Page 3 of A Tragic Melody

Lately, he has been even more controlling and possessive than normal. He shows up to my condo more, or demands I go see him. That I attend business trips with him. Entertain him more. It’s draining, but I know there is no use denying him.

He has full control of my life and thinks I should be grateful.

I guess sometimes when your dream comes true, it turns out to be a nightmare.

Still, I’m twenty-two and headlining my own tour. Hendricks may have gotten me the spot on Abbey’s tour, but I gained the fans with my talent and skills. I don’t plan on sharing that achievement. I also don’t plan on losing the spotlight to some dumb guys who can’t play nearly as well as me.

Besides Wyatt James.

Wyatt James is liquid sex. I didn’t need to meet him to know that. I knew it the minute I heard him playing guitar. When they played me some of the music he wrote along with his solo guitar work, I melted in my seat.

He was up to become a member of my touring group, though I would’ve offered him a full-time, co-member type of position if he wanted it.

I rarely allow any of my touring band members to stick around longer than a few tours. Besides my bassist, Quinn, no one gets any input on the music I make. But Wyatt is just that good, I’d make an exception.

The guy is beyond talented. The music he comes up with is pure gold. I did my research, and he wrote pretty much all the music for Black Cat.

Even though Black Cat sucks, I can see his vision. The work is there. He had to lessen the sound to meet their skill, or lack thereof. But the fact is, he plays guitar well, but he can write music even better.

I instantly wanted him to join me the moment I heard his work. We could’ve made amazing music together. We’d have sounded so good together—but he said no.

He rejected my request and stuck with Black Cat. He is wasted on them, though. I have no idea why he stuck with them. They are shit, and the only good thing about them is him. It’s pure insanity. Worse so, because he has no idea, he became an instant target for me.

I will make him pay for not joining me. Partly because it hurt my feelings, but also because I can’t let him exist in the same scene as me. He could easily outshine me and take my place up top.

And I can’t have that.

Now I’m stuck doing interviews with him and Derrick.

It’s not lost on me that they have Wyatt doing the interviews instead of the lead singer of Black Cat. Veritas clearly knows he is the face of the band. He is how they can rise to the top, so he gets all the glory.

Seeing him in person stings more than I care to admit.

I really had this fantasy that we’d make beautiful music together. Grace the stage side by side. Wow the crowds, and stay on top for as long as possible. Now that isn’t happening, and his presence just bothers me.

His tan skin, sharp cheek bones, and black, shaggy hair make me irrationally annoyed. He’s also skinny. He wears many layers to try and hide it, but it’s obvious in his face.

His light brown eyes only looked at me when I first walked in. I couldn’t read his reaction, his face was emotionless. Luckily for me, I haven’t met a man who didn’t want to fuck me, so whether he wants to admit it or not, I’m sure it won’t take much to get him to crawl into bed with me. He’ll spill all his secrets and a million other things I can use to ruin him.

Upon reflection, it's probably not in my best interest to get mixed up with him. It’s never wise for me to sleep around with any of the guys I’m on tour with, but that’s exactly how I like it.

They think they can push me out of the spotlight, but in the end, once their cock is in me, I hold their fate in my hands. They have no idea the damage I can do.

At the magazine office, Derrick, the lead singer of Honey Hive, goes on and on about all the places he has been on tour. I nod along, making as few comments as possible. He carries on, talking about places he wants to visit on tour, unaware I’m not interested. I can hear the hint in his voice, he would love me to come along, but I’m not interested in sightseeing.

There is nothing on my bucket list. I don’t have time to see the world up close, just from the window of a tour bus.

When I’m not on stage or fucking whatever man lays claim to me for the night, I’m shitfaced.

Those are the three S’s of my life. Singing. Sex. And shitfaced.

I thought the contract was my ticket to freedom, to having control over my own life, but when I found out I was wrong, I accepted my fate. Hendricks made it clear he owned me, and my life would never be my own.

I settle for little bits of control, like the way I destroy men who try to knock me down and treat me like I’m nothing. I ruin them in simple ways, then get to enjoy watching their suffering from the sidelines.

It isn’t much in the grand scheme of things, but it helps ease the ache Hendricks leaves behind.

Unfortunately for Wyatt, by denying me his skill, he just became my main target.