July 19th, Mocha Lisa's CafféShattered Melody Release Party in Clifton Park, NY. 11 a.m. to 1 p.m.
Shattered Melody: A Rockstar Romance
Chapter One
Detox and Chill
Warren
Clay talks enough for both of us. Too bad it’s mostly outta his ass.”
~Warren Ramsey
“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” The Shangri-La of rehab facilities came into view as I pulled my custom Harley Dyna into a small parking spot. It was swank as fuck with fountains, valet service, and a private, locked entrance. It may as well have been a resort, not a medical facility. Only Clay would OD and then go to a spa. Fuckin’ priss.
I dipped my chin at a woman standing by the passenger door of a silver Mercedes two spaces over. A frown creased her face as she spoke to the driver, who gave me a judgmental once-over. They gave off rich mommy and daddy vibes, probably coming to see their kid.
Motorcycle. Tattoos. Rehab. In their minds, I was signing myself in for treatment. They wouldn’t believe it from looking at me, but I’d never done an illicit drug in my life.
I calmed myself with a deep breath, still anxious about the visit. The rehab was in Malibu, and the ride had been cleansing, bringing a lot into focus. The motorcycle did that for me. Wind therapy always helped me feel grounded.
Putting my feet on the ground, I pulled out the kickstand, took off my helmet, and strapped it to the back of the bike, mentally preparing myself for the meeting with my best friend. I didn’t want to stress him out, but he needed to know what was going on. It wasn’t fair to leave him in the dark because of my fears. Would it be too much for him? Would it make him relapse? I could only hope he’d be able to manage his feelings. He was in the best place right now, not having access to drugs or alcohol.
As I approached the facility’s sliding doors, I recognized a kid from my record label, Velocity. He would run around, ensuring we had everything we needed in the studio. I thought his name might be Jace.
Shit. Was he checking in?
“Hey,” I said as I approached him, tilting my chin up, acknowledging him.
He blew out a plume of smoke, the cigarette shaking in his hand. I could see when he recognized me, as he took a double-take. His eyes were hollow—reminding me of the other kids I used to see in foster care—kids who saw shit no child should see.
“War. Man, hey.” He returned my gaze, tossing his cigarette to the ground. “Bet you can guess why I’m here.”
I nodded, being careful to keep my face clear of judgment. The kid had fallen prey to the meat grinder that was the music industry. And that’s what it was. An industry. Gone were the days when it was about the art. It’s why so many of us sought the ultimate release with drugs or suicide—it took the artistic expression of our emotions and turned it into a product.
Reaching into my leather jacket, I got out one of my custom guitar picks. I had them designed in the resin I preferred when I played, adding the image of a dove encased in the transparent material, as if in midflight. I’d had them created to fit my large fingers and always had a few on hand.
Pressing it into Jace’s palm, I closed his fingers around it.
“Stay strong,” I said. “Don’t let it win.” My words were slow and steady to temper the stutter that plagued me.
“Thanks, man.” Jace glanced at the pick, his mouth curling at the corners, and tucked it into his pocket. He knew the significance of the gift—I only gave them to people who meant something to me. I figured this kid needed to matter to someone. That’s how it felt for me before I found my foster family.
I saw the shame on his face. It was the same thing I’d seen when Clay woke up after his OD. He was lucky Clay was here; he’d look after him.
When I turned, Jace touched my arm, stopping me. “Heads up, bro. St. John is in there. He’s the one who brought me, but I think he’s trying to get in to see Clay.”
The fuck he would. I stormed toward the sliding doors. When I stepped through, I stopped.
Deacon St. John—asshole extraordinaire—was standing at the reception desk. What the fuck was he doing here? No way in hell was he getting in to see Clay. He’d made the last several years of my life hell. In the time Warpath had been with Velocity, St. John had stuck his nasty nose into our business dealings at every turn. He acted like he had something to prove, jerking us around, playing the big man.
“What the fuck?” I stormed over and got right up into his face.
At five feet tall, the man was the epitome of sleaze, his thinning black hair plastered across his head, each strand catching the light as if fighting to remain in place against the storm of chaos surrounding him, complemented by mutton chops that’d make Wolverine envious. He pulled the lapels of his cheap polyester sport jacket together and straightened his pinkie ring. He thought he was a manly metrosexual but resembled a child pretending to be an adult.
Unfortunately, he wielded control over Warpath’s presence at Velocity Records. One word from him and we were shit-outta-luck.
“Now, Warren, don’t be like that.” I resented the patronizing way he spoke to me, as if I were a toddler, his Southern accent only exacerbating it.
“Get out,” I spewed between clenched teeth.
“Not until I talk to Clay.” He slipped his hands into his pants and rocked back on his heels.
“No.” I didn’t trust myself to say more. Not without stuttering like a child. My chest rose rapidly, my breaths short.
“Listen here, boy,” St. John growled, stepping closer, his cheap cologne making my nose burn. “Velocity has a vested interest in your man getting out in time to record your next album. Remember, you have a contract. We both know that work has to start next month for ya’ll to be done in time.” He shoved a fat finger in my face, his gold pinkie ring glinting in my eye. “He’s your lead singer. How the hell you expect to get it done without him? Of course, lucky for you, I’ve got two replacement singers waiting in the wings, ready to step in at the snap of my fingers.”
I bunched my lips and took a deep breath, and my eyes flashed with cold fury. St. John smirked at my rage, knowing there was nothing I could do.
“Now, being the gentleman that I am, I’m going to let you and the other kids choose which one you prefer.” He grinned, getting off on my powerlessness. He had my ass over a barrel, and he knew it. “The best thing for Warpath is for Clay to retire. Avoid the red tape, War.”
“Get. Out,” I snarled.
“Of course, young man. Of course. Now, be a good boy and let me know what Clay’s decision is. Ya hear?” The man walked by, slamming his shoulder into my side as if he needed just one more show of dominance. I was over a foot and a half taller than the shithead, but he insisted on flaunting his position.
Teeth gritted and fists clenched, I closed my eyes and let out a slow, hot breath from my nose, reminding myself I couldn’t hit him … again. Last time, I lost my job for a whole twenty-four hours. Thank God for the radio. Hitting a number one song on the charts and booking a benefit concert last minute. Velocity had no time to replace me. I was the engine behind Warpath. They’d needed me and that’d saved my ass.
The board had saved my ass, but my actions had wide repercussions. Since then, St. John had been straight out gunning for us, taking advantage of every twist and turn in our contract to torture me and the band. To him, we had no clout—it was personal.
I stood in front of the reception desk for what felt like an hour, processing my position. How was I going to get us out of this pickle? And could I do it in time?
“Mr. Ramsey? You’re here to visit Mr. Melton?” The young lady behind the reception desk spoke in a quiet voice. She couldn’t have been over twenty-five, with a look of youth that I’d long left behind. She didn’t look me in the eye. Did I make her nervous because she was a Warpath fan? I didn’t get recognized as often as the others.
Truthfully, it could be how I looked. Apparently, I come off as intimidating. It didn’t help that I rarely spoke.
“Yeah,” I choked out, sticking to one-word answers. The woman didn’t seem like she was about to puke on my feet or overreact. Or maybe she preferred country music.
“Follow me. I’ll take you to the visiting room.” She walked in front of me, leading me down the hall.
I followed the receptionist through the bowels of the rehab facility. It wasn’t Promises in Malibu of Britney Spears 2007 fame, but it was pretty ritzy. They specialized in a mixed recovery model, perfecting the art of the NDA and protecting their clients from public scrutiny.
The young woman turned and smiled. It wasn’t flirty or overly friendly. It was easy for me not to flirt, opting for silence in ninety percent of social situations; it helped not to encourage women.
The last ten years hadn’t been a sexual drought for me, but I’d had little interest in women outside the kink space I frequented—the Dungeon Club. Eight years ago, I discovered this lifestyle, and I’ve never regretted it.
It was a fellow industry professional who introduced me. She was a dominatrix who saw something alike in me and brought me to the BDSM club, helping me make sense of my predilections. She’s a close friend still today, regardless of our lack of romantic involvement, and her reputation as a major bitch.
I snorted.
I had a soft spot for bitchy women.
The no-name receptionist I’d been following raised one brow at the sound. I shook my head, and she kept moving.
“Here we are.” She waved me into a large room with tables in the middle and white couches lining the outer walls. People sat visiting. A few played checkers and chess at tables. Some were doing puzzles, while others watched a quiet TV on the far wall.
“Yo, War!” Clay stood from a table at the far end of the room and rushed me, giving me a giant hug, slapping his hands on my back in greeting, as we always did.
“You look good,” I said, immediately comfortable. “How are you? Tell me everything.”
“I feel good,” Clay said, running his hands through his short brown hair. After a month in the place, he looked much healthier and had a positive aura. He looked like my old buddy without all the fancy clothes and styling products. He’d gotten a haircut and a tan, giving his skin a healthy glow. Good food, rest, vitamins, and no toxic chemicals do a body good. “They have some bags here, and a few of the guys like to spar. It’s good to hit something again.”
Clay had gotten serious about boxing when we moved to LA, dragging me with him. Watching our foster father beat the shit out of our family was motivating.
“Sobriety looks good on you.”
“My counselor says another month and a half, and I should be solid. I’m good with that. We’ve been go, go, go for so long, man ….”
“Yeah. Velocity don’t give a fuck.”
We’d signed with Velocity after getting kicked out of Clarke Records ten years ago. At the time, the label was opening its doors and signed us right away. Since then, they’d become a prominent label in LA. Mostly because of Warpath—because of us. Sometimes I thought they should take that into account. But this was the music business, and we weren’t people, we were a product.
“Truth.”
I hated bringing up St. John. Part of me wanted to hide this from Clay until he had more time off the sauce. But the other part knew he was in a safe place to work through his feelings about the whole shit-show.
“St. John was here when I came in.”
“The fuck? Can’t that dude give us a break? Ten years we’ve been their bitches, and they can’t let a man get sober?”
I leaned back in the chair, hating the frustration on Clay’s face. “He was bringing Jace in. I saw the kid outside smoking.”
“No shit? Good for him.” Clay avoided my gaze, staring at the wall. “He used to get me my stuff.”
“I put two and two together when I saw him. He’s real shook up. Keep an eye out for him?” I asked, knowing I didn’t really have to.
“Of course.” He nodded.
“Feels sus, St. John bringing him on your first eligible day for visitation.”
“He knew you’d be coming, too. What the hell?” he said, his head tilting back. “Like he couldn’t just ask you to come into the label for a conversation?”
“I’ve been avoiding him.”
Clay snorted. “So unlike you,” he said, his voice riddled with sarcasm.
“You and I need to talk.” I rested my forearms on the table, leaning forward. “First, please understand—I’ve got this. Okay? You just need to focus on getting better.”
“Fuckin’ tell me, War!” Annoyed, Clay rolled his eyes and let out an angry breath. He knew me well enough to know I was putting something off.
“St. John’s making moves to replace you. He wants to break up the band, bro.”
“Fuck him.” Clay shot out of his chair like a bullet, his eyes flaring with outrage. “I’m getting clean, and we’re keeping Warpath alive—together, like always.”
“Listen here, boy,” St. John growled, stepping closer, his cheap cologne making my nose burn. “Velocity has a vested interest in your man getting out in time to record your next album. Remember, you have a contract. We both know that work has to start next month for ya’ll to be done in time.” He shoved a fat finger in my face, his gold pinkie ring glinting in my eye. “He’s your lead singer. How the hell you expect to get it done without him? Of course, lucky for you, I’ve got two replacement singers waiting in the wings, ready to step in at the snap of my fingers.”
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