Page 1 of Shattered Chords

Prologue

She was the longest love affair of my life.

My curse.

My muse.

My punishment.

And my salvation.

We met on a cool night in April of 1996 in Kit Miller’s basement in Sun Valley. She came to the party with Ronnie and shamelessly flirted with everyone, but I knew she had her heart set on me. I felt it. The connection was instant.

I was a lock and she was the matching key.

Together, we were a door to another dimension.

An unlikely partnership.

A secret relationship.

A twisted marriage that lasted for over two decades.

Until the night she decided she didn’t need me anymore.

Until the night she tried to kill me.

My one true love.

My Snow Angel.

1 Dante

I wasn’t certain what threw me off more when I walked into the shop—the hip-hop beat blasting from the speakers or the teenage Avril Lavigne wannabe eyeing the guitar I’d been interested in buying.

Why haven't you?the voice in my head asked.It's not like you don't have the money.

Exactly.

Money wasn’t an issue. I had enough. I was one rich motherfucker. As a matter of fact, there was about half a million worth of guitars in my house. I knew a thing or two about riffs and solos. I wrote them for a living. Or should I say “used to” since I hadn't written a single chord in over six months?

Lance, the kid behind the counter, who also happened to be the owner’s nephew, tore his gaze from his iPhone and gave me a nod.

He knew who I was.

He also knew to keep his distance.

Under different circumstances, I would’ve made a stink about not being waited on.

But not today.

The chime of the bell above my head died down as the door shut behind me. I expected the girl to at least glance my way, but she remained frozen. Hands in pockets, head tilted up. Gaze on the instrument behind the glass. I knew that pose and I knew that look. Once, that’d been me—a kid from the neighborhood with the highest crime rate in L.A. County, who’d truly wanted only one thing in life—to play guitar for a living. A kid who’d known no other way to cope with his ignorant, abusive parents, who’d spend hours in little shops like this, gawking at merchandise, dreaming of crowds, stages, and a never-ending supply of booze.

And here I was over two decades later. Forever etched into the archives of music history for all the iconic riffs and solos I’d written while riding the high of cocaine, acid, and other recreational drugs.

Famous.

Shattered.

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