Page 4 of A Tragic Melody

I’m going to destroy the guy, and he won’t even see it coming.

CHAPTER TWO

Tuesday Blue is stunning, but strictly off limits.

The platinum-blonde hair is a strong contrast to the rest of the women in the scene. It screams pop star, but the red leather miniskirt and black corset under a leopard-print coat screams glam rock. The heeled boots and red lipstick really complete the look.

Compared to me, she looks like a famous rock star. I’m just a punk kid in a long-sleeve shirt with a band shirt over it and a button-up shirt over that. Straight, dark jeans and Converse shoes complete my look, and make it clear I am not in her league.

Her musical reputation is fresh and growing rapidly, but she has been around for a few years. I’m just a guitarist in some newly signed band who is recently sober.

But none of that is why she is off limits to me.

Someone at the studio made it very clear that I shouldn’t go near her. I have no more information than that, and frankly, the less I know, the better. All I do know is it’s probably best for me to stay away from her.

How my band ended up opening on her first headlining tour is beyond me. While the guys are ecstatic at the opportunity, I’ve spent most of my days terrified of relapsing.

I’ve only been sober for a total of three months. It’s been a long, gruesome three months filled with chewing gum, AA meetings, and practicing guitar. I don’t know if I’m ready to go back on the road. I’ve never done a tour sober before, but the choice was out of my hands. They need me.

They would never admit it, nor would I, but without me, the band wouldn’t have gotten a contract—least of all from such a big label as Veritas Records.

If it wasn’t for the videos on the internet of my performances, I’m not sure we’d ever have gotten signed. My guitar solos are what impressed the labels. The music I write only made them more interested.

Over the years, countless other bands have tried to get me to play guitar with them, but I stayed loyal to Black Cat. At first out of friendship, though I don’t think like that anymore. Age has shown we were never really friends. Now I stay because it's familiar and easy.

It wasn’t until Veritas came to me with an offer that I considered leaving. They wanted me. Not Black Cat, just me.

The contract was everything anyone could’ve asked for. Money. Fame. Music for days. It was all in the palm of my hands. They gave me a list of bands and artists that I could join.

The choice was mine, and I was ready to take it. Ready to ditch the band and become something more.

But the drugs had worn me down. I couldn’t keep up with the intense interviewing process. The unknown surroundings made me uneasy. Having to hide my usage, having to look put-together was difficult. Then when I was told not to play for Tuesday, I gave up trying.

At least everyone in Black Cat pretended not to notice my addiction. They never made a big deal out of it. I’ve had to rely on them to help cover for me, clean me up, get me to the stage, so I picked staying with them.

Veritas wasn’t thrilled, but they figured I got enough attention on my own, so we’d pull in a crowd, regardless.

After getting signed I tried to detox on my own, but it’s a lot harder than it looks. I was in too deep to go cold turkey. Throw in the stress of trying to record an album with a big shot producer, and it became impossible for me to stay sober. Hard to do the one thing you’re good at when your hands won’t stop shaking and you’re sweating bullets, so I gave up trying. I went hard on the drugs.

I was high as a kite throughout the whole recording process, and then some. It got so bad I even stopped trying to hide it. By the time the record was finished, I was down twenty pounds, countless brain cells, and the will to live.

It took a blackout event I’ll never remember but involved a broken needle, loaded gun, and mild blood loss to hit rock bottom.

The label wouldn’t have cared about my problem if it didn’t nearly kill me. I’m well aware of that. I met quite a few people at the studio who were far too willing to help me score drugs or share some of theirs to be blind.

No one gives a fuck if you are an addict—it’s only when you almost die that they force you into rehab.

So now, even though no one speaks of it and it’s been swept under the rug like it never happened, I know I have to keep my nose clean. I doubt they would care if I relapsed and started using again. So long as I didn’t take it as far as I did the last time no one would bat an eye. But now, I want to be sober for myself and the memory of my family.

I spent two months in rehab. I don’t call that sober because I was on pills to ease myself off the endless shit my body had become used to, so I chose to pick my sobriety date as the day I left that place and ditched the pills.

Most people would say it wasn’t smart to stop the pills cold turkey, either, but I survived. It was a rough few days, but once I got it out of my system, my head felt clearer. I felt sober. And that’s why I count that as my first real day of being sober.

I guess it’s different for everyone, but for me, feeling clear-headed meant I was officially sober.

It hasn’t been easy, though. Especially since they have me doing all the promotion work for the tour—which has me sitting in the lobby of some big-name magazine office, waiting to do an interview with Tuesday Blue and Derrick Kelley, the lead singer of Honey Hive.

Tuesday doesn’t sit. She stands beside Derrick, hands folded in front of her stomach as her fingers fidget. He boldly flirts with her, despite the fact she is way out of his league, and mine, for that matter.