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In fact, all my employees were akin to family since Grace had passed; and the fact my brother, Dorian, was a permanent fixture was incredibly comforting to me as well. The acid test wouldn’t be who could look after Layla once I was back out there, it would be who would look after me?
Derek, my manager knew how close we were as a band and had no doubt I’d be supported to the max by them on the road and so after consultations with my counselor, my mom, Dorian, my manager, and the band, I decided to go back to work.
In my line of work everyone thought it would be better for Layla to grow up not expecting me to be home all the time. As much as I hated this idea, I could see their reasoning behind it. If Layla was too young to remember anything else she may regard this as normal.
Having been home for so long, I found the prospect of getting back out there daunting: both from the prospect of being sociable to people, and the soul-crushing dilemma of not having daily physical contact with my daughter.
Dorian, Stuart, and Matty pushed advancements in social media forward as an argument for keeping in touch with Layla every day. The last thing I had wanted was to miss key milestones in my baby’s life by being gone.
Eventually, I resigned myself to the fact that Skype was better than nothing for keeping in touch with my daughter, but I also stipulated that none of the tours lasted for more than a month at a time.
So, fifteen months after my daughter was born, and I was widowed, I was reluctantly thrust back into the public eye, severed abruptly from the secluded limbo I had found myself in since Grace’s death.
Scuds, Moz, and Fletch, my bandmates, had been amazingly patient and supportive of me. All three were single guys, but we’d played together since before we’d turned twenty years old, and after almost ten years together—six of those famous—there wasn’t anything we wouldn’t have done for each other.
The guys loved Grace almost as much as me, and fortunately, not one of them wavered in their loyalty to me. This lack of pressure helped me to get my head straight enough to return to the band.
At first our rehearsals were slow. Music had been the last thing on my mind and the last song I had played was the song for my wife. God alone knows how I got through that first emotional day back without breaking down in tears. Half the songs we sang had been inspired by Grace.
I underestimated the power of music—less than a week in—my fingers felt less stiff and my effortless fretwork had returned. I poured my feelings into the songs as they began to course through my veins; the melodies making my heart feel lighter. Playing our familiar songs came effortlessly, their words reminding me of happier times, of emotional times, and of Grace.
In time life found its new normalcy. Mine was boozing on the road to forget and drying out at home. Unlike Scuds and Moz, I did what I needed to do to avoid women when I was on tour. I’d married Grace, and I didn’t want to be with anyone else.
On several occasions, during the first month on the road, the guys tried to hook me up with some groupie as a way of pushing past my grief. None of them really understood what it was like to lose someone who was irreplaceable.
Meet and greets, partying, and being sociable in a room full of fine-looking women with the smell of perfume in the air, didn’t come easy for me. My head was still locked down with the memory of Grace, while my body’s physical needs defied my honoring her by rebelling in my pants.
After I met Grace, I never wanted anyone else. She was an intricate mix of wildly sexy and soberingly cute and so incredibly intoxicating. The instant chemistry between us was electric. Witnessing Scuds balls deep in a blow job made me hard, despite my grief and I was riddled with guilt because even after her death my faith was still Grace’s.
Life on the road was hard in the circumstance I’d found myself in. Being famous as well, I was wary and being extra careful because I knew women saw me as vulnerable prey. The same could have been perceived by the guys. In the past everyone wanted to know me… until they did.
CHAPTER SIX
Four years later
Plane hopping had become second nature and whenever possible on tour I’d make it back to see Layla, even if it was only for a day. However, during a rare two days back in the USA to accept an award, I hit the skids because I was so near, but just too far from home to go back there. My work schedule was so tight there wasn’t the time to make a visit.
I always had trouble sleeping in hotel beds, and given my mood was full of frustration because of the near miss to visit my daughter, I decided to hit the hotel bar.
Six shots after I’d slopped into the empty cocktail lounge, I glanced over at the bored, tired looking barman. Draining the remains of my bitter drink, I gasped loudly and slid the stubby whiskey tumbler back across his varnished wooden counter. “Again,” I instructed nodding at my empty glass.
When he eyed me with contempt, I could almost hear his thoughts, that I was some famous rock musician punk he had no respect for.
Watching his shoulders hunch in disappointment because I wanted another drink, he turned, his broad back facing me as he grabbed what I’d asked for. Returning to the counter with the half empty bottle of bourbon, he poured a large measure of the amber liquid. I smiled at it because I knew it would help to dull my senses and maybe even let me get some sleep.
As my bleary eyes met his, I could see he was pissed as all hell that I was keeping him from his bed. Checking my watch, I noted it was 2:40 a.m. and I sighed. Cutting him some slack, I asked for another refill, told him to mark it to my tab and I headed in the direction of the elevator bank.
It was rare for me to visit a hotel bar, but my dark mood had led to deep, dark thoughts, triggering another wave of depression. This wasn’t the first time I’d questioned the value of life, and if it hadn’t been for Layla, I knew I’d have opted out. The barman probably saved me, but no one would ever know this.
Pulling my hotel suite keycard from my leather jacket pocket, I waved it in front of the electronic pad until I heard the click and saw the red light turn green. Shoving the door wide, I entered the plush surroundings my years of wealth and status had afforded me.
I had found nothing that could rewire my brain to forget, and nothing could bring back Grace: my sweet, vibrant, and beautiful woman. As was usual when I was drunk, my mind wandered to a scene ingrained there, always set on replay at the most inappropriate times.
It was of me blinking through tears as I held my wife’s fragile, disease-ravaged body in my arms as she was dying. My heart and soul felt utterly wrecked by the totally debilitating helplessness at the imminent loss of the only girl I’d ever loved.
Like her name suggested, Grace dealt with death with the utmost dignity, smiling courageously and with affection toward me through her devastating pain; staying calm in the face of death. Deep down I knew she did this for me because I’d been scared, and I was afraid to lose her.
Leaning in close to her face, I barely felt her weak feathery breath on my cheek, and I pressed my tear-soaked lips softly against her pale dehydrated ones. With tears dropping from my eyes, I kissed her goodbye for the last time in life. As I pulled back to look at her, she inhaled for the last time and her breathing immediately ceased.
