Page 14 of Unbound
I stare off into the distance, my guitar strung across my body. Hundreds gather near the stage, but I can’t tell you who they are. You’d think, with my name on the billboard outside headlining the night, I’d know some of them.
In the five months since I’ve left home, I don’t think about her.
That’s a lie.
I don’twantto think about Sophie, but I do. It’s all that’s on my mind in a city that’s screaming with excitement and life. There’s no life inside of me anymore, only a hollow mess of lyrics poured through half-mumbled words.
After the initial numbness of isolating myself from her wore off, I got mad. Pissed at the world for causing the events that led me to not being able to have her. Anger, rage, fury, whatever your choice of word be, it’s all I’m left with and the worst part is, I know I’m to blame. I deliberately pushed away everyone who ever loved me. I made the choice to hold onto the bitterness of the past and allow the demons I created to think my only choice was to leave.
It’s here on a stage, lights blazing down on me, I stand, sweat dripping down my back screaming into a microphone about a girl who fucked me over. It’s then, with substance swimming through my veins, I forget. For seconds, then days, and eventually months.
It’s New Year’s Eve. Hundreds are teeming the very edges of a dark bar and I’m opening this night with My Darkest Days’ “Porn Star Dancing” because none of these ignorant fuckers wants anything original. I give them the show they want, regardless of the emptiness it gives me because once again, music has betrayed me. Instead of giving me the escape I beg for, all I get are demands and expectations.
So I stand there belting out cover after cover, occasionally winking down at the half-naked women by the stage, giving them exactly whattheycame for tonight.
An hour into the night, I’m high, drunk, and still on stage. My head keeps going to a place with grape Jolly Ranchers while waiting for the school bus. I can’t hold it in any longer. The need to scream out loud and get lost in the words that hold meaning to me, but to anyone else listening, they’re just words shouted at the top of my lungs.
My hands grip the mic, my stomach lurching with nerves, every breathe forced. The smoke rises up from the stage, twists, swirls and claws at my throat. It’s like I’m suffocating in front of them and no one gives a goddamn.
Every move I make feels like I have cement around me, weighing me down, a soul bound by the words strangling me.
“Rawley! Rawley! Rawley!” They chant my name between songs, worshiping the asshole in front of them, but not a single oblivious motherfucker in here actually knows Rawley Walker, the front man of Torque. Why would they want to?
Want some heavy truth?
I don’t know him either. Not anymore.
I thought maybe when I left Lebanon, a place where I knew every crack of that barren farm land, I might by chance find myself, but if anything, I’m gone completely now. There’s not an ounce of me to be found on any given night.
“HEY, KID, WHERE are you from? I haven’t seen you around here?” a man to my left asks. I’m sitting in a booth after our show. We usually sit in the back away from the crowds, which is how I like it because tonight, like every other night, I’ve decided to ignore everyone including Beck and Lincoln next to me. They’re used to it.
“He’s in here all the time,” Linc says, throwing the guy a quick glance then turning back around, shaking his head and bringing the vodka in his glass to his lips. There’s a girl on his lap, one to my right and Beck, he’s got one too. It’s the natural order of things when you’re playing every night at the same bar.
I lift my eyes to Linc with a smirk, his dark hair colored blue on the tips, black on the sides and artfully styled into a Mohawk he rocks the drums with every night. He’s one of a kind, always smiling and the life of the band. Beck, our bass guitarist, he’s the brains and essentially the only reason we ever have a gig these days. If it wasn’t for him, my I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-anything attitude would have ended us a long time ago.
It’s the sometimes fragile combination of Linc’s easygoing attitude, Beck’s head for business, and my distinct voice that keeps this band going. Thank fuck they love me more than they hate me, because without them, I really don’t know where the hell I would be. Probably dead.
“You’re Rawley Walker, right?” the man asks with a relaxed posture while gesturing his hand out to shake. “I’m Sam Young.” He nods to his right to another man. “And this is my business partner, Nick Caulder.” I look at his hand and then turn to look away. He reminds me of a car salesman, talking fast and making promises he can’t deliver, only he hasn’t promised anything yet. “Is this your band, Torque?”
My eyes drift to the bar where Dylan’s watching the interaction, his hands on the bar, leaning in to hear a drink order shouted over the crowd. Dylan Wade owns Bailey’s and already warned me about this guy when he walked into the bar between sets. He’s a local promoter and constantly searching for fresh new acts. Though I wanted the big time, Dylan was constantly reminding us to be cautious and remember what went with it. Or trying to. It’s not like I didn’t hear what he told us, I just chose not to listen most of the time. Story of my life.
“How long you been playing here?” Sam asks, sliding his card across the table to me.
Beck grabs it before I can and holds it up. “Sam Young,” he reads the name out loud, smiling as he says it and peeks around it at me raising an eyebrow.
He leans in, offers me a firm authoritative handshake and looks me in the eye. This time I look back.
Sam looks around Beck to me as he stands. “If you guys are serious about becoming someone, call me. If not, it’s a fucking shame.”
There’s certain aspects of the music industry only a good manager can provide. You wouldn’t believe the run around you get from bar owners and venues when they find out you have no manager. Beck does his best, but he doesn’t have the experience or the contacts.
I take the card from Beck and tap the girl next to me on the thigh. “Get up.”
She does as she’s asked, attempting to give me a view down her shirt and hoping it’s enough to get me to invite her back to my place tonight. I probably won’t. I’ll have her suck my dick in the car and leave. Remember when I said I didn’t know myself anymore?
Exactly. There’re times when I don’t even know who I was back in Lebanon. It certainly wasn’t anything resembling this.
Just as I’m getting up, Dylan approaches the table.
