Wasted Heart (26 page)

“I love you,” I whisper. “And everything has changed for me. I can’t go back to being that girl who didn’t know what life was. You infuriate me, but you make me feel what love is. I love you, Rhye Clark. I want you to be mine so that I can be yours. I’m tired of missing you when we are apart. Don’t make me hurt anymore. Let me in, to love you.” At my words, he abruptly lets my other arm go and steps back, disengaging my hand from his face. His wild eyes search mine. I stand there, lost without the touch of him. The tears rise from the depths of my soul, overwhelming me.

I cover my face with my hands, no longer able to bear his gaze, and sob. The tide of emotions overrides my senses, shaking me to my core; however, in that instant, I look up to see him smiling at me, and I smile through my tears. The stupid idiot

“You love me?” he asks, still smiling.

“Yes.”

“You know that it won’t be easy with me. In fact, we will probably fight all the time. I like to rile you up. You’re fucking hot when you get mad,” he says, placing a stray hair of mine behind my ear.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” I say, blinking away my tears, my heart overflowing with joy.

He dies laughing and steps back to pull me sharply against his chest. Rhye hugs me close to him and whispers in my ear, chill bumps invade my body.

“I want you, too.”

Looking up, I whisper back, “I didn’t say that. I said ‘I love you’.” I dare him to say it, not expecting it yet, but wanting it soon.

“I know.”

He is clearly trying to aggravate me, but I don’t give him the satisfaction
. He! Wants! Me!
I lean my head back and give a happy yelp. His answer is booming laughter, and I love it. Glancing at him, I take a deep breath, and ask, “Do you want to come back to my apartment?” I smile shyly at him, knowing he understands what I’m asking.

“Yes,” he says, reaching his hands up to cup my face. “But not now. Not today. I want us to live with my issues for a while before taking something so special from you. Don’t look so sad, Syn. I’m not saying that I’m fucking going to live like a monk with you,” he jokes after he sees my look of disappointment.

I start to argue when he places his lips against mine. Our kiss starts off slow but increases as the pent up passion is unleashed from within us. I can’t get enough of him. Of us.

“We are just going to know each other, inside and out, before we take it to that level. You are worth waiting for. Even though, I have a critical case of blue balls,” he jokingly replies. “Damn, even after all this shit, I still don’t think I can write some sappy duet.”

“We don’t do sappy,” I tell him.

“That we don’t, babe,” he says, then looks at me questionably. “What do we do?” I turn out of his arms and walk back over to my notebook. I turn to a page of lyrics I wrote one night when I was longing for him.

“Play off these lyrics. See what you come up with, but hurry up. I’m ready to get out of here. With you,” I tell him, raising on my toes to kiss him once more.

He reads them out loud.

“When I say that I love you, boy

And you still walk away.

I’m not sure what to do,

Or even what to say.

Do you know how much I care,

How can you possibly know?

You take me to my highest high,

And bring me to my lowest low.

I don’t know how to revive the ceaseless beating,

Or even a way to make it start.

I’m lost trying to find my way?

Inside your wasted heart.”

Glancing at me, he says, “Deep. Still a little fucking sappy, but I get it. Give me that pen.” He sits and begins to write, only stopping to hum out loud before returning to the paper.

I love watching his creative process. His face becomes serene as he becomes one with his music. It’s an amazing sight, one that I look forward to sharing with him in the future. I close my eyes, smiling to myself, loving that this is my life.

“Smiley, read this,” he says, and I open my eyes to his. Reaching for the paper, I look down at what he has written after my lyrics.

There is nothing you can say,

When I can’t hear your words.

Especially when my heart no longer feels,

The rhythm or the chords.

My eyes don’t see the beauty,

Or the wonder you possess.

When everything within me,

Is devoured in this emptiness.

And I don’t know how to revive the ceaseless beating,

Or even a way to make it start.

I’m lost trying to find my way,

Inside this wasted heart.

If I could have relinquished this fear,

It would have been for you.

Given my demons up,

If I only knew how to find my way to you.

And I don’t know how to revive the ceaseless beating,

Or even a way to make it start.

I’m lost trying to find my way,

Inside my wasted heart.

My eyes, no longer dry, glance up at him. I nod my head, letting him see the love and pride I can’t disguise.

There are no words to describe the realism of being uncharacteristically sober for seventy-three days on my own, not counting Josh, the aggravating bastard who my label has glued to my ass. Evidently, he has done such a standout job regarding my situation that I’m his fulltime job until the tour is over. It would really piss me off if it didn’t make Syn ecstatically happy. She thinks he keeps me straight when, in all reality, she is my true north.

I’ve known her now for about as long as I’ve been off the “H,” and it’s been almost thirty-one days since I walked out of that Nashville studio to finish recording the rest of my album in L.A. Syn and I have seen each other only three, short times since then. She flew out to see me once, and the other times, me and my best friend Josh, who I’m not allowed to shit without, flew back to Nashville to see her. The time that Syn and I spend together, especially on the phone, makes the fucking blackness in my life somewhat easier to deal with.

Today, she is flying back here to prepare for the Grammys tomorrow night. We are slated to perform our duet live on stage. Our song, “Wasted Heart,” was an instant radio and download hit, and each of our albums had top-ten singles. Seems that people really love the whole tortured rocker and country girl romance story. We can’t go anywhere without the paparazzi tailing our asses, and of course, our record label is eating that shit up. They love free public relations. Several weeks ago, they met with us both, asking us to show more public displays of affection in front of the cameras. Of course, we gave them the finger. Well, I gave them the finger; Syn rolled her eyes and swatted my hand down.

Everything is much clearer in my life but still so damn hard most of the time. It’s not easy, day in and day out, fighting these compulsions within. I’m learning smack wasn’t my only addiction. The women are a bitch to give up. It’s not even the sex; however, I can’t lie, that’s hard enough to turn down on its own. Instead, it’s the attention warring with my soul. I always thought having a shitload of girls whoring themselves out was a perk of being famous, but I’m learning differently. It’s way too easy. You want pussy? Poof! Here it is. You want your cock sucked? Wish granted. You don’t want it, but it’s there anyway. Just try to say, “No”. It’s near to impossible, but I am trying. For Syn.

“Hey, Rhye. The car is here,” Josh yells, from the living room.

Josh and I are living in a hotel suite for now. My tour kicks off two days after the awards show, the same day as Syn’s. We tried to coordinate our stops so we could, in the least, be in the same state a majority of the time, making for easy drives should we need to be with each other. And right now, I fucking need to be next to her, smelling her sweet scent and holding her delectable, untouched body. We’ve done just about everything possible except fuck or, excuse me, “make love” as she says. I’ve explained to her that it’s the same thing in my book; she is what makes it different. Syn has tried her best to coerce me into taking it further, and I’m finding it’s damn hard to hold on to someone’s virginity for them. I love to tease her saying that I have no idea how she’s held onto it this long as much as she begs. Putting my sunglasses on, I walk out of my bedroom to the living area where Josh lies sprawled on the white massive couch.

“It would probably be less of a headache with the paparazzi if you just let the car pick up Syn and bring her back. You don’t have to go meet her. Plus, it screams that you’re desperate. One of you needs to try and play hard to get,” he says, drinking something out of a can.

“Don’t fucking worry about it,” I say, walking by him and knocking it out of his hand. Yellow soda fizzes out all over the white couch, looking like he pissed on it. “Guess you need to clean that up before I get back.”

I walk out of the suite to the sound of him cussing me, and I smile. Josh fucks with me just as much. It’s what we do for the hell of it. I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he’s okay most of the time. Taking the elevator down, I walk out of the hotel lobby, and immediately, cameras start flashing. Everyone’s in town for the Grammys, and the pic roaches are coming out in force. Nothing is private outside of your room, and even then, you better check.

“Rhye, how’s Syn doing? When is she coming into town? Rhye, are you and Syn performing at the Grammys?” Questions are thrown at me, which I ignore at first, trying to make it to the car. “Rhye, need some smack, man?” I look up, trying to see which jackass said that comment before narrowing my eyes on a guy that’s been following and heckling me for a while. I shoot him a bird before getting in the car. Fucktard.

It takes about an hour to get to the airport with stupid L.A. traffic. Syn texted me about thirty minutes ago that she was hiding out in the bathroom, waiting for me. When we are near the terminal, I text her to go ahead and meet me outside. As we pull up, I see her standing at the curb with her suitcases. Of course, I look around and see a guy standing about ten feet away from her with a camera.

When the car stops, I don’t wait for the driver before I open the door, allowing her to climb in. Slamming the door closed behind her, she settles in the seat with a heavy sign. At first, she peeks at me with a shy smile, and then, in a blink, launches herself, knocking me back hard against the door. Her mouth melts mine with hungry kisses. She smells fucking unbelievable, and I make a silent promise to myself that we won’t go long periods of time without seeing each other again.

“Miss me?” I ask between the open mouth kisses that she smothers me with. Not that I’m complaining.

“No. I go to airports and jump into cars to attack unknown, tattooed men all the time. A girl has got to get her kicks,” she says, glaring at me.

Spoken like a true, sexy smartass. My girl. I give her a good hard whack on her ass and proceed to kiss the living daylights out of her.

“Did you miss me?” she asks, pulling back to look into my eyes.

“Only on Tuesdays,” I jokingly reply. It’s an inside joke with us. The last time she was here, she arrived on a Wednesday and left on a Monday. The only day we didn’t get to spend together was a Tuesday, hence what I said to her.

She smiles again at me, “Yeah, every Tuesday I cry myself to sleep for you,” she says, sticking her bottom lip out to pout. “I wrote a song called ‘Only on Tuesdays.’ Want to hear it?”

“Is it a country song?” I ask, and she nods. “Does it mention guns, divorce, trailer, dog, or beer?” She pauses for a second, thinking it over before nodding her head again. “Uh, no. I’ll pass.”

She punches my arm with her bony fist, and it hurts. “Damn, Syn. Boyfriend abuse. Don’t fuck up the merchandise. You break, you buy.”

“Did you just call yourself my boyfriend?” she asks, patting my arm and rubbing it softly.

“Yes, why?”

“That was so sexy. Say it again,” she says, purring in my ear as her wondering hand slips over my jeans to rub my aching dick.

“No. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep your virginity intact? I don’t think you do,” I say, ignoring the evil stare she is giving me. “It’s a lot of hard work, but one of us fucking has to do it. Keeping you from going to the dark side is extremely difficult. Help a guy out,” I reply sarcastically, laying it on thick. I love to watch her face turn three shades of pink.

She stops her hand from petting my hard dick, and it almost makes me want to cry. I need to learn when to keep my motherfucking mouth shut.

“Boyfriend,” I say, trying to make amends.

I watch the smile cover her beautiful face again, and I can’t help but smile in response. This is what Syn does to me. She turns me into this goofy ass guy. Her smiles are like the plague, infecting everyone in their path. All the time, I watch strangers on the street smile back at her for no reason. It’s crazy beautiful and makes me want her more than humanly possible. My smiley girl.

Kissing me one last time, she pulls back. “Are we going to be able to practice on stage tomorrow?”

She links her hands with mine as she leans back against the car seat. Looking out the window, she points at the Hollywood sign.

“See it almost every day, babe,” I say to her. “Probably not. I talked to my manager, Jimmy, and he was supposed to give Trina, your manager, a call to explain everything. We are winging it.”