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Chapter One
Ami and her band, Haunted, stood center stage. The drummer flipped his drumsticks to the rabid fans, and the guitarist flung out some picks. With a final bow they were done—this was the final stop on the tour. When Ami turned to leave the stage, something flew up and hit her in the forehead, knocking her back in a daze. She shook her head to clear it and noticed a Frisbee on the floor by her feet. Kicking it, she staggered off the stage with a ringing headache and a desperate need for a drink.
The rest of the band pushed people aside so Ami could get into the backstage dressing room. She slammed the door and stumbled to the chair. Sitting in the cramped space Ami caught her breath feeling a trickle of blood falling from her brow to her lip.
Haunted was at the top of the charts. Being the lead singer in a rock band, especially a female lead singer, meant the paparazzi parked outside your home and everywhere you went. That meant nonstop rumors, continuous nasty things said if she went out with a man. Any first date was followed with questions about her getting married or having a baby if she gained any weight. If she ate her favorite dish of jelly and sardines it was seen as her being hypnotized by alien beings.
Hell, she couldn't even buy a vibrator to scratch her little itch.
The two-hour gig complete with two encores was draining, but she still did her best for the crowds and her fans that had been there from the start. This final show was being filmed for a live CD and DVD to be released later in the year called Haunted Alive.
For one brief moment she was at peace. No screaming, no crowds—nothing but her and the quiet.
Bang, bang, bang.
There goes her momentary sanctuary.
"Come on, Ami, we've got a radio spot to get to after the show. Hurry the fuck up in there!” Her manager banged again and yelled through the door, “Come on, baby, we have places to go, things to do.” The dressing room door swung open and like a gust of wind in walked a well-dressed extremely hyped-up man.
"Martin, not now."
As the band's manager, Martin took pride and credit for much of the success. He also made it his personal goal to make Ami the center of attention. This included making sure she was always in the news, good or bad, at any cost. “Ami, we talked about this. You have commercials to do and the photo spread in that men's magazine."
"I told you, I'm not posing nude for some dumb publicity stunt."
"Don't worry. Just show a little skin. Look, this is a done deal. You sing. I'll do the rest. Did you look over those other songs I sent?"
Ami took a drink from her glass and squinted. Her headache was getting worse. “Yeah, those aren't for us, Martin. We write all our own songs. You know how the guys and I work, we've been writing together for eight years. We will cover a few tunes every now and then, but—"
"You people work too slow. Just listen to them again. I'll tell the guys what to record. I know music. This is no time to be a diva, Ami. This is the time to strike. Just do what I say, and I'll make you rich. Now quit fucking around. We have things to do, people to see. Oh shit, there's a cut on your forehead. Put some cover-up on it and clean yourself up."
Fuck you. I already am rich, asshole.
With a loud slam the door closed, and Ami flinched from the noise and fell back into her chair.
"Son of a bitch, I'm bleeding.” She wiped her forehead, smearing the blood. She stared into the mirror she used to put her makeup on before the show. It revealed more than just her reflection.
Dark eyes, heavy from lack of sleep and restless nights, looked back at her. Her hair was a matted array of extensions and hairspray. Her skin was pale and marked with the fake body art that fit the image everyone expected. She twisted the top off the whiskey bottle on her dressing room vanity and it ricocheted across the floor. Without thinking, she took a long gulping drink from the fifth of alcohol then wiped the remaining drops from her lips, smearing her red lipstick across her cheek. Her twenty-eight-year-old rock and roll life was a fucking movie-of-the-week mess.
; All the pressure, all the commitments others made of her time—it was all building up to the breaking point. The music fans were her lifeline and she loved the guys in the band, but they all had lives of their own. Being the front person meant she had to carry the weight. A young woman in the spotlight had different pressures.
Ami had to get away. She looked into the mirror again, seeing black mascara running down from the corners of her eyes like blood. She was twenty-eight and emotionally felt like she was fifty-nine. The essence of her existence had become blurred by greed, other people's illusions and lost dreams. She didn't like who she saw anymore.
She was completely exhausted, both mentally and physically. Another long drink followed and some of the whiskey dripped from the corners of her mouth. Her head weary, her body numb, she took in a deep breath and slumped into her chair. She was becoming what she swore to herself she wouldn't—a drunk musician.
It was time to change her life.
Stumbling out of the small dressing room, she looked around, seeing people scattering in different directions like roaches. She reached back inside, grabbed her black purse, then headed in the opposite direction.
Ami saw shadows in the hallway coming toward her. In no mood to chat, she saw a door and opened it to hide inside, grateful for the quiet.
She leaned against the door to listen for the people to pass. Closing her eyes she calmed down and the alcohol soothed her throbbing headache.
"Oh yeah, baby, oh yes.” A man's voice echoed behind her.
A light gasp and moan whispered through the air.
"Oh shit, oh shit, your ass is so..."
The voice trailed off, and Ami turned around to see a bleach blonde mop of hair dangling over a large speaker and the sweating face of one of her roadies in sexual bliss.
She banged her elbow against the door and the girl looked.
"Oh ... my ... God...” the girl yelled. Her speech was broken because the roadie kept screwing her as she spoke.
"You're ... Ami ... can I ... get an ... auto ... graph?"
Ami wasn't sure if she should laugh or scream. Here was a young woman being fucked and all she could think about was an autograph.
