Page 64 of A Tragic Melody

When our set is over, I bow and the crowd cheers. Waving as I skip off stage, I can’t help the smile on my face. The drugs are barely in my system now. I’m more high on the rush of the stage. It’s been awhile since it felt that good.

I let myself glance around backstage, hoping Hendricks doesn’t show up this time. I want to enjoy this feeling, not have him ruin it.

Wyatt wipes sweat off his forehead as I lean against the wall, basking in the feeling.

“That was great, wasn’t it?” I ask as he glances over his guitars.

“Yeah.” He nods in agreement.

“I think we played that song better than they ever could. Did you write the lyrics, too, or just the music?”

“I wrote the whole thing,” he confirms, turning to glance at me. “Is there a reason you picked that one?”

“It’s the sexiest song you wrote.” I shrug. “I like singing sexy songs.”

“I bet you do.” He chuckles. “Thanks for that. It felt really good to play that song with you.”

“You’re welcome.” I grin. “Your debt is adding up, you know?”

“Yeah? Well, you let me know when it’s time to pay up.” He flashes me a smile. “I’m going to go get my stuff. See you on the bus?”

“Yeah.” I nod.

Something about being nice to Wyatt is starting to feel good. It shouldn’t. The war may be on hold right now, as neither one of us can strike without taking the other out, but eventually the fighting will start back up. When it does, I can’t be feeling this way. I can’t be seeing him as a beacon of light in the dark, but man, when he smiles at me, I swear it’s like looking up at the moon.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The last few shows have been going by rather smoothly. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Tuesday to make her next move, but it hasn’t happened yet.

On the bus, she hasn’t been doing drugs in front of me as much. I know she is still using, but for whatever reason, she isn’t letting me see it.

The last four shows have been some of the best I’ve ever played. Each night, she adds one of my own songs to the mix. It’s upsetting my old band, but they can’t say anything. The crowd’s reaction to Black Cat has gone stale, and now they just have to try staying under the radar until they can figure out their next move.

Lenny can’t execute my songs as well, either. While I may have played down for Black Cat, my parts were still complex. He is finding it quite hard to pull off.

In fact, one night he stopped me in the bathroom to ask for tips. I could tell it killed him to do so, but desperation had him begging for my help. I didn’t give him any, but still, it felt good to have him acknowledge he couldn’t do it.

Just like it feels good to have Tuesday singing my songs. Playing on stage with her is a little addicting. Each night we share the stage is better than the last. We experiment with the sound during sound check, tweaking things until we get the right sound.

It’s not lost on me how much I’m starting to enjoy playing with her. If she keeps listening to my input like she has been, I might not mind if I’m stuck being her guitarist for the rest of my life.

When we finish sound check, she strolls off to use the restroom while I head to the dressing room to change my shirt.

I’ve pulled off both of my shirts, stretching the stiffness out of my arms. My fingers ache from the amount of playing I’ve been doing, both on and off stage.

I find myself playing around with ideas for new music recently. Songs that would fit Tuesday’s voice perfectly. I’m not sure how much input she would allow me on an album, but if I get the chance, I want to have great things to show her.

I glance at myself in the mirror for a moment. I’m still pretty skinny, but some of the weight I lost during my drug use has returned. I have some meat on my bones again, not a lot, but I was always on the skinnier side.

I have some stubble on my face that I should shave off soon. I eye the small little scar on my forearm. I remember when I woke up after my blackout, or overdose, and there were stitches where my elbow bent. It was a horrible feeling.

The theory was I fell with a needle in my arm and it tore up my arm, causing me to nearly bleed out.

“Why don’t you have any tattoos?”

Her voice makes my head jerk up. I glance in the mirror to find her standing there with the door shut behind her, looking at me. I was too lost in my memories to hear her come in.

I grab another long-sleeve shirt, this one black-and-white striped, and tug it on.