Page 3 of Heart Break Her

But why the fuck should I?

Just because they mellowed the fuck out with their partying, doesn’t mean I’ve fallen off some kind of wagon.

I worked for this shit harder than anyone. Made the sacrifices so they wouldn’t have to. I landed us the record deal. I spilled my life into our music. I sold my soul to the devil without hesitation. So I’m damn well going to drain this for every last ounce, no matter whose patience is running thin.

The band can shove their complaints up their asses. I’d like to see them try to get rid ofthe faceof Enemy Muse. Good luck selling an album without my scruffy-ass mug on it.

Rome slings his guitar over his shoulder, and Noah grabs his drumsticks. I look over to find all three of them eye fucking each other with thoughts they’re no doubt having about the fact that I’m swaying in my seat. Not that they’ll say anything.

“Wouldn’t want to stress him out.”

Adrian’s words.

He thought I was still outside finishing a joint, but I turned the corner in time to hear him lecturing them. Warning the band I was fucked out of my head, and they were potentially walking into a train wreck tonight but convincing them to do it anyway.

I know Adrian cares. He’s one of my best friends and has been with the band from the beginning. But even if he does give two shits about us, he gives ten shits about money. And money always wins.

“Wouldn’t want to stress him out.”

His words well up inside me. If stress was the extent of my problems, the last bottle of whiskey would have solved it.

Thankfully the band lets it go, settling in.

Rome takes the stool on my right and props a foot up on the lowest rung. He strums his guitar to no particular beat. I know this isn’t his scene either. He’d rather be throwing his body around the stage, lying in a puddle of sweat, making as much noise as possible.

He’s called The Riff King for a reason, and he owns it.

Everything about Rome is loud and without apology. From the ink that covers him from neck to knuckles, to his mouth constantly getting him into trouble.

If anyone thinks I’m bad with people, Rome is twenty times worse and doesn’t give a shit about it. After all, he’s a rock star, the ladies eat that shit up.

But unlike me, not afraid to speak my piece about this G-rated special we’re about to do, Rome won’t say anything. As long as the money and the tits continue to flow in, he’s happy. And both are overflowing.

Rome watches the fans as they finish taking their seats, doing his usual thing of eyeing the audience and charming the ladies with smiles before we even begin. No doubt deciding which ones he’ll have security seek out after the show to bring backstage to suck his dick.

I roll my eyes.

Noah taps the drums a couple times to get it out of his system. He won’t get much of a chance to show off tonight in this type of setting. Not that the women need to see him play for them to willingly offer themselves up later.

He stands up and strips his shirt off with a smirk, and I’m pretty sure I hear gasps filter from the seats.

Show off.

Not that I’m one to talk. But I reserve my abs for a better mood and a bigger stage.

The front row is the last to fill, only fifteen feet away. Cell phones are already coming out and recording our every move. There was a time when I used to see their eyes as we played, now it’s just cameras in front of faces.

I think I might be sick.

Not because of the beer, or whiskey, or pot.

It’s this stage. This close. No matter how many times I stand at the edge of a stadium stage and let my sweat rain down on my fans, it’s only in a small room that it feels this personal.

Too quiet.

Buzzing.

The weed hits me harder as the booze starts to wear off a bit, and my head is a clouded mess as I stare out at their blurry faces and the backs of their phone cases.

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