Bad Seed

by Rye Hart

  Stone was wailing away on the guitar, causing a rowdy cheer to percolate through the crowd. I took a running start and threw myself out into the throngs of women holding out their hands. I knew they would catch me. They always did. Even as the room spun with my alcohol-induced stupor, I could feel their hands passing me along.

  My body surfed above their heads as Stone passed the musical interlude to Landon. He pounded on his drums, filling the stadium with beats that blurred together as my beer settled in my stomach. I felt hands all over me, running down my legs, wrapping around my chest. The alcohol dulled so much of the concerts nowadays that I didn’t give a shit what they touched.

  They fed me back to the stage as the countdown back into the song began. Eight measures of music and I would be back to singing away. I climbed up onto one of the massive black speakers and looked out among the sea of painted faces.

  I pointed down to a blond. One of the bouncers brought her up on stage as I started singing again, her hips were twisting around. I started up the chorus of my latest hit song as women continued to scream for me.

  I downed yet another bottle of beer while dancing with the girl. She was hot, and she’d be a perfect distraction, just like all the other girls.

  Security began pulling the girl from the stage, but she looked determined to get back to me, somehow. The crowd was going wild, and I could see the nervous faces on the security team hired to keep the peace. The band wound down our concert as women cried at our feet, begging for an encore, and throwing their bras on stage. Lacy bras, red bras, sports bras, and polka-dotted bras. You name it.

  We wound down the show and were whisked away to the bus. Security got us out of signing autographs so they could calm down the crowd, but not before Stone had worked his magic. We all piled onto the bus, sweating and panting from a night of awesome music. Security was trying to figure out where Stone was, and they all scattered to go find him.

  Then that was when he appeared-- with many groupies at his side -one of which was the thin blond woman from the stage earlier.

  The party continued on the bus as we pulled away. Our driver closed the partition, separating himself from whatever debauchery was about to occur. I sat on one of the couches and kept mostly to myself. Landon placed a bottle into my hand, and I tossed it back, guzzling down the brown drink that burned on its way to my stomach. From there, I had another. Maybe even a few more shots, I'm not entirely sure. I didn't want to participate in the partying so much as I wanted to numb the pain.

  Then from there, things went hazy.

  I remembered naked girls and their dancing. I remembered someone sliding their hands down my chest. I remembered the thumping of music and my cock being pulled from my pants, but then it all went blank.

  I woke up the next morning to the stale smell of alcohol and debauchery. The smell of sex permeated the bus as rays of sunlight streamed through the curtained windows. My head was pounding, and my bed felt cramped. I raked my hands through my hair, peeling my eyes open to try and figure out where the fuck I was.

  The first thing my eyes landed on was the naked girl next to me.

  I studied her as I tried to get my bearings. I pulled up the covers from my naked stomach, trying to remember that the hell happened last night. I still had my jeans and boots on, but the woman lying next to me was completely naked.

  As the woman slept in my bed, I slid from the mattress. Stumbling into the kitchen, I shielded my eyes from the glaring sun. I found an open bottle of beer on the counter and picked it up, chugging back the flat taste as I woke myself up. I leaned against the counter as I sighed, my eyes closed as I tried to relieve the headache forming at my temples.

  But the sharp bang of the bus door opening didn’t help and caused Stone and Landon to roll out of their beds.

  “I’ve fucking had it with you,” Hank said.

  “Could you be any louder?” I asked.

  “The fuck’s going on?” Stone asked.

  “Shit. That’s Hank,” Landon said.

  “Yes. It’s Hank, you assholes,” I said.

  “I’m done with the antics. Where is she? Hank asked.

  “Sorry, y’all,” the woman said, as she slipped past us. “Just gotta find my pants.”

  “Her pants—she’s gotta find her fucking pants,” Hank said.

  She covered up with her pathetic excuse for a pair of pants. They fit her snugly, tucked up underneath each ass cheek. Those jeans left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and Stone grinned as I brought the stale, warm beer back to my lips.

  But Hank snatched the bottle from me as the girl scampered off the bus.

  “Enough is enough,” Hank said. “I’ve helped you climb to the top of your fame, and this shit’s gonna ruin it all.”

  “Relax Hank. The boys wanted to through a little party after the show,” I said.

  “A little party. Do you even fucking remember last night?” Hank asked.

  “Not necessarily,” I said. That’s how I preferred it. To forget everything.

  Stone and Landon snickered as I tried to keep my grin at bay.

  “I’m fed up with this shit. You fuck the wrong woman and she goes to the media with all this shit, and you’re done. Bang, just like that, your fame is over. Your dedicated fan base will see you as nothing but an alcoholic womanizer.”

  “Watch it. I’m not a fucking alcoholic,” I said.

  “You drink like a fish on stage, Drake! Of course, you’re an alcoholic. I know you’ve been through a lot in your life but you can’t just go about acting like your actions won’t have any consequences. You haven’t gone one performance without beer in your stomach.”

  “That’s part of my persona, Hank! They expect me to come on stage shit faced. It’s part of my shtick.”

  “Is part of your shtick bringing groupies onto the bus, having them dance around naked, then drinking yourself stupid until you can’t remember whether or not you fucked one of them or all of them?” he asked.

  “I didn’t fuck that girl.” I honestly wasn't sure, but I'd hoped I was right.

  Stone and Landon fell apart in laughter as I stumbled over to the couch.

  “This has gone on long enough. If you don’t turn this shit around, I’m gonna hire someone to help you do it,” Hank said.

  “Thanks, Mom. I’ll take the information to heart,” I said.

  “It’s not information for you to take to heart, asshole. It’s what’s going to happen if you don’t fucking shape up, Drake. In fact, I’m tempted to go ahead and take care of this shit right now.”

  “And just what the hell are you gonna do? Hire someone to babysit me and count my beers?”

  “No. But I am gonna hire you a public relations representative. Or a private assistant. Someone to help your fucking ass with this drinking of yours. Your drinking and your antics are gonna get you into trouble, and you’re gonna need someone like them to help when shit hits the fan.”

  “Your knickers are really in a knot this morning, aren’t they?” I asked.

  “I’m fucking done with you,” Hank said.

  “Hey, hey, hey. Don’t walk away from me. You’re employed by me, remember?” I asked.

  “No, better check your damn contract, buddy. I manage you. There’s a difference. And if I feel you need a fucking P.R. representative or an assistant or a fucking rehab for that matter, you’ll damn well do it! Otherwise, the concerts come with me, and I toss your ass out on the street. Got it?”

  I clenched my fists as Hank left the bus. Who the fuck did he think he was? I was Drake fucking Blackthorn. He couldn’t get rid of me. I was half his damn paycheck every fucking month! He didn’t manage anyone else like me. He didn’t have some roster of fucking famous singers he could fall back on. I was the biggest name he had.

  He needed me. Not the other fucking way around.

  Long ago, I didn’t need a manager to tell me how to live my life. I was happy without a stadium full of fans. I performed in front of a crowd because it
was my passion and it brought me to life.

  Now, I barely even recognized that man. I was a fucking actor. I was in so deep in this fictitious character I’d created for myself, so I could avoid the reality of my fucking life. The reality that had I just driven them with me that night, Shannon and Ava would still be with me now.

  That man was gone.

  Now. I was just fine being an empty fucking vessel.

  Fuck Hank.

  Fuck the world.

  CHAPTER 2

  Delia

  My phone alarm rang at exactly ten in the morning. I cracked my knuckles and pushed back from my desk, grabbing the yoga mat stored by my feet. I rolled it out in my little cubicle and started to stretch out my limbs, ready for my five-minute break. Working at a desk all day was murder on my back, so I had to make sure I kept moving. I stretched my hands down to my toes and flattened my palms onto my mat, then walked them forward. I groaned as my lower back stretched.

  Working through college was tough, but I was getting by. I refused to go into debt with my schooling, so any debt I accrued was quickly paid off within weeks of taking out the loan. I was splitting my time between classes and being a personal assistant. I sat at my desk, helping people who bought my time to coordinate their schedules and make it to their meetings on time.

  It was a decent job and one that paid well. Depending on the package someone bought, they got a certain amount of my time during the week. Sometimes, people wanted counseling, someone to talk to and use as a soundboard, sharing their frequently terrible ideas before I changed everything. Sometimes people wanted me to tap into their schedules remotely and help them with their time management skills. Every once in a while, people purchased more expensive packages that required face-to-face time, but luckily, I hadn’t built a reputation for any of that.

  Instead, I was known for being able to whip people’s mindsets and schedules into shape—without ever actually having to meet them in person.

  It suited me well, especially considering the degree I was obtaining. I was attending Vanderbilt University to study psychology, with a focus on helping those dealing with substance abuse. Part of helping people with those types of issues was finding the triggers throughout their day that spiraled them, which meant going through their schedule and analyzing every detail.

  Doing that as a remote private assistant gave me the practice and experience I needed while paying me a decent paycheck as well.

  I stretched back up to the sky, reaching as high as I could. I could feel my back popping, a sign that I wasn’t taking enough breaks. I stood on my toes before I slowly bent backward, working my way into my favorite position. It always helped to lighten the load on my lower back and rush the blood to my head. The light-headed sensation gave me a chance to breathe deeply and take a pause, which helped oxygenate my blood faster.

  As I was bending backwards, I caught a glimpse of a picture I kept at my desk. It was of my mom, holding me close to her when I was only nine.

  Tears sprang to my eyes as I held my position. Every time I thought about her, my heart ached. She was the reason I wanted to study psychology in the first place. I wanted to try and understand my mother better. Her battle with depression raged for most of my life, and I watched her bounce from medication to medication without any luck. Psychiatrists would try to load her up on different concoctions without so much as hearing her story first, and it spiraled her into darkness I struggled with all through high school.

  I came home after my last day as a senior in high school and found that she had taken her own life.

  No child should ever have to see their mother like that. No person should ever have to go through seeing a loved one in that position. I sank to my back, holding back the tears as I closed my eyes.

  My psychology degree was all about trying to understand her, to try and unpack her mind to figure out how a mother could leave their child behind that way. Together with the addiction that had taken my father away from me as well, I had a wealth of personal experience to put to good use.

  It led me to the passion I now had burning in my gut.

  A ding on my computer interrupted my thoughts. I pulled myself from the floor and wiped at my face, hoping no one walked by to see my reddened eyes. I navigated to my email and clicked on the letter, hoping it was the updated assignment my professor had sent us an alert about that morning. Instead, I saw I had a new P.A. offer.

  I clicked on the email and read over the details. The moment I saw what was required of me, I hovered my mouse over the ‘decline’ button. The whole point of me taking this job was because it worked with my school schedule. I could work in my little cubby and remotely from my apartment on the weekends, and I could help people while still doing my schoolwork. I could flip between someone’s schedule and my school assignment without ever skipping a beat.

  But this assignment would definitely require hands-on work.

  This assignment required real-world work. Constant face-to-face interaction. I sat down in my chair as I read over the details, my mind swirling with all the things that would be required of me: updates to a manager named Hank, time management of this guy’s schedule, keeping tabs on his drinking?

  Who the hell was this guy?

  I came across the name ‘Drake Blackthorn’ and did a quick Google search. The sheer amount of information that popped up on him was startling. He was a real rock star, by all sorts of definitions. What stood out most to me were his deep blue eyes. This man was incredibly attractive.

  A country music singer with a penchant for drinking on stage, for one. I flipped back to the email and read through the personal message sent by someone named ‘Hank,’ outlining his plea for someone who could help him ‘whip Drake back into shape.’

  I wasn’t a fucking personal trainer. I was a personal assistant whose specialty was helping people manage their time and their mindsets. What in the world did they think I could do?

  Flipping through article after article on this guy, I did my homework. According to the tabloids, he struggled with a severe drinking problem. Every picture I found of him either had him on stage with a six-pack of beer or had him in a bar throwing back something that looked like whiskey. Possibly bourbon.

  But the man did enjoy his beer.

  I clicked through to YouTube and started listening to snippets of his songs. A couple of them I recognized in passing, but country music wasn’t really my thing. It was nice, and I enjoyed the culture and the relaxed atmosphere that came with the country lifestyle, but I grew up on different music. I grew up with my mother listening to jazz and the blues. Men who could wail on pianos and saxophones, and women who could pick a bass as good as any man. Those were the types of tunes I enjoyed. That was the kind of music that got me swaying in a crowd.

  Not twangy banjos and chewed-up words.

  I continued to play his songs on YouTube and actually liked what I heard. They felt raw and real.

  I clicked back over to the tabloid articles as his voice filled my little cubicle, causing people to turn their heads and look at me as I scanned through his interviews.

  One of the interviewers brought up the tragic deaths of his late wife and daughter four years ago, to a drunk driver. How awful. I thought about how that could have changed him. Something like that could break a man.

  So why the hell was he living the life of a play boy? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was a piece of work, a rowdy womanizer that wasn’t ashamed of it at all. He sugar-coated it nicely, but it was there. But as I looked deeper I saw there was something different about him. The sly grin on his face was indicative of a mask. His smile never reached his eyes.

  Maybe he was still broken from his past.

  One thing I knew for sure, he was miserable, and I could see it within the first few seconds of one of his most recent interviews.

  If my goal was to help those struggling with substance abuse, then this was the perfect job for me. It was a hands-on assignment I could probably even
pitch to the department for class credit, which would alleviate some of the stress I would encounter. Less time spent in class meant more time helping this guy, and then I could use the reference when trying to find jobs and sell myself as a counselor. Having the reference of someone like Drake Blackthorn could really catapult me into the field of study I wanted to work in, and I bit my lip as I weighed the pros and cons.

  I found my mouse slowly moving from ‘decline’ to ‘accept,’ and squaring my shoulders, I clicked the button.

  With this being my final semester of classes, it would be my busiest. Papers were going to be due, and final exams would be harder than ever. I was going to have to keep my nose to the books while I worked with this man. But if things went well with the department like I hoped they would, this could start me down a road toward success for myself.

  Only seconds later, a barrage of emails began, which was normal when accepting a new job. Correspondence between my boss and this ‘Hank’ guy came up. Articles I needed to read on this guy were sent to me. Personal information, where to find him, and all of his contact information came in password-protected files. I opened up and printed everything out at my desk as I gathered everything into a folder. All of the preliminary stuff was in my hands for all the research I needed to do in order to be prepared for this job.

  I wrote the day and time of my interview with Hank on the folder, then put it aside. I still wasn’t done with my stretches, and I wanted to work a few more in before my phone alarm went off signaling me to get back to work. I still had a long day ahead of me. I had schoolwork to complete as well as research to delve into. If I wanted to prove that I could help this man with his issues, then I needed to make sure I brought everything to the table. It wasn’t going to be enough to show off my studies and rattle off a few random facts from class. I was going to need to show this Hank guy that I was good at this.

  My nonchalance to his celebrity status should also play in my favor.

  If I could nail this interview, then I stood a real chance of helping this man.

  There was always a trigger for why people delved into substance abuse, yes. But there was also always a personal reason for why they stayed in it. The first step to being able to help someone with a substance problem was getting them to admit they had one in the first place. No one could help those who couldn’t admit they needed it. If I could get Drake Blackthorn to admit he had an issue, it was easy to get him help. Fifty percent of the work of getting sober was admitting there was an issue in the first place, and I could tell by the look in his eyes in those interviews that he knew he had an issue.