Page 9 of A Tragic Melody

I’ve learned, since being sober, that not only did I give them major control over the band, but I’ve also lost any say I had in the group altogether. Sure, they let me write the music, but they pick which songs to play. They more or less have become my bosses, and it was far too easy for them to do.

I wonder how much I missed out on while I was high. Was this how it always was, but I didn’t bother to notice?

I remember things being different before my family died, but obviously my downward spiral gave them the opportunity to take charge. I don’t mind too much. I owe them for keeping me around, but I’d like a little credit for everything I did, too. Some kind of acknowledgement that I’m the reason we got here. I doubt I’ll ever get it, though.

Before the set, I head to the restroom. I need to piss and get my wits about me. I really need this show to go well.

I’m washing my hands when the door bangs open. A giggle draws my attention, and I glance over out of the corner of my eye.

“We don’t have a lot of time, babe,” Derrick mumbles.

“Ah.” Tuesday giggles again. “How long do you think you need?”

Clearly both don’t realize I’m here yet. I go quiet, not sure what to do. Once they step away from the door, I’ll sneak out, but right now all I can do is wait.

“Not long.” Derrick’s voice comes out in a mumble. He is clearly drunker than her, which is a good thing for me, but bad for his band. They shuffle towards the stalls. Derrick fumbles with his belt as Tuesday hangs onto his body. “Oh shit. Wyatt.” He straightens up, pulling back from Tuesday slightly.

“I saw nothing.” I smile, holding up my hands as I back up toward the door. “You two have fun.”

Tuesday’s gray eyes stare at me. Her lipstick is smeared and Derrick’s hands are on her body, but she is looking at me. Eyes lit up from drugs, alcohol, and lust, only it feels like that lust is directed at me. Like I might be next on her menu.

I don’t like it. I like it even less how her attention suddenly makes me feel good about myself.

There is no world in which Tuesday and me mixing is a good idea.

I’ve been warned. I know better.

She is dangerous.

But there is something about her that calls to me.

CHAPTER FOUR

Derrick proves to be just like all the other men I’ve been with—too desperate to enjoy me, but not desperate enough to let me enjoy myself.

It’s pathetic how I keep letting these men try to impress me. None of them matter in the grand scheme of things. I know who I really belong to. The fact is I let these other guys have me as a way to rub salt in the wound.

Hendricks gets to pick and choose when he uses me. Whenever he can sneak away from his family. When he needs a pretty girl on his arm for secret meetings, parading me around his fellow scumbag executives. I’ve helped him close more deals than I can count. He would never let them fuck my pussy, but my mouth was free game.

He passes me around like a prize. Using me to sway and blackmail whoever he can, knowing damn well I can’t do anything about it. I just smile and go along with it, flirt and act charming. Because if I don’t, he will end me. That threat looms over me constantly. I don’t fear my reputation getting ruined, though. It’s no secret I sleep around, that damage has been done. But if he takes the stage from me, I don’t know what I’ll do.

I need the stage. Need the music. Singing is the only thing that makes all this worth it. If he takes that from me…I’ve done all this for nothing. I’m not sure how I’ll live with myself if that happens.

When I’m on tour, I get the freedom to fuck whoever I want. Of course, Hendricks still pops in from time to time and I have to sneak away to deal with him, but on tour, I have a semblance of freedom.

I drink it up. Toy with the guys. Let them get a bite of what they can’t keep. Most play it off cool, pretend they don’t care about me, but eventually they grow attached.

Something about trying to tame me excites them, but once they get clingy, I push them aside for my next victim. They call me a slut and whore after. Some even threaten to never tour with me again, because they can’t handle rejection. They nurse their hurt egos behind a wall of pride, talking about how at least they got a chance with me, even though few don’t have a shot with me.

I’m a fucking buffet at this point, though mostly I just use my mouth. The few I let fuck me rarely leave me anywhere close to satisfied. Often, I’m forced to fake it for their ego, then use my vibrator to finish what they started once they disappear.

Derrick is no different. I suck his cock in the bathroom stall, thinking about how good my vibrator is going to feel later tonight, if I even bother using it, that is. Its effect won’t be much fun. I have enough liquor in me to sedate a horse. The coke may keep me alert, but eventually I will come down, and all I’ll want to do is curl up under my soft blankets and sleep.

Who cares for the pleasure of the flesh when you can have poison in your bloodstream? I like that more than any orgasm. Dancing with the devil and getting to live another day is better than sex in my book. At least with drugs and alcohol, I know what to expect. People are different.

Nothing compares to singing, but if you mix the two together, it’s quite the experience. I can’t say if it’s as good as singing sober or not, because I forgot what it feels like to sing without some form of toxin in my bloodstream.

It’s been years since I’ve been sober for more than a day. It started with my mother when I got my period at eleven and she started pumping me full of diet pills and birth control. Then it was the men she would bring home, slipping me downers and roofies so they could stick their dicks in my mouth without the fear of me biting it off.