Read Online Wasted Heart by Nicole Reed - Free Book Online Page A

someone killing themselves in front of me. Yeah, it might even turn me into a drug addict or a crass pig. God, those eyes of his. Nothingness. Darkness. “Keep your distance, Syn,” my mind screams in response. I’ve never wanted to fix anyone, and I’m not about to start now.
    “Syn Landry?” A girl of about twelve steps up to my table.
    I smile and answer, “Yes?”
    “Can I get a picture with you? I love your songs,” she says, reaching for her phone.
    “Sure, sweetie,” I answer. Standing, I ask a waiter to take our picture.
    “My mom and I thought it was you,” she states nervously, motioning to a couple of tables over.
    I wrap my arm around her back and smile for the camera. After he snaps the picture, I turn towards her. “What grade are you in?”
    “I’m in seventh grade. My mom took me and my best friend, Becky, to see you in concert last year. It was awesome.”
    “Thank you so much. What’s your name?” I ask, smiling at her.
    “Kelsey. My mom said not to stay long, so thanks,” she says, turning to walk back to her table.
    I look over to see her mother waving to me, and I wave back. This part of being in the public eye, I can handle. It’s having your personal life plastered all over magazines and online that I can’t. People can be vicious. One minute they love you, and the next, you’re chopped liver.
    Reaching into my bag, I grab some money and count out the right change plus tip. I turn to leave the eatery and walk back to the studio. Today, the sun shines and warms the cool autumn air. The streets are busy for the music district, many traveling to and from their work lunches.
    My mind shows me a clear picture of Rhye. I can’t even describe the way seeing him for the first time made me feel. Alive. Need. I’ve only ever had that instant reaction to Tag, and this time, it’s much stronger. Rhye carries an intense sadness. I’m sure it would break most mere human beings. Is his internal struggle a reflection of his poor attitude? I don’t know, and I shouldn’t care, especially after what he said in the studio.
    I’ve never had someone speak so roughly to me. I can’t even comprehend what it’s like to not care about how you act or what you say. Everything I do is constantly observed, and there is always someone just waiting for me to make the wrong move. I feel ashamed to admit that, in this instant, I envy that about him. It’s a freedom I deny myself.
    Crossing the street, I remember hearing his songs for the first time. The only music I love, other than country, is rock. One time, this guy friend from high school invited me to a homecoming dance being held in our old gym. I remember a slow dance where my date and I both loved the song that was playing. Even to this day, I remember the voice of the guy singing it captivating me, removing me from that overly-decorated gym to a place where only he and I existed. When the song was over, I asked my date if he knew who the singer was. I remember him saying that it was some new band called the “Mavericks,” and the lead vocalist was Rhye Clark.
    As popular as country music is, very few artists attain the god-like status that rockers do, and that is fine and dandy by me. I don’t want the intense personal surveillance that comes along with it. I’m sure that Rhye’s “I don’t give a flip” attitude is a direct response to that overwhelming responsibility, or it could just be that he’s a jackass.
    Rhye qualifies in abundance for the title of “rock star”. His voice. God that voice. The deep, raspy tone gives me chill bumps just thinking about it. It reaches down inside and tugs at every string you possess. He visually fits the bill. Any girl, no matter the age, would die to even have him notice her, unlike yours truly that he glanced over and seemingly forgot about. I’d like to examine every single tattoo he has inked on his body, ask him why he got them and what they mean, mainly just to hear him speak. I can’t