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Prologue
Bordeaux
Anhedonia (v.) the feeling of not caring anymore.
___________
We aren’t the trash your hotel room, snort coke off of toilets kind of rockstars.
Well, most of us aren’t. Miller and Flynn have their moments. But overall...? We’re a pretty fucking decent crew.
Maybe that’s where we’re missing the mark.
Maybe if we were more like those guys—the ones who don’t appreciate shit and get on stage blasted out of their minds every night—maybe our label would take us more seriously in some fucked-up, backward ass way. Because they sure as fuck don’t take us seriously as we are.
I strum the chords to the song our fans scream back at us. The song topping the rock charts, the song hundreds of thousands of people sing along to in their showers and while riding in their cars. I strum the chords and I fucking hate every second of it. I don’t feel it. There’s no connection to the words I sing or the chords I play.
“Sorry, but whoever wrote the words ‘I got an itch that can’t be scratched, serious like a heart attack’ needs to reevaluate their life,” Declan huffs out as she runs her fingers through her long dark hair, setting her bass down in defeat. The label and I might not be on the same page, but my band and I are—we always have been.
Miller sets his guitar down and looks between Declan, Flynn, and I. “Hellfire gets away with these shitty songs because we sell them. The fans love us. We could release the worst songs in the world, and we sure as fuck have a few of them,” he shakes his head, “but because they love us, they’ll love the song.” He lights a cigarette even though we’re in our label, Hellfire’s rehearsal office, waiting for our manager and team to come in. Miller’s probably the one out of all four of us who likes to push the limits the most. He’s got balls, and he isn’t afraid to fight dirty against their shit.
I let out a long exhale and relax my guitar against the beige, lifeless wall. The music they give us is less hard rock and more boyband pop. It’s shit we didn’t even write or play back in high school, let alone as fucking adults. Part of me wishes our fans would start talking shit about these lame ass lyrics, boycotting our music, doing something to show Hellfire that they need to listen to us, the band, and stop letting outside forces and shitty lyricists dictate our lives.
The four of us never imagined we would be playing terrible music for a bullshit label. But that’s exactly what we’re doing.
“You okay, B?” Flynn asks, looking in my direction. I can’t see his eyes because he’s wearing dark sunglasses despite the fact that we’re inside—despite the fact that it’s an overcast, rainy Chicago day. I should really be asking if he’s okay. He’s not the same guy he was before his dad died. His longtime girlfriend breaking up with him sure as hell didn’t help, either. My first thought is his eyes are probably bloodshot from an alcohol-filled bender. Flynn hasn’t had time to grieve—not with us working our asses off and never getting a break—and he’s chosen to push everything he’s gone through down with liquor and silence.
“Grandma Frankie needs me today. I don’t wanna be here waiting for Carleeta’s bitch ass,” I say, lowering my voice. “I fucking love you guys, but I’ll be so much happier when we’re out of here.”
One year. We’ve got one more year with Hellfire before we’re free of their grasp.
Declan leans forward on her stool, her eyes narrowing at me. “What’s up with Frankie?”
“She’s struggling at the record shop. The manager up and quit, and between the shop and the venue, I’m going to use our time off to try to help things get back on track there. It’s the least I can do after she’s done so much for me—for all of us.”
Grandma Frankie is the reason we’re all sitting here today. And while our label may have conned us into our contract with fake bullshit about giving us control and letting us have a say in our music and our lives, we’ve still rose to fame and we’re going to have these fans and this life long after we’re done with Hellfire.
Grandma looked after me when her daughter—my mom—ran out on my dad and me. She took me in after my father became a drunk who couldn’t keep his shit together—who still can’t. She opened up her music venue, Iconic, to the four of us, and ultimately, taking the chance on four young kids and letting us play in her space is what thrust us into this life. I owe her everything.
The door to our rehearsal space bursts open and my attention goes to the team filing in. Our manager Carleeta is first in line, with a coffee in one hand and a buzzing phone in the other. Her big, frizzy hair is so unruly, it makes me think that her hair is full of secrets—the line from that awful hit movie. My eyes land on her face. It looks like an asshole, a literal asshole—a butthole—lips in a permanent pucker.She lowers her glasses and peers out at us with her dark, beady eyes.
“I didn’t hear hardly a damn lick of practice. I was just down the hall. Pretty sure there was no song playing happening in here,” Carleeta says, her transplant southern drawl thick. She sits down at the long table as we get up from our spots and take our seats, though none of us reply to her shit. She looks around at us again as Miller takes a long puff from his cigarette, tipping his head back and blowing the smoke into the air. “Put that out, you Neanderthal. You can’t smoke in here.”
Miller doesn’t put it out. He doesn’t make a move period, aside from taking another drag from the cigarette.
“Does anyone have a tongue today?” Carleeta hisses, throwing her phone onto the tabletop.
“I’ve got a tongue, Carleeta.” Miller winks at her, kicking back in his chair and plopping his dirty boots up onto the disgustingly expensive lacquered tabletop. Dried dirt flakes off the leather soles, and I watch as Carleeta flinches, looking appalled.
We didn’t start off rebelling against our label. We just decided—after years of mental warfare—that we were done being their guinea pigs. We may have to do exactly what they say when they say it. We may have to play shitty songs that none of us feel connected to. We may never be given the time of day—they refuse to even look at the songs we write. But we’re done rolling over for them.
Carleeta stares down at her iPad, scrolling with one pointy lime-green nail. “There’s been a change of plans. We’re going to be starting your Midwest tour early, and I’ll be setting up some promo over the next couple of weeks.”
My blood immediately runs cold, anger bursting inside my chest at her words. Not happening this time. I’m so sick of this bitch and her lies, her games.
“No fucking way, Carleeta,” I tell her. “We haven’t had a goddamn day off in months. I’m taking the time to help my grandma. I’m not doing any of your press bullshit. The next time I’m working is when we leave for the tour. That’s non-negotiable.” I’m normally the one who gives Carleeta the least trouble. I try to be respectful, even though all she’s done in the years we’ve been with Hellfire is tear us down. This time, though, I’ve already told Grandma Frankie I’ll help her, and I refuse to let her down. She’s the one person I’ve always had in my life and there’s no way I’ll back out on her.
“Well, Bordeaux, you don’t get a choice,” Carleeta says, her voice shrill, sending a sharp chill down my spine. “You signed on the dotted line. You’re still mine for the next year.”
