Page 1 of Imperfect Cadence
Prologue
“Need You Now”
Colton
“An imperfect cadence is like a musical comma, as the music doesn’t feel quite finished.”
Sweat streamed down my face, my rapid pulse pounding in my ears as I took my final bow of the night, marking the end of an exhausting three hour set. Despite the blinding intensity of the stage lights that obscured the sold out stadium, the deafening cheers served as a reminder of how far I’d come. Thunderous applause continued long after I navigated my way past the side curtain, desperate for the solitude of my dressing room.
Adrenaline continued to course through my veins as I began the familiar ritual of relinquishing my guitar to the waiting roadie and receiving a towel and water bottle in return—a routine I performed so often in the post concert chaos that it happened on autopilot. Even with the protection of earplugs, the steady ringing in my ears blocked out the voices barking out orders around me. Which explained the exasperated scowl that met my eyes when I glanced up to see my manager urgently trying to get my attention, having resorted to dramatic hand waving gestures after, I assumed, his shouting fell on deaf ears.
I feigned a casual wave, indicating that I’d join him in a minute. A blatant lie. My lungs were burning and I still hadn’t caught my breath completely. The prospect of impromptu VIP meet-and-greets, undoubtedly the reason for Carl’s summons, was not something I was in a hurry to suffer through.
No matter how many times I reiterated that I wasn’t exactly in the mood for socializing after a show, Carl persisted. Attempting to coax me into putting on a friendly facade for my “fans” after almost every concert. The fact that the label charged exorbitant fees for a one-on-one, making them an exclusive perk only within reach for the rich and pretentious assholes that attended my shows, didn’t concern Carl. To him, it was all about the accumulating dollar signs. They were all cut from the same cloth—seeking the social currency they garnered when they bragged to their peers about rubbing shoulders with a celebrity. Yet, I would bet they couldn’t name a single one of my songs.
Despite my vehement protests behind closed doors, I wasn’t one to back out of a commitment. Even if it was one I had no say in making. It wasn’t the fault of these assholes that the record label wanted to exploit my popularity to increase their bottom line. As if my current earnings as the top streamed artist in the country weren’t enough for them. So, I took a deep breath like my therapist had coached me to, attempting to quell the looming dark cloud that inevitably accompanied the post-performance crash.
Music was my lifeline most days, and I always tried to acknowledge my privilege of being in a position to make a living from it. It was just unfortunate that the peace it provided never extended beyond the stage. I’d been one lucky bastard to make it this far, and I tried to remember that when my mental health demons sunk their claws in. Depression, anxiety and self-loathing were my best friends at this point.
Everything I had ever dreamed of had manifested into my surreal reality. A reality that, during my worst moments as a child, felt utterly unimaginable for someone like me—someone with my appearance, my upbringing, my sexuality.
I fell into the category they call “ethnically ambiguous”. Clearly not fitting into the conventional white mold, yet not easily identifiable with any one specific culture either. Childhood for me meant enduring strange looks and stares, particularly when seen with my “parents.” Those two addicts were so ghostly pale from their indoor drug binges that gazing at them almost required sunglasses. It should have been glaringly obvious that the tall, pudgy man shacking up with my mom wasn’t my biological father, but apparently the average person wasn’t blessed with such powers of deduction.
As for my sperm donor, well, I didn’t have any real details. All I knew was he hailed from Thailand and had fucked off with some barely legal chick he met on the internet. His abrupt exit from our lives when I was two became the catalyst for my mother’s descent into a permanent drug-induced stupor. At least, that was her narrative—something I’d always taken with a tablespoon of salt.
So, yeah. Between the fucked up childhood leading me into the foster care system by the age of ten, and an ethnicity that sorely lacked representation among the famous musicians I grew up idolizing, I figured my dreams would remain just that. Toss in the added layer of being queer, and I hit the statistical trifecta that pegged me as more likely to be a crime victim than adored by millions.
Despite the messed up concoction that is my life story, my art had managed to reach more people than I ever could have imagined, and my wealth had ballooned to the point it would take twenty lifetimes to spend. Strangely enough, becoming rich wasn’t the initial dream I clung to. All I had craved was stability, a longing born from my roller-coaster journey through countless foster homes. All I’d wished for was enough money to buy a home and finally put an end to the lingering uncertainty that I could be uprooted at any moment. The irony is that now I’m richer than God and I haven’t slept in the same bed for close to six months.
From an outsider’s perspective, my life may seem charmed, but I was the living embodiment of the cliched tortured artist. Well, within reason. I’d resisted succumbing to the stereotypical musician lifestyle; never experimented with drugs and hardly touched alcohol, except for that one time we won’t mention. Weed was my one vice, but I told myself that didn’t count. They prescribed it to little old ladies with glaucoma, so how bad could it be?
I’d witnessed my deadbeat step dad drink himself into an early grave, and my bio mom shot up so much that she couldn’t even bother showing up for the court appointment when I became a ward of the state. The consequences of substance abuse had etched themselves into my memory, enough to put me off them for a lifetime. With addiction written in my DNA, I’d erred on the side of caution, steering clear of temptation.
Except that thought only reminded me of a completely different vice I once surrendered to. The source of my ever growing misery. I grappled with the consequences of that addiction far too often, even all these years later. My depression and mounting apathy for my career had me questioning all my life choices and the purpose of my restraint. Perhaps being buzzed would help me stop caring about things beyond my control. It was no wonder so many in this industry ended up in rehab.
What was more agonizing than the loss of every person you’ve ever loved? The dehumanizing experience of being regarded as a walking dollar sign rather than a real person. Almost all the people in my life were there to either take something from me or paid to remain loyal to me. Speaking of which, meet Carl. The slender middle aged man whose features slightly resembled a rodent, with his wiry mouse brown hair and oversized front teeth that were usually on full display from his signature slimy used car salesman smile. Fitting, considering he was a rat in every sense of the word.
Carl trudged toward me with a characteristic frown he reserved just for me. Also known as his greatest source of frustration, ever since I’d grown a backbone and stopped letting him walk all over me.
“You need to follow me, right now,” he barked curtly, striding off in the direction of my dressing room without sparing a glance to see if I would obey.
My initial assumption that he merely wanted me for some last minute fan interactions turned out to be incorrect. Carl was one of those irritable narcissists who lacked a filter, unapologetically delivering unpleasant news without regard for your feelings. Let’s be honest, he was mostly a fucking asshole who treated me like garbage. The only exceptions arose when he sought to keep bad publicity hushed or avoid the risk of someone overhearing confidential information and leaking the story to the media.
So, whatever Carl deemed worthy of a private discussion was unlikely to be anything good. The last time he’d requested a private chat involved the revelation that a woman was seeking child support, alleging I had impregnated her during a one-night stand. Carl had turned beet red, looking like he wanted to strangle me, despite the absurdity of the claim. He’d blamed me for having to deal with the drama of deciding whether to publicly disclose my sexuality to squash the rumors, or pay for a DNA test, which could hint that we believed her story had merit.
My being gay wasn’t something I felt the need to broadcast. Don’t get me wrong; I wasn’t hiding it. I just didn’t feel compelled to make some grand announcement about my mostly non-existent attraction to people. Of the few people that had piqued my interest over the years, all had been men, but those instances could be counted on one hand. Apparently I fell somewhere on the asexual spectrum—gray ace, or ‘graysexual,’ if we were getting technical. Which, oh the fucking irony…
The likelihood of me ever being photographed with a man, other than my well known platonic best friend Willy, was as probable as me being seen out with a woman—zero. Also the whole concept of “coming out” struck me as absurd. If straight folks didn’t have to declare their romantic inclinations, why were the rest of us expected to do so? It seemed like a charade, a facade erected by fragile masculine egos hiding behind hate to save face. Heaven forbid a straight white man might one day approach a woman and face rejection because she preferred a V over his P. Or perhaps he couldn’t accept how often his own eyes lingered on his buddy in the locker room shower.
However, the real reason I tried to steer clear of making a concrete announcement about my sexuality was the fuel it would give to journalists and Twitter sleuths to forensically analyze my past, a history I’d been notoriously tight lipped about. After all, I gave them very little to speculate on given my monk-like existence. My days were a monotonous cycle of rehearsals and soundchecks, performing nightly, and then collapsing in my hotel bed. Six months of rinse and repeat in a different city every night. When not on tour, my routine shifted to writing and recording a new album. I avoided public outings whenever possible, only venturing out if contractually obligated. The skeletons in my closet that I guarded from prying eyes would be tabloid gold.
The resounding slam of a door behind me startled me out of my reverie. Lost in thought about Carl’s cryptic summons, I hadn't even realized I was now standing in my dressing room with said manager, the soundproof room blocking out the fading sounds of fans leaving the stadium. Turning to face him, I was taken aback by the expression etched across his features. Pinched brows, narrowed eyes, and a tight-set mouth hinted at an underlying tension. Something had transpired, yet his stoic expression revealed nothing and left me confused. It was a strange blend of intimidation and concern, as if he were irked with me but felt the need to pretend he wasn’t.
As he remained silent, locking eyes with me and seemingly waiting for me to break the stalemate, my heart rate kicked up a notch and my palms grew clammy with nerves. Based on our less than pleasant past encounters, ones where he used his size and authority to bully me into submission either verbally, or physically when he deemed it necessary, it was evident that he believed I was purposefully withholding whatever news he held. I straightened my spine and steeled myself, keeping my fear of this man under lock and key, refusing to cower to him any longer. I was genuinely at a loss why he would think I’d done anything to cause this confrontation and I refused to let him convince me otherwise.
Finally, Carl’s composure cracked first. “You have a phone call,” he snapped, thrusting the device against my chest with enough force that it would likely leave an iPhone-shaped bruise.
Surprised by the anticlimactic nature of his announcement, I furrowed my brow and asked, “Who is it?”
