, but this is your last chance. I’ve already argued that line one too many times with you. I’ll just leave you with this: Life is plain out shitty sometimes. It sucks. But Rhye, I promise it’s better than being dead. This is it. Your one shot. Your one chance. Not at singing. Not at playing. At living.” He turns and starts to leave, but he pauses before turning back.

  Jimmy ages before my eyes. Standing before me is a broken, tired, old man. This is what happens to everything and everyone in my life. It all goes to shit.

  “I’d rather see you on a stage than in a wooden box the next time we meet.” With those last words, he walks out of my hotel room.

  His words play over and over in my mind as I look back over my shoulder to the paper on my bed. I sit back down, hanging my head between both of my hands. My chest feels heavy, like a seven-hundred pound bitch of an elephant is sitting on it. Jimmy’s words run rampant. Fuck! I don’t care, but something in me won’t let me leave my mom like this.

  “Motherfu…,” I start to say to the silent room when the body on the floor groans and then lets out a loud fart. I look down at the once beautiful brunette and shake my head. This is my life. Hotel rooms and random hos. It used to sound so cool when I was a teenager. My dream come true, but now, I look around at the dilapidated, faded brown interior of the hotel room and the junkie skank passed out on the floor. Be careful what you wish for because you might get it, just not in the way you wanted.

  Grabbing the paper, I push it into my jeans pocket and stand. I turn around to grab my duffle bag out of the closet and begin stuffing all my worldly possessions into it. Walking around the room, I continually pack everything haphazardly within. Reaching for my hard black guitar case, I stand with it and one green army duffle bag, representing my entire life in L.A. I think about calling one of my suppliers, but at the last minute decide I can find someone in Nashville once I get out of this drug screening business. What a crock of shit. Half the musicians in this town are hooked on smack or something else.

  Looking around once again, I walk out and close this door for the last time. I’ll either come back to L.A. knowing I can afford something better, or I won’t come back at all. I switch my duffel bag to the same hand holding the guitar and reach into my pocket for the piece of paper. Grabbing my phone, I dial the number. When a female answers, I take a deep breath.

  “This is Rhye Clark.”

  “What amazing things are you going to do today, Syn Landry?”

  I’ve asked the same question in the mirror every morning for the last five years. Reminding myself that nothing is promised and everything is possible. It’s what got me out of this one horse town and, ironically, the same reason I came running back to it.

  As I stare at my image, I note that my yellowish-green eyes are more of a gold color today, reflecting the sunny-colored blouse I have on. When I was little, my mama would always call them cat eyes because of the unusual color and slanted shape. A tiny ping of pain invades my heart just thinking about her. It’s been ten years since she died in a car accident, but my vivid memories never fade, and well, life goes on regardless.

  Scrunching my nose up at my reflection, I continue to fight with my unruly curly blonde hair while torturing it with the straightener. The abrupt sound of clanking pots and pans coming from downstairs shatters the silence of my thoughts. For the past nineteen years, my dad has utilized cookware as an alarm clock, employing it to eliminate slumber instead of scramble eggs. The sound of home. Home. At one point, I ran from it like the hounds of hades were chasing me. I needed an escape from every single heart-wrenching reminder of my mother, from the same agonizing pain of loss that my dad can’t get over.

  Before the ink was even dry on my high school diploma, I hopped into Old Blue, a 1973 Ford truck my grandfather gave me, with all the money that I had saved from working at Macon’s Hay & Feed Supply since I was fifteen. I didn’t date during school because, whether on the farm or at Macon’s, I worked from sun up till sun down. I figured out at an early age that keeping myself busy was the best way to stay out of trouble. When you live an hour from the nearest mall and movie theater, kids out in the sticks make their own fun. It usually involves some type of moonshine that somebody’s daddy illegally brewed and screwing like bunnies in the back seat of some guy’s Chevy. If you were lucky, your date even owned the vehicle, otherwise the front seat was occupied while you were in the back. In fact, I’m pretty sure I was the only seventeen year
old virgin ever to make it out of Macon County.

  That rainy morning after I flung my graduation cap in the air, I drove the long, paved road to Nashville, got a job as a waitress, and started writing lyrics every chance I could get. Night after night, I would take my guitar to any open stage dive that I could find and play. I literally strummed my guitar until my fingers bled some days. There were bars that would have songwriter nights where everyone would sit down and sing, playing their instruments on the spot. It was Heaven. The open camaraderie was, and still is, amazing. I wrote my entire first album that month, sitting in a cigarette smog and surrounded by talented musicians that most people will never get to hear.

  Some music critics have written that I was a lucky lady, and I agree. Within the first six months, I was discovered, and my first single went to number one within the next several. This last year, I have had three top-ten hits, been nominated for a Grammy, and even opened up for one of country music’s finest on her world tour. Fans love my feisty country twang, which is different than most of country music’s Southern sweeties.

  Coming off tour, I was homesick for the very same reasons I left. Instead of going home to this beautiful piece of land my agent suggested I purchase outside of Nashville, I high-tailed it to my childhood house to be with my daddy. I needed some balance in my life. A dash of reality. When you are on tour, you don’t know if you are coming or going. My mind was overfilled with nonsense, and I was ready to explode. I needed to slow everything down and remember why I love being a musician.

  I eat, breathe, and live for my music. My daddy used to blast Hank Williams and George Jones out of his small, transistor radio that he tied to his green tractor. He would work the farm twenty hours a day, listening to his favorites. From age five, I was singing “Your Cheatin’ Heart” and “Hey, Good Lookin” from the church pulpit, because it was my pretend stage while my mama cleaned the church pews every Saturday with the other good Christian women.