Down Beat Page 27

  We’re doing a Thursday show. Mid-week. I mean, who the fuck wants to stay out mega late before having to drag their sorry ass to work tomorrow?

  A few thousand people, it seems.

  My motivation is at an all time low, my enthusiasm about as non-existent as the fucks I have to give. The thought of facing that crowd leaves my gut churning, never mind the liquid breakfast I had before I picked up where I left off with the new song last night.

  Kitty won’t talk to me.

  Unanswered messages, and unanswered calls. Huh. Could be the name of a song.

  I did the last two shows after she left in a goddamn zombie state, eyes glazed as I stared out over the heads of the people who paid good money to see us and flatly delivered the lines that fall from my tongue as easily as I draw my next breath.

  I can’t remember half of the last concert, and not just because I was drunk enough that Kris said it was a miracle I stayed upright, but because my mind was entirely elsewhere.

  My cards have been put on hold, my spending money reduced to a handful of bills that Rick meters out to me at the start of each day. It was Wallace’s great idea on how to ensure I don’t skip out and fly to see her again.

  Because I would. If only to see her face one more time before I made sure there’s no way they could ever drag me back to this damn fucked up musical pageant.

  The water runs hot over my hands as I stare at them in the basin. I zero in on the callouses on my palms, the thickened skin side of my fingers. My head aches while I try to drag up some feeling, some memory of who that guy was, the one who would bounce up to every goddamn show no matter how big or small with fucking stars in his eyes.

  Toby once said in an interview that when you love what you do, then touring isn’t as stressful as people think it is. That as long as you keep that passion, that fire, then your work will never be a chore.

  I can’t pinpoint where that changed—I just know it has.

  I lost the passion.

  My fire snuffed out a long time ago.

  Now the guys drag my ashes from show to show, hoping if they huff and puff on me long enough that I’ll form some sort of presentable lie.

  I can’t do this. I can’t live this lie any longer.

  How the fuck do the legends survive doing this for twenty plus years? Simple. Most of them don’t.

  My hands shake beneath the flow while my gaze slides along the counter. There must be something in here. There has to be a tool I can use, even if I have to improvise.

  “You need help?” Toby quips from the door.

  I turn my head his way, a lump in my goddamn throat as I look at the tired gaze of the one guy who has the least reason to still love me after all the shit I’ve put him through.

  “I think I need a hell of a lot more than that.”

  “Fuck, man.” He steps forward as my legs give out.

  My wet hands drag the water down with me, the droplets running in rivers down the front of the cabinets and across my forearms, much the same as my own runs in rivers down my face.

  “Hey.” Toby’s hands push under my arms, trying and failing to lift me off the floor.

  It’s no use. “Don’t bother,” I tell him, my voice thick with resignation. “There’s nothing left to save, bro.”

  “There’s always something left to save,” he snaps, jerking harder to make me stand. “Come on you useless fuck; don’t quit on me now.”

  Why not? I already have.

  “Em!”

  I roll in Toby’s arms like a ragdoll as Emery appears at the door. Kris hovers behind, hands in pockets.

  “We’re at that point,” Toby says to Em. “Get it.”

  I can pick the sadness in his tone, the disgust that he’s allowing it to happen. He’s been against this since Em suggested it the last time I got this low. Only it’s never been this bad, has it?

  Kris leans a shoulder to the doorframe while Em skips the room, appearing seconds later with a Corona in one hand, something I can’t see in the other.

  He squats down next to me, Toby kneeling behind to keep me propped up.

  “Here.” Em holds his hand out and offers the unconventional antidepressant. “Chuck it down ya, man.”

  I take the pill and throw it back, chugging the beer until the bottle is dry.

  I’ve got no idea what he gave me, only that it’s designed to keep me on my feet and fucking alive long enough to play this next show. After all, why ask questions when you honestly don’t give a fuck if it kills you?

  Rock, meet bottom.

  FIFTY

  Tabitha

  “Reason I’m Alive” – Drowning Pool

  My phone signals a message as I stand with coffee in hand and scour the jobs board at our local café. I haven’t given up on music, simply accepted the truth that I’m further from it being my sole source of income than I’d like.

  I know my limitations, and they all center on money. Taking a “real” job for a while to save up some cash to invest into an album, or a new violin, isn’t giving up. It’s smart business sense… at least that’s what I tell myself when I freak out at seemingly going backwards.

  The froth of my drink hits my lip as I hesitate over one that reads “Hours Negotiable.” It turns out to be a temporary position, nothing that could sustain living costs for my foreseeable future. Aside from a couple of seasonal positions, it’s all the same stuff that’s advertised online—nothing I’m qualified to do.

  Afternoon light paints the street in warm oranges and reds as I step out of the shop and wrestle my phone from my purse with my free hand. Kendall is at work, and over the past week I’ve found myself out wandering our neighborhood. What for? I don’t really know. All I do know is that I’m searching for something I won’t find here.

  Something I left behind.

  Someone.

  Yet, no matter how many times the pang of regret stabs in my chest, no matter how any times my lungs grow tight when I wonder how he’s doing, what happened, I won’t break.

  I won’t cave in and search out the information that would be so readily available on the internet. Not when the only person I want to hear the news from is Rey himself.

  I live with a ridiculous fantasy that after the tour ends, my Messenger will chime to let me know he’s calling to say he’s found himself in rehab, that he finally accepted the help he needs and he’s better.

  But I know that’s bullshit. I know, as well as he does, that the end of the tour will mean nothing when it comes to his mental health.

  Hell, all it will probably do is give him an out. Nobody there to watch him twenty-four seven. Nobody there to check his schedule, make sure he’s where he’s supposed to be, doing what he’s meant to.

  Nobody but him.

  I find a seat on the windowsill of a boutique store and set my coffee at my feet to check my phone.

  The name sitting proudly in bold before the preview sends my heart into chaos and my head into a spin.

  Toby

  I’ve done so well. I’ve managed this far. And yet one goddamn word and my subconscious catalogues how much combined cash I have between my bank account and credit card to afford another plane ticket.

  Toby’s message is simple, an image attached.

  T: Help.

  I tap on the photo, an picture of a sheet of paper with handwritten lines. I have to pinch and zoom to see what it says, but there’s no doubt once I have who’s written it.

  Oh, babe. What are you doing to yourself?

  I swallow back the restriction in my throat, determined not to cry in public. The lines are dark; darker than anything he’s put out to date.

  Ta: What do you want me to do?

  I wait as Toby’s dots dance across my screen, lifting my coffee to take a sip. People walk past, oblivious to the problem unfolding on my phone. It strikes me—is that how Rey feels when he gets up to perform? Does he stare out at all those faces, all those people who are completely unaware of what he struggles with, and get
frustrated by their ignorance?

  It’s not their fault that they don’t know his battle, but as I look at the people walk by me now, I understand how isolating that must feel.

  T: We need you here, Tabby. Please.

  I shake my head at Toby’s reply, my heart yet to slow from the definite prestissimo it took on when I opened the thread.

  Ta: I can’t do this for him. He needs professional help.

  My phone screen switches to Toby’s incoming call.

  “He needs more than me,” I answer.

  Toby sighs. “He refuses it. I’m at my wits end, Tabby. I’ve never seen him this low.”

  God. Why do they do this to me?

  “You understand why I left, don’t you?”

  He hums. “I guess.”

  “If I come back now, then he uses me like a kid uses a damn cuddly toy, Toby. He’ll cling to me until he feels better, and then he’ll justify that this time it wasn’t so bad, that me being there helps. But it doesn’t.”

  “It does,” he argues.

  “Not how it needs to,” I bite back. “I give him a distraction, and yeah, maybe that helps him get through this low point. But he needs to find proper help, somebody who can motivate Rey to help himself.”

  He sighs, a rustle cutting the line. “Are you sure you won’t come back? Just for a day? Maybe you could convince him to do rehab, seek counseling, because fuck knows he won’t listen to any of us.”

  “I’m sure.” I duck my head, resting my coffee between my feet. “Don’t misunderstand why I say no, okay? I care about Rey, so damn much.” My words are thick with emotion. “But I can’t live with myself if I enable his condition. You know as well as I do that this cycle he’s stuck in, it’s not sustainable. He needs change. All I do is give him an excuse not to.”

  “Fuck.” He huffs. “I don’t know what to do, Tabitha.”

  “He wants to stop touring,” I say softly. “Can he get a break?”

  “Not this close to the end of the tour.” Toby groans, the muffled sound making me think he scrubs a hand over his face as he does. “We’ve got six shows to go. Two weeks.”

  “Surely your label know they need to address this if they want him to continue.”

  “Our label,” he says scathingly, “believe that it’s all a bunch of Hollywood antics and that he’s fine. That a break after this tour is all he needs.”

  “So fucking record him and send it to them,” I say. “Jesus, Toby. You would have seen him when he bottoms out; it’s scary.”

  “Terrifying,” he agrees. “Today is the first time I’ve let him out of my sight, and that’s only because he’s with Kris and Rick.” He drags a deep breath. “I’ve hardly slept, Tabby. That’s how goddamn worried I am he’s planning something stupid.”

  Fuck. My heart.

  “I want to help him, I really do, but I honestly believe that being there will only makes things worse.”

  “Please,” Toby whispers. “Just to level him out until the end of the tour. Then you can go your way, we’ll take him ours and get this sorted.” He sighs, seeming to toss up whether to say more. “I just want my brother to stay alive, Tab, and you can help with that.”

  “Don’t.” I can barely push the word. “I know you mean well, but honestly, dumping this on me isn’t fair either.”

  “Is that how you see it?” he snaps. “We’re ‘dumping’ Rey on you?”

  “Not Rey,” I say, exacerbated. “Whether he lives or dies.” I glance up at the people who walk past, suddenly aware I’m having such a personal conversation in such a public space. “Don’t put that burden on me.”

  “If not you, then who?” he asks. “Because, Tab? I’ve about had all I can take of carrying it.”

  “Talk to… what’s his name? Your boss guy.”

  “Wallace?”

  “Yeah. Surely if you tell him what you’ve told me, he’ll bring in help. Can’t they hire somebody to do a house call?”

  “Got to be able to get to him, first.”

  “What do you mean?” I pick up my coffee and start walking again.

  “He shuts himself in his hotel room between shows. Doesn’t eat, hardly says a word. We…” He sighs.

  “You what?”

  “We had to give him an upper to get onstage last night.”

  What the hell… “You’re drugging him?” I earn the wary eye of a woman I pass.

  “Just the once.”

  “Well don’t,” I cry out. “You know what the withdrawal from drugs like that can cause, right?”

  “Tab, I’m pretty sure I’m in the prime position to know about drugs,” he levels.

  “So you know it could make his depression worse, then?”

  “Well aware,” he snaps. “But it’s a risk the rest of us are willing to take. We’re locked into airtight contracts, Tab. We need him to perform.”

  “Even if it kills him?”

  He hesitates before whispering, “Even if it kills him.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  Rey

  “Sound of Madness” - Shinedown

  Two weeks, four stops, and six shows since she fucking left.

  And shit hasn’t got any easier.

  That mania on the horizon has become a goddamn vanishing point, always out of reach. Tonight we play our third show in the same venue before moving on to our second to last stop of the tour, and the whole thing is fucked.

  I can see grass between the groups of people milling about with red cups in hand, waiting for us to restart.

  Why the fuck can I see grass? We’re supposed to be sold out.

  My fairly intoxicated brain comes to one conclusion only as I stare out at those mocking patches of nature—people have left.

  Ticket holders have decided that our show isn’t worth staying for when light rain paints a mist across the halogen lights.

  I shake my head at the bullshit and turn to grab my drink from in front of Toby’s stand. He watches me with hard eyes, sticks resting on his thighs as he waits for the cue to tear into our next song.

  Emery makes his way across the stage while Kris plays whatever comes to mind in an effort to keep the crowd occupied.

  Fuck the crowd.

  Why should they be over the fucking moon to be here when I’d rather stick a fork in my goddamn eye than stare at those patches of grass again?

  “What’s the hold up?” Em snatches the bottle from my hand and takes a healthy swig.

  I glare at the motherfucker, well aware he doesn’t drink because he’s thirsty; he drinks the contents so I can’t.

  Toby leans forward, pushing his mic to the side in the process. “Square your shit away, Rey. You’ve been off all goddamn night.”

  “Fuck you,” I spit, tearing the alcohol from Emery. “Just follow my lead like you’re supposed to.”

  “When this set is over you’re fuckin—”

  I walk away before he can finish, turning back to what remains of our goddamn traitorous crowd.

  “How about this fucking weather, huh?” I holler into the mic. “What sort of fuckery is that?”

  I catch a few heads turn as the patrons look to each other for guidance. I’m known for my uplifting chants, my ability to get everybody up and jumping, not this bitter bullshit.

  “Fuck the rain,” I yell. “Let’s make some goddamn noise.”

  A few die-hards cheer, yet I catch all those blank stares in the mix.

  The same people who seem to stare straight through me as I smash my way through one of our original tracks. Kris is on fire as usual, his playing damn near the only thing that carries us through to the end of the song.

  Fuck knows it isn’t me.

  I give up and set my guitar down before Toby knocks out the final bars.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Kris hisses as he backs across the stage and into my path, pick still working the strings.

  “Anywhere but here,” I snap.

  I jog down the stairs side of stage and push into the tunnel that
leads to the locker rooms, all to the deafening drone of the crowd’s complaints.

  What do I fucking care? There were two songs left on the set list before we usually pick what we’ll play for the encore on the fly. Way those cunts are dead as a doornail tonight, they don’t deserve a goddamn encore, let alone the rest of the show.

  The pounding of boots on polished concrete gives me ample time to brace before my skull meets the painted wall of the stadium tunnel.

  “Get your fucking ass back up there now.” A vein throbs in Toby’s temple, his forearm pressed to my throat.

  I knee the bastard in the nuts and edge out of his hold as he doubles over. “Get fucked.”

  “I already am,” he hollers after me. “You walk, we’re all fucked. Think about somebody other than yourself for a change, you goddamn asshole.”

  My shoe squeaks on the floor as I spin on the spot and redirect course back to my brother. “I am! All I think about is her. And you know what?” I shout, leaning over to get in his face. “All that does is remind me how I screwed up.”

  “What does this achieve then?” He straightens, one hand still on the jewels. “She wanted you to fight for yourself, to prove to her that you think you’re worth her goddamn time and attention. And what have you done so far? Proved her point by moping around and feeling sorry for yourself.”

  “That’s just it.” I step backward, throwing my hands wide as Rick makes his way down the tunnel. “I don’t feel sorry for myself. I feel sorry for her.”

  Toby shakes his head as though he doesn’t understand.

  I grin, leaning forward to push my point. “Look at me, Toby. Look at the fucking mess I am.” I laugh bitterly, checking Rick as he approaches. “She loves this?” I say disbelievingly. “I feel sorry for her because she loves such a worthless sack of shit. What a fucking idiot, right?”

  What a fucking fool.

  There’s nothing within me, or about me, that’s worth even a second of her time, and yet all I want more than anything else in this world is another second with her. One more fucking touch. One more fucking moment of her lies to believe that she was there to stay.

  God, I miss her.

  “Rey,” Rick seethes as he passes Toby. “Pull yourself together and get your fucking ass back on that stage before you find yourself a goddamn footnote on the bio.”