Page 6 of Broken Strings

Six years ago, thepolicíafound me tied to a chair, clinging to life, when they raided a trap house in Guadalajara, Mexico. Don't know how I got there, how long I'd be there, why I was there, or what I did to get myself tied up inside.

All I know is that I've got a goddam hole in my heart that won't heal, nightmares that refuse to go away, and more questions than there are answers. I've told myself for years that I need to just let it go and settle into this new life—that I need to be Priest, the man I became when I woke up in the hospital—but I don't even know who the fuck he is. Who I am.

How do you become someone new when you don't know who you were to begin with? How do you start over when you don't know where you're starting from? I've asked myself the same goddamn questions a thousand times, and I still don't know the answers.

I've spent years trying to glue together whatever shattered pieces of my life remain. I've cracked skulls and broken bonesand did what I had to do. And all it got me was scraps of information. I've only ever found just enough to know someone wanted me in that trap house. But I've never been able to find out who or why. No one is willing to talk.

Who did I piss off?

What the fuck did I do that was so goddamn bad that my whole life needed to end up this way?

Don't know.

But I know it started in this city. Nashville. I was able to piece together enough to know that. Even came back once, trying to make sense of it. But that got me nowhere. The cops thought I was having a goddamn mental health crisis when I tried to explain. I damn near ended up on a psych hold. I slipped away before they realized I had no proof that I was even supposed to be in this country.

When you have no identity…well, cops don't take too kindly to that shit. Been there, done that a few times now. It took Winter's husband, Ronan, months of back and forth with the Embassy to sort out an identity for me so I could get here legally this time. But he's former Special Ops, and he knows people who know people, so he made it happen.

As far as the world is concerned, I'm Priest Alcalde, 31 years of age, born on May 18th. The age is bullshit. I don't know how fucking old I am. The rest is more or less true, though. I was born again on May 18th, six years ago when I woke up in Alcalde Hospital in Guadalajara. And the staff named me Priest.

But fucking hell. Being here with an identity doesn't make me feel any better. If anything, I'm more unsettled than ever. The feeling doesn't have anything to do with the number of people milling beyond the stage. Doesn't have anything to do with the fact that I'm supposed to be on said stage in a few minutes, either.

It's this city, and the restless anxiety clawing at my soul. I've felt it since I stepped off the plane. Everything here is so goddamn familiar. Yet none of it makes any sense. It's like my instincts are screaming at me, but I don't know what the fuck they're trying to tell me.

Ishouldremember… but I just fucking don't. I walk around, see buildings, and get this sense of…déjà vu. My goddamn throat feels tight. My chest aches. But I don't rememberwhy. It's infuriating.

The only thing that's familiar is the fiery redhead who haunts my dreams. She's haunted me every damn day for six years, but since I came back here, it's constant. I can just be standing there, and I can almost hear her laugh. I feel her hands on my body, remember the searing heat of her mouth around my cock. But I don't know who she is, either. That pisses me off because my heart knows her even if my mind refuses to cooperate.

Is she waiting for me somewhere in this fucking city?

Does she wonder what happened to me?

I don't fucking know.

"You good man?" Memphis asks, his eyes narrowing on my face.

"Yeah. Fuck." I shove a hand through my hair, exhaling a breath. "Same shit as always."

"The girl again?"

I jerk my chin in a nod. I'm not sure why I told him about her. Guess I needed someone to know something real about me. She seems like the realest part of my life. Everything else, I built from the ashes of what was left. But she's the one thing left over from before. Her and the guitar.

I forgot my own damn name, but I didn't forget her face, and I didn't forget the music. Apparently, the motherfuckers couldn't take either of those from me.

Memphis clamps a hand down on my shoulder. "You'll find her, brother," he says, holding my gaze. "And the best way to make it happen is for you to keep getting up on that stage and blasting your ugly mug all over the city. If someone is looking for you, eventually, they'll recognize you."

I dragged myself onto every stage in Mexico, trying to accomplish that. Didn't work. When Winter offered me a spot in her band, I snatched the chance. She plays all over the world. Her band does music videos, interviews… I need in on that. I need my face everywhere. If my girl is out there, I need her to see me, to find me. Because I don't have the first goddamn idea how to find her.

I'm not even sure if she's real or just a figment of my imagination—something I made up because I needed something to cling to, something about my life that felt real. I desperately want to believe she's real but after six years…Christ, I'm afraid to hope at this point.

I just appreciate Winter for giving me the opportunity. She could have said no. Shit, in her shoes, I probably would have. Asking a motherfucker who doesn't know who he is, where he came from, or what he might have done to join her band? It's a big risk. But she took it.

I owe her. Big time.

I just hope like hell it pays off for all of us.

Fifteen minutes later, I step out onto the stage with my goddamn heart in my throat. I feel like I'm preparing to play for the first time. Only…I don't remember the first time I played.

I remember picking up an old, battered guitar in the hospital after they removed the bandages from my hands. Remember being shocked as hell when my fingers found the strings and seemed to know what to do. And I remember when the right chords just rolled from the instrument like I was born with a guitar in my hands.

---