Page 2 of Shattered Chords

Reborn.

A cliché full of cautionary tales I felt the need to share with anyone who wished to go down the dangerous sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll path.

I knew that hungry look the girl had. I didn’t even need to see her eyes. The tell was in her posture and the clothes she wore. Ripped skinny jeans. Boots. Tattered leather jacket. Pounds and pounds of heavy jewelry. Black hair with purple streaks. I’d met thousands of teenage girls like her. Thousands of teenage girls either wanting to be the next big thing or fantasizing about sleeping with the current big thing. They were my core fan base, and they were everywhere I went. The U.S., Canada, Europe, Asia.

One thing about this tender age was that the line between admiration and obsession blurred. Sometimes, when I was on tour, they’d knock on my hotel door in the middle of the night, demanding a selfie or proclaiming their eternal love. They were strange creatures I didn’t know how to talk to—not anymore—because they weren’t old enough for the kind of language I spoke.

Teenagers were trouble.

I knew that. I’d been one once.

The girl standing in front of the display finally exhibited a sign of life. She pulled out her phone and snapped a photo of the guitar. I heard the keypad'sbleep-bleep-bleep. She texted someone, then dropped her hand to her side and returned her gaze to the instrument.

I wasn’t a Les Paul guy. Fender had owned my soul ever since I’d gotten my tiny hands on an old Strat my cousin and I dug up in my uncle’s attic when I was nine, but this particular guitar had been on my mind for a few weeks now. It was the strangest thing—suddenly wanting to try something else after years of commitment.

I blamed this odd craving on my bipolar brain cells that were screwed up during my cocaine-induced stroke.

If you looked death in the face long enough, she eventually staked her claim, just like she did the night I overdosed. Why she didn’t finish the job was the million-dollar question. A question that morphed into a number of theories, each crazier than the last, but in the end, the only answer that made sense was the obvious one—to allow me to undo all the shit I’d done to people during my twenty-five-year stint with coke. Or simply put, to make amends to everyone I’d hurt.

Problem was, the damn list was too fucking long. I’d also had a hard time compiling it. Some of those years—particularly during my twenties, when my health was at its peak and I could mix shit like a blender—were very hazy. Some people had come and some had gone, and many of them, I hadn’t known in the slightest.

I’d been too high to remember.

Still thrown off by the presence of the girl, I contemplated which course of action to take—stick to my original plan and try out the Les Paul again before making my final decision or leave and come back later. It wasn’t for fear of being recognized. I was an attention whore. I’d spent the last twenty years of my life in the spotlight and had enjoyed every second of it. The need to be heard and seen was like a goddamn fungus, only growing with time. People’s reactions—be they positive or negative—were my driving force.

At the counter, the phone rang and Lance deserted the game on his cell to answer it. “Bruno’s Rare Guitars. How can I help you?”

The girl still hadn’t moved.

I neared the display and said matter-of-factly, “She’s something, huh?”

In the background, Lance talked to the customer. His voice mixed with the grind of the hip-hop beat. Something told me the kid was taking advantage of being alone on his shift and instead of playing the rock’n’roll classics like any respectable vintage guitar shop would, he’d decided to spice up the atmosphere withBillboard’s Top 40.

I had nothing against hip-hop, but it didn’t necessarily sell rare guitars.

The girl, who was standing to my right, dragged her gaze over to me and stared.

I stared back.

Generous lines of black surrounded her eyes and a small stud pierced her left nostril. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen. It was the dangerous age of confused hormones and I already regretted my decision to stay.

“You’re Dante Martinez,” the girl finally said and stuffed her fists in her pockets.

It wasn’t a question.

Shit.Though the only other person in the shop was Lance, I brought my index finger to my lips and said, “Shhh.”

The corner of her mouth tilted up, but she remained quiet and stationary. We had an understanding. Good.

I thrust my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket to match her stance and gazed up at the guitar.

“Cheating on Fender?” the girl murmured as her eyes remained glued to the display.

“Just exploring other options,” I replied in a low voice.

We were silent for a long moment, both admiring the instrument. My fingers tortured the candy inside my pocket. I needed a smoke. Badly. The urge had never gone away, no matter how many times I’d tried to quit. My attempt to socialize with the kid was making me nervous. It’d never been a problem before, but the current version of me—the sober one—knew staying away from my starstruck teenage fans was the best thing to do.The right thing to do.

In a nutshell, I was an asshole.

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