Read Online Wasted Heart by Nicole Reed - Free Book Online
Authors: Nicole Reed
Tags: new adult
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hadn’t bought that bad shit. If I hadn’t had that fucking gun in the first place. If I hadn’t ragged you about that show. If I hadn’t,” I choke up, not able to finish what I’m saying.
“Rhye, wake up man,” a voice calls to me.
My eyes flash open, and I lift my hands to protect them from the brightness of the room. I blink back the sleep and try to focus on who is in front of me. That song writer guy, Mel I think it is, stands in front of me holding a Styrofoam container and cup.
“I brought you back something to eat. Thought you could use it,” he says, placing the food down next to me.
Sitting up, I try to orient myself to my surroundings. The dreams are almost impossible to deal with. Every emotion that I thought I couldn’t feel anymore comes back in full force. I suffer greatly for my sins. I’ve never needed a judge or jury because I crucify myself just fine.
“Thanks, man,” I say, nodding to him. The thought of food turns my stomach inside out, and I swallow the bile that rises; however, I reach for the drink and take a sip of the ice cold Sprite.
“Listen, I’m a huge fan of the Mavericks. I’m really excited about working with you. In fact, I have actually been working on some material that I would like to share if you are interested?” he asks, sitting down beside me.
Considering that I couldn’t care less right now about writing a single lyric myself, I answer him with the only possible solution, “Sure. Let me hear it.”
That arrogant, handsome as sin, jackass!
Even an hour after meeting him, I don’t know whether I want to cry or kick him. My heart is carved into tiny pieces, each one bleeding for a different reason. I imagine, for a moment, what it would be like to stare into a dark abyss of nothingness. I’m sure it would be the same sight as when I glanced into his eyes. Tightly closing mine, I still feel the overwhelming sense of loss. My stomach clinches in response. God, I sound crazy even to myself.
I’m thinking way too much. I should be asking him who he thinks he is. Okay, well, other than obviously who he is. I stare down at the uneaten salad, stirring the lettuce around my plate and fuming on the inside. After leaving the studio, I went with Julie to grab something to eat at the corner deli. I’ve completely lost my appetite, and I can’t think about anything but him.
“Don’t let him get to you. The guy’s gone barmy,” Julie says, sitting across the table from me.
I let a low growl escape. Stabbing through a cherry tomato with my fork, I look up at her. “What’s his story? I know I’ve read something about drugs and rehab online or in the magazines,” I ask, watching her shrug her shoulders.
“I only know some things. A little over a year ago, his bassist committed suicide. The story I’ve heard is that Rhye and Chris were both heavily addicted to heroin. One night, after botching a big show, there was this huge row in front of everyone. It continued to escalate at a party hosted back at their apartment, and here, the story gets a little pear-shaped. Some say Rhye gave Chris the gun and dared him to pull the trigger. A little Russian roulette. The other story is that Chris was upset because Rhye fired him from the band that night and shot himself in front of him. Either way, the situation is beastly,” she replies, taking a sip of her drink.
“What about for the last year? Has he been playing?” I ask, my curiosity peaked.
She shakes her head, replying, “As far as I know, no. He’s been in and out of rehab and has a distaste for authority. From my understanding, this is his record label giving him one last chance before they wash him out. You’re only as good as your latest hit, ducky.” Standing, she lays down money on the table. “Hey, I’ll meet you back at the studio. I need to ring someone.”
“Sure,” I say, smiling up at her.
My mind is overloaded with the information she just shared. I can’t imagine witnessing
“Rhye, wake up man,” a voice calls to me.
My eyes flash open, and I lift my hands to protect them from the brightness of the room. I blink back the sleep and try to focus on who is in front of me. That song writer guy, Mel I think it is, stands in front of me holding a Styrofoam container and cup.
“I brought you back something to eat. Thought you could use it,” he says, placing the food down next to me.
Sitting up, I try to orient myself to my surroundings. The dreams are almost impossible to deal with. Every emotion that I thought I couldn’t feel anymore comes back in full force. I suffer greatly for my sins. I’ve never needed a judge or jury because I crucify myself just fine.
“Thanks, man,” I say, nodding to him. The thought of food turns my stomach inside out, and I swallow the bile that rises; however, I reach for the drink and take a sip of the ice cold Sprite.
“Listen, I’m a huge fan of the Mavericks. I’m really excited about working with you. In fact, I have actually been working on some material that I would like to share if you are interested?” he asks, sitting down beside me.
Considering that I couldn’t care less right now about writing a single lyric myself, I answer him with the only possible solution, “Sure. Let me hear it.”
That arrogant, handsome as sin, jackass!
Even an hour after meeting him, I don’t know whether I want to cry or kick him. My heart is carved into tiny pieces, each one bleeding for a different reason. I imagine, for a moment, what it would be like to stare into a dark abyss of nothingness. I’m sure it would be the same sight as when I glanced into his eyes. Tightly closing mine, I still feel the overwhelming sense of loss. My stomach clinches in response. God, I sound crazy even to myself.
I’m thinking way too much. I should be asking him who he thinks he is. Okay, well, other than obviously who he is. I stare down at the uneaten salad, stirring the lettuce around my plate and fuming on the inside. After leaving the studio, I went with Julie to grab something to eat at the corner deli. I’ve completely lost my appetite, and I can’t think about anything but him.
“Don’t let him get to you. The guy’s gone barmy,” Julie says, sitting across the table from me.
I let a low growl escape. Stabbing through a cherry tomato with my fork, I look up at her. “What’s his story? I know I’ve read something about drugs and rehab online or in the magazines,” I ask, watching her shrug her shoulders.
“I only know some things. A little over a year ago, his bassist committed suicide. The story I’ve heard is that Rhye and Chris were both heavily addicted to heroin. One night, after botching a big show, there was this huge row in front of everyone. It continued to escalate at a party hosted back at their apartment, and here, the story gets a little pear-shaped. Some say Rhye gave Chris the gun and dared him to pull the trigger. A little Russian roulette. The other story is that Chris was upset because Rhye fired him from the band that night and shot himself in front of him. Either way, the situation is beastly,” she replies, taking a sip of her drink.
“What about for the last year? Has he been playing?” I ask, my curiosity peaked.
She shakes her head, replying, “As far as I know, no. He’s been in and out of rehab and has a distaste for authority. From my understanding, this is his record label giving him one last chance before they wash him out. You’re only as good as your latest hit, ducky.” Standing, she lays down money on the table. “Hey, I’ll meet you back at the studio. I need to ring someone.”
“Sure,” I say, smiling up at her.
My mind is overloaded with the information she just shared. I can’t imagine witnessing
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