after that. After all the years she was there and then having her gone, it was like losing a family member, a sister. It sucked. She wouldn’t even talk to me.
If anything, she should be the one apologizing. Instead, I was pounding a bottle of wine and going fucking nuts trying to figure out what the hell her problem was.
Fuck it.
I got up and went back inside. It was ten o’clock. I’d call Kurt and find out if he had an update from Joe. If he was trashing the songs Adrian and I already recorded. Might as well get all the shit out of the way in one night and go into tomorrow with a fresh slate ready to fight.
He answered on the second ring. “Get your retraction, hot head?”
I slumped down on the couch. “Not exactly, no. Talk to Joe?”
“Joe’s pissed. He’s tired of you thinking you call the shots when it’s his money on the line.”
A headache started pulsing behind my eyes. “Right. And Adrian? Does he give a rat’s ass what happens with this deal?”
“Has he ever? He’ll go back on tour with his boy band to millions of screaming pubescent girls and forget all about Derek Bast.”
Jesus. Those millions of girls used to scream for me. Now they were all married women with toddlers listening to Adrian while they lugged their kids to the park in minivans.
“What do I do, Kurt?” The feeling of walking on the edge of the end of my career fell over me again.
He yawned. “Come to my office in the morning and we’ll figure it out.”
We hung up and I let my phone fall to the floor. I poured the last of the wine into my glass, stared at the fire until it blurred and my mind went numb from the alcohol.
Not feeling was better. Maybe I’d stay drunk from now on. No wonder so many celebrities ended up in rehab. Seeking love from the public for your art was soul-sucking. Seeking acceptance from a woman scorned was even worse.
Sometime during my drunken haze, I fell asleep. I woke at four in the morning with a kink in my neck, a raging headache and red wine spilled on the carpet. After downing three Advil, I crept down the stairs to my home studio.
It was always fairly quiet in the hills, but down here it was silent. I picked up my guitar and sat on a stool. No song I knew felt right, so I strummed a few chords and started free-styling. It resulted in a slow, sad sound. One hollow, lonely riff after another.
I picked up the pace and shifted into a hard, metal sound. My chest clenched. This was the way to get pissed off and let it out. My fingers flew over the fret-board, letting out anguished cries of regret from my guitar.
I shouldn’t have broken up G.O. and gone solo.
I shouldn’t have teamed up with Adrian.
I shouldn’t have let Bess fucking leave.
A screech let loose from the depths of the sound hole and I threw the guitar across the room into the wall. It struck with enough force to break the neck.
Lowering my head into my hands, I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes. I had to break the contract with Joe and tell Kurt Unholy Union was done. Fuck it. Bess’s review wasn’t shit and I knew it, that’s why I was pissed. That was why I spent the day on the verge of career suicide. Leave it to her to be the one to shove the truth in my face and wake me the hell up.
I trudged back upstairs and took a scorching hot shower. When I got out, the sun was rising. It felt like a greeting—a greeting card—this is the first day of the rest of your life, Derek Bast. What the fuck are you going to do with it?
For the first time in a long time, I had options. I didn’t have to be who Kurt or Joe wanted me to be or succumb to their brain child, Unholy Union. I could remake Derek Bast.
At eight AM, I sat in Kurt’s office waiting for him to show. Lazy bastard was never at work on time. I finished two cups of coffee and read The Scene cover to cover. It was brilliant, No wonder Bess had become successful so fast. Every review was written with brutal honesty and respect. She never
If anything, she should be the one apologizing. Instead, I was pounding a bottle of wine and going fucking nuts trying to figure out what the hell her problem was.
Fuck it.
I got up and went back inside. It was ten o’clock. I’d call Kurt and find out if he had an update from Joe. If he was trashing the songs Adrian and I already recorded. Might as well get all the shit out of the way in one night and go into tomorrow with a fresh slate ready to fight.
He answered on the second ring. “Get your retraction, hot head?”
I slumped down on the couch. “Not exactly, no. Talk to Joe?”
“Joe’s pissed. He’s tired of you thinking you call the shots when it’s his money on the line.”
A headache started pulsing behind my eyes. “Right. And Adrian? Does he give a rat’s ass what happens with this deal?”
“Has he ever? He’ll go back on tour with his boy band to millions of screaming pubescent girls and forget all about Derek Bast.”
Jesus. Those millions of girls used to scream for me. Now they were all married women with toddlers listening to Adrian while they lugged their kids to the park in minivans.
“What do I do, Kurt?” The feeling of walking on the edge of the end of my career fell over me again.
He yawned. “Come to my office in the morning and we’ll figure it out.”
We hung up and I let my phone fall to the floor. I poured the last of the wine into my glass, stared at the fire until it blurred and my mind went numb from the alcohol.
Not feeling was better. Maybe I’d stay drunk from now on. No wonder so many celebrities ended up in rehab. Seeking love from the public for your art was soul-sucking. Seeking acceptance from a woman scorned was even worse.
Sometime during my drunken haze, I fell asleep. I woke at four in the morning with a kink in my neck, a raging headache and red wine spilled on the carpet. After downing three Advil, I crept down the stairs to my home studio.
It was always fairly quiet in the hills, but down here it was silent. I picked up my guitar and sat on a stool. No song I knew felt right, so I strummed a few chords and started free-styling. It resulted in a slow, sad sound. One hollow, lonely riff after another.
I picked up the pace and shifted into a hard, metal sound. My chest clenched. This was the way to get pissed off and let it out. My fingers flew over the fret-board, letting out anguished cries of regret from my guitar.
I shouldn’t have broken up G.O. and gone solo.
I shouldn’t have teamed up with Adrian.
I shouldn’t have let Bess fucking leave.
A screech let loose from the depths of the sound hole and I threw the guitar across the room into the wall. It struck with enough force to break the neck.
Lowering my head into my hands, I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes. I had to break the contract with Joe and tell Kurt Unholy Union was done. Fuck it. Bess’s review wasn’t shit and I knew it, that’s why I was pissed. That was why I spent the day on the verge of career suicide. Leave it to her to be the one to shove the truth in my face and wake me the hell up.
I trudged back upstairs and took a scorching hot shower. When I got out, the sun was rising. It felt like a greeting—a greeting card—this is the first day of the rest of your life, Derek Bast. What the fuck are you going to do with it?
For the first time in a long time, I had options. I didn’t have to be who Kurt or Joe wanted me to be or succumb to their brain child, Unholy Union. I could remake Derek Bast.
At eight AM, I sat in Kurt’s office waiting for him to show. Lazy bastard was never at work on time. I finished two cups of coffee and read The Scene cover to cover. It was brilliant, No wonder Bess had become successful so fast. Every review was written with brutal honesty and respect. She never
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