Page 99 of Revel
EIGHT MONTHS LATER
I told Red this once, but the good songs, the ones that really evoke emotions and hit the top of the charts, they come from extreme sadness or happiness. Everything else is watered-down bullshit.
Our fifth album in eight years,Ruins, releases that winter, nearly a year since I last saw Red, and hits number one worldwide its first week. You probably don’t care about any of that though, do you? You want to know if I’ve contacted her, and if any of the songs are about her, don’t you?
I’ll start with the second question. Are the songs about her? I won’t say that they are, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say she was the motivation behind them. I’ll tell you one thing, it isn’t watered-down bullshit, that’s for sure.
Now back to the first question. In the eight months since I’ve been out of rehab, I heard from Red once, and it was only a text wishing me happy birthday. I sent her one on her birthday, and I think I surprised her I knew the day. To be honest, I googled it. That’s been the extent of our communication.
Most would think, why not go to her and explain yourself, or at the very least, apologize for being such a dumbass? Well, I could, but that wouldn’t be me. I’ve never been one for groveling and secondly, what I want to say to her needs to be done in person and when I’m ready to. So far I’m not there yet and I don’t think she is either. If she wanted to talk, she would have called.
While the band and I haven’t announced our next tour yet, the Grammys is in two weeks and I know what that’ll bring. I’ll be stuck surrounded by people I don’t want to see, and the one I’m dying to. Revved has been nominated for album of the year, song of the year, and record of the year. Not only that, but “Roses of Revenge,” the song I wrote with Red, it’s up for song of the year as well. I’m not surprised. Not only was it amazing, but it’s us together—our chemistry, our connection, and the way our voices sound together—that sells the song.
She’s up for three Grammys herself having released an album as well.This Is Me. Her first rock album she produced under her own label. Do I listen to it?
Iobsessover it. For two weeks. Every lyric, every chord, I lose myself in her words and voice only to come out of it more in love, more a mess, and wanting a fucking drink. It’s our love woven deep beneath the tracks for me and her, only us. I drown myself in her revelatory, deep and personal lyrics, and realize I tore us apart by my actions.
After I’ve listened to the entire album, I switch back to “Black Eyes,” which happens to be her number one single at the moment and speculated to be about me. She doesn’t comment either way.
Your eyes are black and your heart so cold
High above the city you painted my heart with colors so bold
How was I to know this is how it’d all unfold
Suffocating in silence, here I am, still caught up on a love so raw, so real
Somedays I’d give anything not to feel
I’ll whisper your name but I can’t say it out loud
I’m so haunted by your black eyes
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize who it’s about.
When I saw Red on stage for the first time in person when we were on that tour together, I never had a doubt she could pull off a rock album, and she did. My chest swells with pride for her, because whether she’ll admit it or not, I like to think I played a part in it, but she made that happen. Not her dad, not her label, and certainly not me.
I buy the album on CD, something I haven’t done in years, only to stare at the cover for hours. It’s a picture of her on stage, her hair covering her tits and holding a fender guitar. Jealousy runs through my veins, my hands trembling holding it. I’m angry at whoever took the picture. I’m only angry because they got to see her in person, and I haven’t seen the outside of a recording studio in months. Probably for the better. They got to see her smile, the curve of her waist, the red curls I dream of. . . they got those moments with her and I ruined the last one I had by overreacting. Fuck this shit. I hate feeling. It was a lot easier when I was drunk. At least then I didn’t give a fuck. Now I’m just miserably sober.
Cruz walks into my house, takes one look at the CD and smiles. “Need some alone time there, bud?”
“Fuck you,” is my natural response to nearly everything. I push past him. “Why are you here? This is my house. You can’t just show up whenever you want.”
“I know, but if I go to my house, there’s a screaming baby there so this is a better option.” He opens my fridge, realizes there’s no beer, no alcohol of any kind and rolls his eyes. “Never mind. You’re sober and boring now.”
“Thanks for the support.”
He pats me on the back as he leaves. “No problem.”
Breathing in deeply, I reach for my water to try to calm my nerves. It doesn’t work.
I go for a run.
That doesn’t work either, and before I know it, I find myself at a bar, standing at the entrance. I don’t walk in.
I walk home and find myself staring at that goddamn cover art again. It’s probably the hottest image I’ve ever seen of her. And that includes that photograph fromRolling Stonewith her face eye level with my cock. Thinking of that leads me to the shower and then you know, that leads to my hand finding its way south and I don’t stop thinking about her until I’m finished. Believe it or not, I haven’t fucked a girl since her. Despite me constantly trying to talk him out of this arrangement, my cock apparently made a friend for life and only comes to life for a feisty redhead.
To be honest, and you knew it’d happen, but I’m asked constantly about my relationship with her and if we’ve spoken or plan to. We haven’t even seen each other face-to-face and our relationship is the topic of every interview and every paparazzi who corners me. And her.
