by Nicole Reed
“If it’s okay, I thought they could help out with the two songs we are getting ready to record. What do you think?”
I shrug before saying, “Fucking cool with me.”
We continue to work until late in the evening. These guys are the shit, super cool, and the sounds they work with are fucking crazy. I’m down with all of it. Around nine, I hear them talking about hitting up this retirement strip club out by the airport. I’ve heard of it but haven’t ventured to check it out.
“Hey, Rhye,” the lead singers says. “You want to hit up the Marble Lounge with us? We are looking for entertainment tonight instead of pussy, plus Jack’s wife is okay with him checking out the retirement strip club versus fresh, new titties.”
My first thought is fucking curfew. Oh hell no! I’m done with this permission shit. “Fuck yeah. Let’s do it.”
It takes about thirty minutes to reach the lounge. When we pile out of the car, I look up at a gold colored building with a big blinking 3D breast at the top. Hell yeah, this is what I’m talking about. I rub my hands together in anticipation. We all had a couple drinks in the car over, and some of the guys are already lit. The bouncer in front recognizes us, but warns us several times that they don’t give two fucks who we are. Any pictures or videos taken, and they will throw our asses out.
Walking in, I laugh at the interior. It is all red shag carpet walls, shiny, black, cracked vinyl booths, and faded gold ceiling. Fucking priceless. A big girl in a bikini leads us to a table up front where an old woman in a g-string dances on a pole to the song “Cherry Pie”. It’s like a train wreck that you can’t turn away from but you know you need to. The mental image will probably damage you for life, but you keep on watching.
We order massive amounts of booze and cut up with all the women who visit our table. Short, fat, young, or old, we have a blast. My favorite is Miss Kitty who swears up and down that I’m going to love her famous stage act.
“I’m going to rock your world, sweet thang,” she purrs, sitting her big ass on my lap. “I love me some skinny white boys.”
When it comes time for her performance, I’m all fucked up. We all stand around the stage as Miss Kitty lays on her back and proceeds to shoot ping pong balls from her pussy. Holy. Fuck. The guys and I go shitballs crazy, screaming and yelling for more. I remember getting on stage with my phone, trying to record it, and the next thing I remember is getting our asses booted out.
We continue to all out fucking drink it up on the way back. I start to feel sick which usually doesn’t happen with alcohol, and my headspace goes from chill to somewhere darker. I hear the rest of the guys cutting up around me, but it’s like I’m outside of my body, watching everything happen in “slo-mo” instead of being in the moment. Oh fuck! This only happens when I take ecstasy or some shit like that. I start to have these uncontrollable thoughts. Fucking images of guns. I should just end this all. It’s never worth it. Everyone’s dead because of me. They will not stop. It’s almost like my brain is screaming them all at me.
The car stops, and I bust out the car door with voices sounding behind me. I ignore them and stumble inside the apartment building, making my way to the elevator. End it. END. IT. The chanting in my mind doesn’t stop. I grab my head, pulling at my hair. The four silver walls of the elevator look like they’re closing in. I bang on them, screaming to get out. My hands feel so heavy that I can hardly lift my arms. When the doors open, my feet won’t work when I try to run to get out, and I trip, landing on the floor. “Fuck!” I yell, laughing hysterically. “Goddamn it that hurt!” I crawl to sit and lean against the wall.
The hallway seems to stretch double its length. Motherfucking figures. My life is never easy. I die laughing because crying doesn’t exist for me. Shit, my ankle really hurts, and my damn door seems way too fucking far. Why am I doing this? I could be fucked up for real now and all this shit wouldn’t matter. I’ll just go back to using eventually. I always do. Of course! Get this fucking album out, and I’ll be rich as fuck again, and then, fuck them all! Fuck it. Fuck them. Fuck me. That’s pretty fucking hilarious.
Is he for real? It’s four in the morning, and the idiot is obviously high as a kite or drunk as a skunk as he loudly giggles like a little girl. More than likely, it’s both. It’s been a little over a week since I’ve spoken to him. Touched him. Kissed him. That night, I regret everything but taking the packet of drugs from him. I can’t regret that. Ever.
I wish I could say that I didn’t care about him, that I stopped wanting him, but the truth is, my feelings have only grown. I’ve Googled him, his past, as much as possible, trying to find out about Rhye. I poured over interview after interview, trying to attain small clues to his actions. What I’ve learned has been so incredibly sad. He was abandoned by his father when he was a baby and grew up with a single, working mother who wasn’t there. From what I’ve gathered, he’s been on drugs since he was fourteen, never really having anyone who cared where he was or what he did.
That wasn’t the worst of it though, just the foundation. I found gruesome crime scene photos online of his friend’s apparent suicide. The story that seems most factual is that Chris and he had been fighting for weeks because of Chris’s inability to perform on stage due to his drug habit. They both were addicts, but Rhye used sparingly and was able to continue to sing and play without any problem, where Chris was using twenty-four-seven and couldn’t function anymore. They had to cancel several shows and even played often without him. On the night Chris died, he pretty much passed out on stage after urinating on the crowd. Rhye and the bandmates didn’t agree on firing Chris, but Rhye did it anyway.
The article went on to say that Rhye scored some bad drugs the day before, and he and Chris used them. Something was mixed in that shouldn’t have been and was found in Chris’s autopsy results. Of course, they didn’t know it until it was too late. At their apartment, after the show, Rhye smoked some and became agitated and paranoid. He had a purchased a gun and was said to be walking around with it. At some point, Chris gets the gun and threatens to kill himself if Rhye doesn’t reinstate him into the band. Rhye tells him he doesn’t believe he will pull the trigger and calls his bluff, which ended up not being a bluff after all. Chris blows his brains out, literally, all over Rhye.
The following year, he spent most of his time in and out of rehab, primarily at his record label’s insistence and court ordered stays for minor misdemeanors. Online, the Mavericks are said to be on “hiatus,” but their fans are still numerous and loyal. In the four years he’s been on the music scene, not one serious girlfriend has been mentioned, except once online. A short videotaped interview with the band. It was early in their career, and Rhye was asked, “What was his inspiration for the songs he has written?” All the guys laugh and look right at him. Rhye just shakes his head, and in unison, all the guys shout a name, “Jay.” Rhye looks pissed at their answer, but Chris continues saying, “Man, he loved that girl. She’s actually one of the reasons we are here right now. She got us out to L.A. and to the music showcase in time, and ultimately, we were discovered that night.” The girl interviewer looks at Rhye and asks, “So are you guys still together?” Rhye looks away at first, then back at her, shaking his head, “No.” The interview goes on, but nothing is mentioned again about her.
That night, I lay in bed when finally it hit me. The lowercase “j” tattooed underneath his eye. The teardrop. It has to be for her, but what does it mean? I tried to find more information about her and him, but came up with nothing. I also began obsessing over his hand and wrist tats. “Never” spelled out across his knuckles and “Forget” on his wrist. They were clearly inked on before Chris died, so it’s something entirely different.
I tried to act as if I didn’t care this past week, ignoring him when we were in the studio together, but it was a living hell. My own music has suffered. I can’t write anything that makes sense. It’s all doom and gloom. All I want to do is scream at him to wake up and see that he has everything to
live for. His fans. His music. Me.
The last several nights, I’ve spent holed in my apartment, afraid to go out and see him bringing random girls back. Just the thought causes my chest to ache. My heart to shatter. It should make me hate him, but I believe, deep down in my soul, that he just needs someone to truly care about him. Josh and I mutually decided that next morning not to talk about Rhye. Josh, because Rhye’s his job, and myself because I was crushed emotionally. Josh has turned out to be just what I need, a friend. We have a lot in common, and as it turns out, I remind him of his youngest sister who he is close with and misses. It seems we both fill voids for each other.
At the sound of gurgling laughter, I look down the hallway at Rhye again. He’s missed curfew, and I can’t believe Josh is not pacing the hallway waiting for him, unless he doesn’t know he’s out. Julie is the one that told me about the curfew and drug testing. She said he gets fired on the spot for violating either one.
I know I should knock on the door and tell Josh to get him. What do I know about taking proper care of a drug addict? He sits there, his back against the wall, with one knee propped up. His head is tilted down, and his shoulders shake with laughter. What he is laughing at? I don’t think any of this is funny whatsoever.
Making a rash decision, I walk slowly towards him. “Rhye?” I call out softly. He doesn’t move at all. I’m not sure if he’s passed out or what. “Rhye?” I ask again. The closer I get, I see that his chest is heaving and his shoulders now tremble instead of shake. I feel waves of despair permeating the air around me. I stop right beside him, and in my short bathrobe, lower myself to my shaking knees. My breath catches in my chest, and I’m afraid of what is happening. The thundering of my heart seems to echo in the hallway.
“Rhye, please. Look at me,” I beg, tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. His pain resonates through my soul, and I silently pray that I can take all of his suffering into me. Away from him.
He slowly raises that handsome face of his, and I’m paralyzed, not by the beauty but by the tears that fall rapidly down his face. His eyes are dark, completely brown with the small black pupil in the center; however, I can’t help but see him, the real Rhye. I gently lift my hands to his face, taking my time to make sure he understands I’m here to help with my actions instead of words.
Rhye intently watches me but never moves. I caress his cheeks, his unshaven face rough against my hands, wiping away the wetness with my fingertips. My eyes search his, seeking answers, but I only discover excruciating pain.
“Tell me. Please,” I whisper, my heart crushing under the weight of his torment.
He closes his eyes and shakes his head. I can’t stand to see him broken like this. Leaning slightly forward, I cover his face in small kisses. My lips sip away his tears, leaving no visible evidence of his emotions. I know he would hate for anyone to see them. When my lips are cast next to his, I feel his body shudder, and I don’t move a muscle when he begins to speak.
“I’m a murderer. A drug addict. I’m no good for you. I’m no good for myself. I fucking want to die so bad that it hurts to think about taking my next breath. The blackness in my head has spread to my soul. My heart. I don’t even know if I can feel anything other than hate anymore. Right this minute, it all seems impossible. Death is my reality, and it beckons me. She sings sweetly in my ear and plays the perfect strains of music in my head,” he says, slurring all of his words; however, I understand him perfectly.
Bringing my lips to his, I lightly kiss them, pulling back slightly to say, “Don’t say that. You’re not a bad person. I know. I see you.” My tears now swiftly fall, mingling with his. He tries to move away from my hands, but I don’t allow him, holding tight to each side of his face. “Look at me, Rhye. Please, just look at me.”
I watch his eyes glass over from the drugs. I’m not sure if he even knows what he is doing or saying at this moment. Again, I think to myself to get Josh, but I can’t. I know it’s not what Rhye would want. He shakes his head and, once again, tries to focus on me.
“I don’t like when you ignore me. It fucking sucks. Quit doing it,” he slurs, completely off subject.
The change of topic is fine with me. Just the thought of Rhye dying completely demolishes me on the inside, proving how much his happiness means. I laugh through my tears. “I hate ignoring you. I won’t do it anymore.”
I can’t help myself. I know it’s bad and possibly taking advantage of the situation, but I kiss him again. This time, his lips move with mine. Softly at first and then more ardent as the lust rises between us. He moves quickly to his knees, his body fitting against mine. His hands seek out every bend and curve, patiently exploring. I forget where we are and ride the tide of this heated attraction.
My body is more in tune with his than any before him. It answers with every pounding heartbeat, with my runaway pulse, and the rise and fall of my heavy breathing. His moan feathers against my lips, igniting a molten lava of need rushing through my body, burning down any reservations that I may have had. I feel him trying to lead me to the floor, wanting to cover my body with his.
“I need you,” he whispers against my mouth. “I fucking need you so bad. Please, let me have you. I’ll be better than all the others before me.”
I start to say, “There has been n…,” when I hear someone behind me.
“What the hell is going on?” Josh demands, his voice almost a roar.
I slowly pull back, noticing Rhye staring over my shoulder. Turning my head, I look at an enraged Josh. Rhye goes and makes the situation worse by starting to laugh, completely acting as mad as the hatter. Anger, not at him but at myself, now replaces the lust. Allowing this to happen when he is completely inebriated is unacceptable. He falls back against the wall, unabashedly messed up.
“Are you kidding me, Rhye? The one night I go to sleep trusting you to keep curfew? I wake up, needing a glass of water, only to see your bedroom door wide open, which I know you wouldn’t leave, to find you missing. I just happen to think maybe you got locked out and open the door to find you, not only with Syn but apparently high.”
Rhye continues to chuckle, finally finding his words, “Josh, man. I fucking did not take any drugs. No, I fucking drank it all, and I was going to apologize about curfew. I went to the retirement strip joint and got fucked up but not fucked. Not my scene, if you know what I mean. There was ping pong pussy balls and old cherry pie,” he mumbles, not making any sense.
Did he just say “retirement strip club”? I should be pissed, but it just sounds wrong on so many levels.
“She attacked me in the hallway,” he slurs, pointing at me.
“What? I did not,” I gasp, feeling a little guilty. “Maybe I did,” I think to myself, blushing.
“Get up. Both of you,” Josh says, seething. Feeling a little hurt and embarrassed, I stand, only to watch Rhye struggle to do the same.
“Goddamn my ankle,” he complains loudly, walking forward with a slight limp.
I turn to follow Josh when I feel Rhye grasp my wrist from behind me, pulling me backwards to him. I look up into his glossy gaze.
“I didn’t mind it. I want you too,” he tries to whisper, but it comes out very loud. He leans down to kiss my mouth once more, but it lasts only a second before Josh’s groan interrupts us.
“Really, I’m not playing. Syn, this is serious. I need you go back to your apartment.” His voice brokers no argument.
I’ve made a choice, and there is no going back. I turn to face him with Rhye still holding my wrist from behind. “No,” I answer, hating every minute of having to defy Josh, my friend.
“Syn, if you truly care about him then go back to your own apartment. Let me do my job and handle this.”
“Listen to him, Josh. Call me crazy, but I believe him. He says he didn’t take anything. Maybe he’s just overly drunk,” I plead, begging him with my eyes.
“I know the signs, Syn. It’s my job. I’m equipped to spot the difference,” Josh states, looking d
own at me.
“Oh no, I admit to being fucked up,” Rhye says behind me. I turn my head to stare up at him. What? “But, I did not take any drugs. Somebody slipped me something. Fucking ‘X,’ I would guess. Trust me, I don’t touch that shit. It does nothing but bad shit to me. It’s so fucking dark in my head right now. That’s not my kind of high headspace. Fuck no,” he finishes, looking tired and about to pass out.
Looking back at Josh, I reply, “See. You can’t hold this against him.”
“First off, Rhye, you’ve broken curfew. That alone would get you fired from the record label. Second, I don’t believe you. I’m sorry. You’ve been resistant to me. Why should I believe you now?”
“Fuck you, man. I’ve…,” Rhye starts to say before completely passing out.
Thank God, I turned to watch him and saw him wobbling on his feet. I barely had time to catch his lanky frame in my arms, and if it weren’t for Josh, we both would have fallen.
“Damn it!” Josh yells, supporting most of Rhye’s weight. “Help me get him in to his bed.”
We both struggle to get him in and through the apartment. Once we have him on his bed, Josh checks his pulse and respiration to make sure he is not overdosing, and then I take off his shoes to make him comfortable. Standing silent in his bedroom, I turn to see Josh’s disappointed eyes on me, and I look back to stare at Rhye.
“What are you doing, Syn? Is he worth your future? Your music career? Do you want to spend the rest of your life with nights like this one? This, moments like now, I can promise you.”
“You really don’t believe him?” I ask, hating that my voice sounds questioning.
“No,” he answers with one word.
Looking down at him sleeping, he looks so young and peaceful. A pang of longing lodges in my chest at the thought of lying next to him and holding him in my arms throughout the night. I have to believe him. Otherwise, what am I fighting for?