by Shey Stahl
I attempt to stand, sending bottles of water to the ground, ready to knock this guy around when Deacon grabs me by my jacket. “Knock it off.” He waves his hand around, his focus on my dilated pupils.
The lyrics to our hit single come to mind, the constant digs I take at these assholes who claim to be my family. When my world was falling apart a few months back, they weren’t there for me.
Who are we foolin’
I’ll never be who they want me to be
There’s no blue anymore, only black
Have they ever had my back?
Though I question everyone’s loyalty, Deacon is our guitarist and probably the nicest one in the band. I’m usually the only one he cusses at, and that right there should tell you my likability among the rest of the band.
“Excuse him. He hit his head on a pipe backstage the other night, and we had to give him drugs to calm his wild ass down.” Clearing his throat, Deacon takes a drag of his cigarette. We’re all a bunch of misfits who refuse to follow the rules.
“Each one of us brings a different influence to the band,” Hardin, our bass guitarist adds. It’s probably a good thing I have Hardin and Deacon here to back me, or at the very least, keep it from escalating. “That’s why we work,” Hardin goes on to say, gesturing to the other two members of Revved. “Revel brings the melodic glam-rock writing style and prefers to be nude on stage, and Cruz shoves drum solos from hell down your throat.”
Nerves hit me. I’m usually never nervous, but in confined spaces, I get jittery. Like I’ve had too much caffeine. Or not enough coke to last me through this bullshit interview.
“And you, Hardin?” the DJ asks, avoiding my glares. “What do you bring?”
“Yeah, whatta ya bring to the show?” Cruz rouses, lifting a steel-toed boot up to knock Hardin’s knee sideways.
Hardin laughs, stuffing his cigarette against Cruz’s leather pants. “Clearly I’m the brains behind it all.”
“Ya fuck.” Cruz jumps up, brushing off the ash. “What the hell?”
Chaos breaks out between them and I nod to them. “Whatta think, Ted? Do we get along?”
“My name’s not Ted. It’s Tucker.”
I snort. “Same difference.”
Ted, sorry, Tucker, turns to Hardin who’s fending off Cruz and his lackluster attempt to get him in a headlock. If you’re ever in a fight, Cruz is the last person you want defending you. His fighting skills are that of a kitten. No really. He’s a pussy. His only defense is his height and maybe the fact that he’s covered in ink, and probably scares off any wayward fucks looking to size him up. “It’s been said by countless people you’re the Jimi Hendrix of the twenty-first century. Do you believe that?”
Hardin snorts. “Who said that? You?”
Apparently, I’m not the only one in a bad mood.
“What about you, Revel?” Tucker’s co-star turns to me. It’s at this moment I notice she’s a woman with a thick British accent. We could be in Britain. I really have no clue, but all this time I thought it was two dudes in here with us. Another example of my lack of attention to anything around me. “Your label was said to be demanding this time around when you guys released Content Explicit. They were looking for something more edgy than your previous albums. It hit number one the first week, but did you guys have any doubt seeing how the songs are darker than you usually produce?”
“Do I look like I had any doubt? We’re mad dark and spin shit better than anyone else in the business.” Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on the table and wink at her. “No. And I fucking bet you downloaded that shit the moment it dropped, didn’t ya, honey?”
Licking her lips seductively, the woman blushes at my response directed her way. I bet if I gave a nod to the nearest closet, this cunt would be on my cock in a matter of seconds. “Do you think that the public craves the unpredictable side of you they’re growing accustomed to?”
I avoid conversations that lead to anything about my past, my behavior, or what I’m thinking. Believe me, it’s for the better. You don’t want to know the bizarre shit going on in my head. It’s best to avoid it altogether. And what I crave? You don’t want to know either. “I don’t know what the public craves. Why do they want to know anything about me? Shouldn’t it be about the music?”
Cruz, our drummer, looks at me and shakes his head, as if to say, lay off. But I won’t. I never do. It’s not in my nature to lay off.
Tucker nods to me. “You guys have been said to be unpredictable and demanding in the studio.”
“You just fucking said that,” I snap, throwing my body back in the chair with a huff. “Ask something original.”
“Okay, fair enough. Revved released a single with Hensley Shaw last year. Can you tell us if there will be any more duets in the future, considering you guys are now officially said to be broken up?”
“What kind of bullshit is this?” Leaning forward, I grab the guy by the white polo shirt he’s wearing, choking him. “That’s an asshole question to ask.”
Raising his hands, he tries to wrap them around mine to loosen my grip on him. I don’t budge. “You’re just trying to scare me to avoid answering the question. It’s what you do, right? Avoid?”
I smile. Now let me tell you something about this joker. He’s got it all wrong. I’ve been in the business of jarring people since I was sixteen and joined a band. Just wait, I’m bound to piss you off sooner rather than later and jar the fuck out of you.
Want an example?
I’ll give you one. I take a good grip on Tucker and then give him a hard shove. He falls backward and against the wall behind him, equipment crashing to the floor. “Fuck you,” I tell him, kicking over a stack of CDs against the wall.
Tucker shakes his head. “I can already tell how the One Vibe tour is going to go with you on it.”
One Vibe? What the fuck is he talking about? I turn my head to look at Cruz, then Hardin and Deacon. They all give me the same look everyone else usually does. We didn’t tell you because we knew you’d freak the fuck out.
I search their eyes and demand, “What’s he talking about?”
They shrug.
That’s it. I’m over all the bullshit. And then I leave, because I can.
Liz catches me as I’m pushing my way out the door. “Can you go one day without assaulting people?”
My heart pounds in my chest. I think about counting the beats just to distract myself. “Apparently not.” I shake her hands off my jacket and pat my pockets almost manically for another cigarette. I light it, take a drag and then smile at her. “What’s One Vibe?”
“You’re going on tour,” she mumbles, shaking her head as she looks over my shoulder at the guys exiting the room and Tucker throwing meaningless threats that our shit will never be played on his station again. It’s crap. Our album is charted at number one. If they don’t play the music, people are gonna go where it is playing. Greed overrides pissed off.
And then I remember what Liz just said. A tour. I thought we just came off one. “What tour? Who’s on it and how long?”
“Seven bands, four months. You agreed to this already, Revel.”
I barely have enough energy to reply with, “I must have been high.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Do you even know what city you’re in?”
“Not a fucking clue.” I have a terrible memory. I’m not sure why—because I can’t remember—but I do know I have a bad one. It could be a product of my life when I was younger and didn’t want to remember, combined with my current lifestyle, and the substances that sometimes consume it, but I don’t usually recall the fine print of anything.
My smirk sparks Liz’s meanness. “I really wish you’d pay attention when we’re talking.”
I wink at her. “I sometimes pay attention.”
“Not very well.”
“Admit it, Liz-B, you live to remind me.”
“Not really,” she sneers. “I can think of better things to do with my time than taking care of
you four.”
Deacon pipes up with, “Don’t lump me with them. I’m responsible and have a baby on the way.”
Hardin laughs. “Yeah, probably more than one.”
The band shuffles around me, and Cruz leans into Liz’s shoulder. “When do we leave, Lizzy?”
Digging my phone out of my pocket, I check my email where our tour manager has, in fact, told me about this. I neglected to read any of the emails.
My life is a play I’m not part of. I’m sitting in the audience like everyone else, waiting for the next scene. This is what happens when no one has your back. This is what happens when you give your heart to one woman and she fucking rips that motherfucker out like it wasn’t yours to begin with. This is what happens when you follow your dream to make art, but it comes with a price. A price I never wanted to pay. A price that will always be too high.
Sure enough, I have an email telling me all about the tour. Scrolling through the list of bands, I find three I know I’ll have a problem with.
Hensley Shaw. Lying cheating whore can suck my fucking nuts.
Taylan Ash. Pop princess. You might think she’s the princess in this, but we’re all evil in someone’s story.
Breckin Thomas. His balls haven’t dropped and his singing confirms it.
Where do they find this kind of talent in pop music? Disneyland?
If there’s anyone in this industry I don’t get along with, it’s those names, and for good fucking reason if you ask me. It’s like they handpicked anyone I’ve had a relationship with, or a beef in the past few years, and decided to put me on tour with them. It’s a fucking disaster waiting to happen, but that’s probably what they’re hoping. Drama brings headlines, and in this business, headlines mean money.
“You’re doing this tour, Revel,” Liz commands, noticing the permanent frown plastered on my face since we left the hotel this morning. “Regardless of who is on it.”
“I can’t believe you think I’d be okay with this.” My jaw snaps closed, a rush of adrenaline hitting my stomach with a jolt.
Liz isn’t having it and comes back with, “This might be your band, but the decisions made are for everyone in it, not just about you.”
Fury settles into my bones, and I make my way outside the radio station.
Outside, frosty air assaults my lungs, and though I wish for relief, maybe freezing to death, I’m given nothing but a deep chill to my bones. My eyes water with the wind, a reminder the seasons have changed and the dark nights of winter aren’t too far behind.
I draw in a breath filled with smoke and exhale roughly into the air, as if it’s the aftermath of a life I’m struggling to elude.
Do you see that guy standing in the bitter cold huddled in his jacket? That’s me. Revel Slade, lead singer of the biggest rock band in the world, and he’s full of unrelenting anger. I don’t even think he knows why other than years of allowing someone else to control him.
THE PRINCESS OF POP
TAYLAN
Sometimes I hate my life. Before you say that’s a drastic statement to make, hear me out.
Listen, I know what you’re thinking. You look at my age, twenty-one to be exact, and you think, girl, whatever. You’re too young to know anything.
You look at my garage full of exotic cars and think, I take the bus, bitch. Stop talking to me.
You look at my mansion in Beverly Hills and you think, are you kidding me? I live with my parents and tell everyone they’re my roommates.
You look in my closet and you’re baffled. Believe me, I don’t get it either. It’s like I’m trapped in Britney Spears’s music video for “Lucky” and I can’t escape it.
I’ve been under public scrutiny since I was three years old. Three. From that moment on, thanks to my dad owning his own record label, Hollywood owned me and everything I did. If they didn’t, the record label and my dad dictated everything else.
I’ve grown to understand the more you have in life, the more likely you are to hate yourself because of it, or, at the very least, the implications that go with it.
Let me give you an example. I like to go to the park, and given my popularity, I can’t visit them unless it’s at odd times of the day. Three in the morning to be exact, but it was there that I met a lady who lived in the park. Her name was Irma, if I remember correctly. Anyway, she lived there, and though she had nothing but the clothes on her back and a blanket, I’ve never in my life met someone so completely satisfied with their life. She had a community of people with her as they sat around a fire and, against my assistant’s advice, I shed my pop princess persona and was just me as I joined them and found the real meaning behind friendship. I have yet to experience anything remotely close to the comfort of that circle of friends around the fire since.
Here I am, surrounded by hundreds of people every day, and can I call any of them true friends? Aside from my cousin Bella, who acts as my personal assistant now, but you get what I’m saying, don’t you?
It’s easy to hate your life, and yourself, when everything around you has a price. Money can’t buy happiness. It’s the truth. It can certainly make being unhappy more comfortable. At least it pays for the alcohol to numb the pain of being unhappy, so that could be a win-win.
What it doesn’t numb for me is the anxiety that comes with the constant feeling of being an outsider to my own life and career. I exist outside myself and the image created for me. In all honesty, I’m not sure anyone knows me at all. They know the icon of Taylan Ash. A brand created by Ash Music Group. They know what’s presented to them on stage. Ever since I was three, I’ve been forced to change my clothes, hair, face, and attitude to conform to “Hollywood standards” that nobody in the real world resembles in the least. I’m not perfect. Girl, I don’t even have perfect hair. It’s red, wild and obnoxious. I’m incredibly flawed, have a southern accent from the deep south of Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and I make a living trying to prove to you that I’m not. I fail. All the time. But to the world, I’m the princess of pop. Outside this world are the non-conformers. The rock stars of the industry. The guys who look down on the pop stars from the pedestals of their own notoriety. The bad boys of the music industry.
And in that corner, Revved.
The hottest band in the world. The band I’m set to go on tour with.
“I’m serious. You know you don’t have to do this,” Breckin says, bringing his lips to my temple. “What was your manager thinking?”
She was thinking of my career is what she was doing. I think.
I can’t help but think Breckin’s reasons are selfish. He’s on the tour himself, and he certainly doesn’t want me, his ex-girlfriend, around to see what his “tour life” consists of. I’m sure there are blonde hookers who squirt for him on demand. I know, super graphic and ridiculous of me to point out, but it’s a valid thought of mine. Or nightmare.
My chest feels like there’s a heavy weight on it and my throat, it’s like knives are being shoved down it and a cluster of spark plugs igniting from the acid rioting in my gut. The tightness, the pressure, I should be used to this feeling inside me, but I’m not. Every time it comes out of nowhere, and I’m stuck on my knees wondering what went wrong. How’d I end up like this? How’d I let all my fears come tumbling down on me all at once? That’s anxiety and it’s all I’ve ever known.
My mind races with thoughts I can’t control from ridiculous notions of: I’m not good enough. I’ll never be what the public wants. They’ll always see me as the freckle-faced saccharine-sweet redhead who stole their hearts.
Somewhere between Breckin rubbing my back and the essential oils I’ve been sniffing all afternoon, it hits me. I’m not any of that. I remind myself that I’ve worked my ass off and deserve every bit of success I’ve been given because, damn it, I’ve earned the right to be in this industry and it shouldn’t matter what a delinquent alcoholic has to say about it.
You know those stories about princesses? The ones where a prince rescues her?
W
hat if it’s the dragon who rescues her from the prince? Has that story been told?
Probably not because the dragon wouldn’t do something like that, but let me tell you about the dragon. His name is Revel Slade. Fear him. Never get too close because Revel Slade is so hot he commands the fires of hell, and he will burn you to cinders and enjoy watching the flames dance.
I know the dragon in this story, and he’s not the one sitting next to me. He’s the one haunting my every move in this industry.
So why am I going on tour with him?
I’m an idiot. That’s why.
Don’t overthink it. That’s exactly what I’m telling myself.
Breckin moves from beside me, sighing, his patience thinning. “What’s really bothering you? Breaking out of the industry standards or Slade and his constant bashing? Because I’ve told you before, don’t let that no-good piece of shit tell you how it is.”
He’s right to an extent. Revel Slade is trouble, but I’m also not in the mood to argue with Breckin. He’s one of those guys who always needs to be right.
I want to tell him all of it, but then again, I don’t think I want to admit my fears to him either. Breckin and I had been together since I was sixteen and though I do trust him for the most part, he lost a great deal of that trust when the touring lifestyle got the better of him and he cheated on me. I know how hard a long-distance relationship can be, and it didn’t surprise me when he had what he referred to as a “lapse in judgment,” but I’m also not that kind of girl who forgets. I may forgive, but I won’t ever forget.
My neck and face suddenly feel itchy and hot. Reaching for his hand, I smile up at him. “I’m just scared of it all. If this is really the right thing to do for my career.”
“Have you even thought this through? You don’t have to do it.” Though his words are sincere, they sink into my skin like poison. I knew it. He doesn’t believe I can do this.
In the distance, I hear the security alarm beep, signifying someone opened the door. It’s my dad with Bella, my cousin and personal assistant. Wheeling three suitcases behind her, she grins and swipes her hand across her forehead once she’s in the den where Breckin and I are.
