Page 13 of Over You
“Wanna go screw?” she asked, rubbing a hand over my shoulder.
Nash’s thighs smacked against some girl’s backside. Their moans and grunts mixed with track eight on our second album, and a sick feeling formed in my gut.
I didn’t respond, just maneuvered away from her, fishing for my gum and the pen in my pocket.
The pack was empty, so I pulled one of the little white sleeves loose. My vision doubled when I leaned against the wall, and I closed one eye to focus on the pen in hand.I promised her I’d stay sober. I lied.The paper crumbled in my palm and then promptly sailed across the room, landing near a trashcan.
I stumbled out of the hotel room, a few girls trailing behind me. I flipped them the bird and told them I was married before I pressed the button to the elevator and stepped on. Seventeen floors down. I felt like I may vomit, but when the doors slid open to the bright lobby, I managed to zigzag my way out, past the concierge desk, and straight to the sidewalk.
A block down, I bummed a smoke from a homeless guy, after I’d handed him a wad of cash, and then I plopped down on a bench, and I thought about how fame was like The Nothing inThe Neverending Story—a rolling, black cloud that kept growing, pummeling toward you until it sucked you in. BAM. You were standing in a void with the Childlike Empress and that tiny grain of glowing sand. Except, there were no wishes. No new worlds to build.
Fame had taken every last dream I had and swallowed it whole.
7
Spencer
One year after
The track finished playing. Unexpected silence filled the room, and my gaze drifted from the window with the Hollywood Hills sign looming in the distance to Ricky, our greedy fuck of a manager who sat behind his sleek, metal desk. He folded his hands over his gut before jutting his cleft chin toward the computer monitor. “Is that what every song is going to sound like?”
“Of course.” I thumbed under my nose, fighting the smile. That track was killer. It was everything Midnite Kills stood for. Heavy guitars. Lyrics that cut to the bone. A little rap mixed in with vocals that would make David Draiman a jealous shit. Ricky should have been excited. Floored. Already on the phone with a graphic designer to get the cover underway. . . But the second hand on the clock ticked by.
“Epic, right?” I said.
“It’s last year.”
“What?”
“That track was amazing, dickweed.” Nash belched next to me before slouching in his chair. Leo leaned over his knees on my other side, dragging a hand through his unkempt blond hair.
“That sound’s on its way out.” Ricky sat up, the chair creaking when he leaned toward his computer. “This is the direction the label wants you guys to go.” He jabbed a finger over his keyboard, and some offensive excuse for punk rock trickled through the speakers.
The guitars were weak. The bass non-existent. Instead of drums, some electronic, techno bullshit kept the beat.
“Fuck that.” I waved a dismissive hand through the air.
“Is that. . . pop?” Nash looked at me, one eyebrow lifted, his nostrils flaring while he pointed at Ricky’s massive Mac. “Is this some Britney Spears crap?”
“Come on, Ricky,” Leo laughed. “You’re messing around with us.”
“Trust me. You’ll be glad you shifted the direction of your music to meet the demands.” Ricky pulled a stack of papers from a file and scribbled something across the top.
“You do realize that we’re multiplatinum?” I placed my hands by my temples. My head was about to explode. “Hell, we beat out Pandemic Sorrow this year on awards, Ricky. We beat out Jag-fucking-Steel. Come on, man. The label’s wrong.”
“Per your contract, you sing what we approve.” He yanked the flash drive with our EP from his computer. “And we do not approve ofthat.” Then tossed it to me.
I caught it, fighting the angry heat that slowly consumed my body. “I’m not playing music that’ll end up on Kidz Bop,” I said. “You and the label can rethink this shit. And then we’ll talk.” The chair tumbled over when I pushed out of it.
The label screwed with everything. Sure, I had signed on the dotted line three years ago, when I was a naïve kid with twenty bucks in my pocket. I was Charlie Bucket, and Devil’s Side Record handed me a motherfucking Golden Ticket. A promise of fame, fortune, and every dream I could possibly imagine. No more shitty bars. No more struggling to make rent. But I had made them too much money to let them dictate my actual art. They instructed me on how to dress, how to walk, and they decided how I wore my hair, but I’d keel over and die before they dictated my music.
It was the last piece of me still alive.
Fuming,we left the label, piled into Leo’s gunmetal Jaguar F-Pace and headed down to Loco Los Cabezos off Sunset.
Leo parked across the street from the pumpkin-orange stucco building, and we climbed out. Nash directed his attention to the flashing neon sign of a taco clutching a beer, and he rubbed a hand over his stomach. “Bottomless tacos are almost as good as a buffet of pussy.”
Leo held up three fingers. The girl grabbed menus and utensils before escorting us to the patio.
