Page 7 of A Tragic Melody

If I fail to live up to their expectations, if the fans don’t start devouring our music, they will cut Black Cat the moment our contract is up. For us, that’s two years. So we have until then. We all just have to hope my skill can carry us.

I hope it can, too, because I’m not going to be able to keep up with the drugged-up mess that is Tuesday. She will outshine me with her tits alone, but if I don’t start playing the charming persona the label fell in love with, she’ll burn my band to ash.

It’s a lot for me to handle. The pressure is heavy on my shoulders. Knowing not just my hopes are in my hands, but my bandmates’ dreams, as well, is scary. So scary, I find myself tempted as bottles continue to get passed around.

Just a small sip could ease all my troubles. A drop of alcohol in my system might remind me how I was able to pull all this off.

All it takes is the thought of my family to get me to fight the urge. Three gravestones remind me it’s not worth throwing away everything just to be a fake version of myself. Instead, I sit back and study my competition.

Honey Hive toured the most out of the three of us. They’ve been overseas and played most of the big festivals. They aren’t an amazing band. They sound like most of the other bands out there. Nothing about them is outstanding, but the bassist is related to someone who works for Veritas, so they get special treatment.

Derrick being good-looking helps, as well. He has the rock star long locks and muscular body down to a science. Tattoos cover his perfectly sculpted body. His brown hair hangs down to his shoulders, and he makes sure to swirl it around during guitar solos.

His muscles are just apparent enough to let the women know he could defend them, but not enough to break them. On stage, he rarely has a shirt on, showing off his toned stomach and letting his tight pants hang low on his body to highlight his hip bones.

The girls eat it up and the boys dream of being him—and I can’t blame any of them.

If I didn’t know him, I, too, would pant just watching him up on stage. Lucky for me, I know a lot about him. I didn’t meet him until the interview, but stories of his cockiness have been spread across the music scene for a while now.

I don’t advertise that I like men. It’s not like I’ve been in a relationship with any, but I have given a few blow jobs. Few of the guys I had a thing with, and then once more for a gram of heroin, but I don’t go around telling the world about any of that.

It would paint the wrong picture. I’m not gay. I’m just not straight. Bi would be fitting, but for me it’s never been about the gender of the person or the body.

I barely get off to the thought of women, either.

I find people beautiful. I’m not blind, so attractive people don’t go unnoticed, but I’m not drawn to them based on looks. My desires and attraction don’t relate to what’s on the outside, but what’s inside.

I’m drawn to people based on their personality. How they act, what they like, their dreams, hopes, goals. I crave vulnerability over flesh. Not to say I don’t enjoy sex, per se, but I never found pleasure in hookups. I always wanted more. I like an emotional connection.

One-night stands just left me feeling sick to my stomach and anxiously awaiting the results of an STD check. I may be the only rock star in the world who doesn’t like having sex with random people.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I take that very seriously.

I could go months without getting off, and often have. Part of it is because it is hard to find someone who doesn’t just want sex and fame in this scene. Another part has to do with the drugs. Because sex feels best for me when there is an emotional connection, that requires me to be vulnerable, and when you are struggling with addiction and the loss of your family, you try to avoid being vulnerable.

I can’t remember the last time I had sex, let alone the last time I enjoyed it.

When your only way to enjoy sex is being open with someone, you learn very quickly that people will use that against you.

There’s been plenty of people in my past that took advantage of my need for connection. Girlfriends who used my openness to gather secrets to spill to others. Guys I would let walk all over me because I thought they were into me. It all left very lasting marks. Some even left physical scars. And after losing my family, it hasn’t been worth getting close to anyone.

Since they died almost two years ago, I’ve barely had sex at all. All sex has been since was a transaction that left me feeling worse about myself.

Even now that I’m sober, I find the idea of sex terrifying. I’m nowhere near ready to take that step with someone. I’d have to open up, have to talk about my past, and right now I’m just trying to survive.

So, as I sit back and watch the people around me, I take notes. Watch who they talk to, listen to the small comments they make. Collect secrets so I have dirt on them if I need it. Their secrets will protect me if I ever allow myself to get close to them. They won’t just have things to use against me, but I’ll have my own weapons.

“How are you holding up?” Davey asks, taking a seat beside me. He is the bassist in my band, and seems to be the only one who is worried about my sobriety.

“I’m good.”

“You could always hang out on the bus if this gets to be too much. I’d get you before the show.”

“It’s not bothering me at all.” I offer him a smile. “I get to scope out our competition,” I whisper.

“Hard to want to scope out anything other than Tuesday.” He laughs. “You might be the only man here that isn’t drooling over her.”

“I’m in no shape to compete for that prize.”