Page 1 of Carte

Chapter One

Harley

Rockstar.

That was what they called me.

The word became my second name.

What’s your first thought when you hear that word?

I bet it’s something along the lines of a crowded corridor, full of barely clothed girls, swaying to the rhythm of a loud music. Roadies weaving in and out, going from one end of the space to the other, doing their work, dismantling the stage.

I guess the second thought that comes to mind is the river of alcohol that flows, and drugs that exchange hands freely.

Then there’s also the image of a man who sits on a beat-up couch, a king on his throne, with girls fawning around on every available surface.

What I bet you never thought about was that rockstar being a woman. A woman just turning thirty.

Wasn’t that interesting?

Or that corridor being almost empty, besides those hard-working roadies. That’s because I was smart enough, and grabbed control, of how my gigs are going to look, right off the bat.

Instead of alcohol, there’s tea, sometimes coffee. The only drug that would touch my hands is in the form of a cheeseburger and a piece of delicious cake.

Yeah, I bet you never thought of that.

Still, I was a rockstar.

I never thought I would go down that road in life. All I ever wanted was to tear the bonds that linked me to the people that called themselves my parents, but, in fact, never were.

Not in a practical sense anyway.

And, in some weird twist of fate, I ended up here. Right at this space that makes you think there’s a wild party waiting for me backstage, and all that shebang.

That’s because I wanted you to think that.

That is the version of myself I give to you. The persona.

The real me, came to say ‘hey’ only in my lyrics, and that’s it. The only people that got to see the real me were my friends, and I didn’t have many of those. That was by design, too.

As the last chord and beat of the drum flowed through my veins, and pulsed in my bones, I lifted my arms and let the roar of the crowd slam into me. Heat clung to me, plastering my outfit to my soaked skin, making it feel like torture, and not what it started as.

A tribute to the real-life icon and goddess of rock and roll. A woman who blazed the trail for the rest of us to follow. A diva that left us too early.

I had on a black top with three shiny buttons at the front, tight, glossy leather pants, and a light blue denim jacket that was slightly cropped. It fit snugly.

My chocolate brown hair was teased out within an inch of its life. It was my homage to the rock and roll queen, Tina Turner. A woman. A queen. A true rockstar.

“HAR-LEY! HAR-LEY! HAR-LEY!” The crowd chanted. They knew it was time to finish this.

I had a rule.

I had many rules, in fact, but only one when it came to my gigs.

I only played my songs. I didn’t feel worthy enough to be singing the words of the giants that defined this genre. I was just a little ol’ me. Noone special.

So, yeah, I only played my songs.