Page 2 of Revel
I’ve done it, a few times. I once got a rank joint from a dude in South America and then what I thought was ecstasy but now I’m not at all sure. To this day, I have no idea what the shit had been laced with. My memory is absolutely horrible and probably worse since smoking that shit, but whatever it had been, I spent the next twelve hours counting every heartbeat. Believe it or not, I still remember how many heartbeats. I got up to 74,160. Give or take a few. And then I blacked out, slept for three days and woke up hallucinating that I had a dragon on my back. To this day, it still feels like I have that fire-breathing monster with me. Lurking behind me at all times, waiting for me to wake up from this nightmare and singe the hell out of me, once and for all. From that moment on, I’ve been a completely different person. It’s the reason behind the tattoo.
Or maybe it’s everything else that happened on that South America tour that changed me. Probably more the latter, but I don’t like to talk much about those three months when I was seventeen. To say it was life changing is an understatement. In those three months, I lost what little innocence I had left in me. One could justifiably argue I didn’t have much to begin with. But spending three months with a group of alcoholics and delinquents who became my best friends really changed my perspective. We spent our days high and our nights even higher, shielding emotions with anger and arrogance. Something I’m still very clever at displaying not so peacefully.
My heart thuds, a knowing reminder that I’m where I don’t want to be. My heart has always been a pretty good judge of character.
Looking around, I take in my surroundings. Dark walls, microphones, wires, boxes of equipment, and incredibly uncomfortable chairs. Annoyed, I blow out a heavy breath. It’s my automatic response anytime I’m stuck sitting in a studio and not making music. This time it’s a radio studio. I couldn’t tell you what city I’m in or even the names of the two people interviewing us. Radio interviews are so much worse than the standard promotional shit you do when an album drops. You would think that when new music is released, the interviews and press should be about the music, but that’s never the case. Ten times out of ten it always turns personal, and that’s where my problem lies.
I don’t like talking about myself. Sure, I’m as arrogant as they come about my music because I know I’m one of the greats, but I draw the line at the music. Who the fuck wants to know anything about me anyway? Parents died when I was four, brother walked out on us, the man I looked up to was an alcoholic, and I was raised by a southern woman who beat me with a broom. I think I turned out great considering. To be fair, I deserved every beating Oma handed me. I was such a shit.
That being said, I fucking hate interviews. Screw that bullshit. You want a story, come to a show, take in the lyrics, listen to the music and then write or talk up your take on what you think you heard. I don’t really care and probably won’t read it.
Is that harsh? Probably so.
“Revel. . . ” The man with a greedy smile and dirt under his fingernails directs a question my way. “ . . . you’ve had a rough year so far.”
I stare at him. Is he asking me a question or just taking note of the fact that my year has been hell? Has it? Do I even remember the last year?
I think back to what I do remember, and only one thing comes to mind.
Hensley Shaw and Jory Ash. Adrenaline is a funny thing. It comes out of nowhere and should be considered a deadly sin. Or maybe even a deadly indulgence. Either way, it feeds the dragon I mentioned earlier. I’m not in the mood to deal with any shit today, but I’m especiallynotin the mood to be doing an interview.
I don’t know this dude’s name, and frankly, it doesn’t matter. Do you notice the way my heart rate is elevated and that adrenaline I spoke about is taking over? It’s swimming in my veins, threatening to take over because in my head answering his questions is conforming to the bullshit that’s asked of me.
I hate conforming. Rules and me don’t get along. Never have. I don’t like anyone telling me what I should or shouldn’t do. Which is why Oma beat the shit out of me. I was a disrespectable little asshole most of my life—probably still am. I’ve been that way since I was old enough to understand what it meant to conform and follow the code of conduct. My grandmother, Oma, used to tell me,“Rev, you’re going to be amazing, or you’re going to prison.”Technically, both came true. Well, sort of.
I was warming the bench in a jail holding cell before my tenth birthday, and I certainly haven’t been on the straight and narrow since. In fact, it’s been more like a landslide to whatever this is I’m living now. In my twenty-four years, I’ve sold more than twenty million records, raised holy fucking hell, gained the hatred of parents by corrupting more than a few daddies’ girls, and drunk more liquor than I should have. I’ve snorted cocaine, crashed cars, fought with my bandmates, journalists, women, family, and through all of this, I’ve loved one woman who completely destroyed me.
And in case I haven’t convinced you how incredibly intolerable I am, I also despise change. I know, you’re thinking I’m a total headcase. Just wait. By the end of this, you’ll hate me and thenmaybeunderstand me.
Is a monster likable?
But this part, my current situation, it’s a new level of hate with this DJ. I bet his name is Ted. I’ve never met a Ted I liked.
The entire band is here, but as always, they want the story of the rebellious lead singer. I didn’t answer his previous question, so he’s trying another way around it to further piss me off. I’ve learned if you really want to get under someone’s skin, you sit back and observe rather than react. Here’s some words of wisdom for you. Be afraid of the calmest person in the room.
The DJ, probably Ted, turns to me, his smile vindictive. “Revel, there are rumors that you and the other members of Revved don’t get along.”
The other members of Revved look to me, gauging my reaction. I don’t meet their questioning apprehension. I blow out a heavy breath. It’s my automatic response anytime questions are directed at me during these ass-kissing sessions where we basically beg radio stations to keep shoving our songs down your throat.
Though there’s a sign above Ted’s head that clearly states No Smoking, I slide a cigarette between my lips and light it.
“There’s no smoking in here,” someone reminds me.
“I can read,” I mutter, taking a draw from it. I lean forward and blow the smoke in Ted’s face. My heart thumps wildly in my chest, not from nerves, not from annoyance, but from his attempt to get a salacious reaction out of me. Okay, it’s actually annoyance, and a little bit from the line I just snorted in the bathroom fifteen minutes ago. But whatever, look at this fuck at the mic. He’s sweatin’ and starin’ at me like I’m supposed to dish why Revved and I don’t get along. He expects me to bring him into the inner workings of my band. A band I started at sixteen and to this day, control.
I wait, expecting another question, silently willing him to poke the beast. Me. And when it doesn’t come, I lose it. “Are they rumors? Is that what you’re asking? Or do you actually want to knowwhywe don’t get along? And who’s saying we don’t get along?”
“I guess I’m asking if it’s a rumor,” he clarifies, his words trembling.
“Why?” My jaw snaps closed. A rush of adrenaline hits my stomach with a jolt.
“Why what?”
“Whyare you asking?”
Blinking rapidly, he stares at me, the space between his brows deepening in what I can only assume is his irritation with me. “Why do you avoid questions with a question?”
I attempt to stand, sending bottles of water to the ground, ready to knock this guy around when Deacon grabs me by my jacket. “Knock it off.” He waves his hand around, his focus on my dilated pupils.
