Perhaps it’s the guitarist in me or the rock star status, but I don’t see any point in having a girlfriend now. When there are so many women who are dying for a night with me, why should I settle for one girl? Sure, it leads to nights like these where I have no one to keep me company, but it’s better than dealing with someone else’s problems.
Some people believe in love. I get it. They meet someone, become obsessed, devote themselves to them and try to live happily ever after.
I’m just the odd man out because I don’t believe in that crap. Why should I when I have countless girls throwing themselves at me?
I might be a little skinny, but I have the whole bad-boy image down. The blond hair and blue eyes used to fool people, but the black skinny jeans, flannel shirts, and cigarettes clear up any doubts. I am not the guy you bring home to meet your mother. I’m the guy she warns you about. I’m an asshole, and it’s been well established. Yet, for some reason, the girls look past all that and still find me attractive.
It helps that I also know how to play guitar better than almost anyone else in the scene. Whenever I have a guitar in my hands, I’m strumming along to a tune. Whether it’s one from the radio or one in my head. I stroke the strings with ease.
I’m not like the other guitarists. I don’t care if I’m playing on a huge stage to a sold-out crowd or simply sitting in an empty room by myself. The setting doesn’t matter. I just love playing music. I’m practically addicted to it.
Which makes not touring or recording an album extremely difficult. I feel the ache in my chest. Not that I don’t find a reason to pick up my guitar every chance I get, but it isn’t enough to just strum for a few minutes. Once it became a job, it gave me purpose. I crave the purpose. The reason to play. Without it, I feel like I’m just aimlessly wandering through life.
“Another?” the bartender asks as I spin the empty glass on the bar counter.
“Nah. Just the bill.”
This place is dead. It’s not helping me feel any better about myself.
I pay my tab, pull up my hood, and step out into the streets of LA. It’s Monday, and while very few people are out at the bars or clubs, it’s still lively out. People walk around in a constant rush because one mile takes 20 minutes of travel time. In this city, everyone has somewhere to be.
Except me. I have nowhere to be. No one expecting me.
I skim my phone, hoping to find someone to spend my night with. I’d take a past hookup or some lame band guy, who only wants to hang out for a shot at fame. I’m that desperate for entertainment at this point. I’m so bored I may actually go insane.
A message from Oscar Muniz, a drummer I toured with last year, gives me some hope. He is inviting me to some house party a few neighborhoods over.
I barely know the guy, so I’m sure inviting me is just a way for him to look cool. I often get asked to parties by smaller bands as a way for them to come across as more famous than they are. Lucky for him, I’m just bored enough not to care. If it’s fun and there is alcohol, I’m in.
Sending him a reply, I smoke a cigarette before ordering myself a car.
I’m not fond of going to a random person’s house, but beggars can’t be choosers, and tonight I’m a beggar. I just need something to keep me busy. Anything at all.
When the car drops me off at the address Oscar gave me, I’m pleasantly surprised to see a large mansion overflowing with people. The street is littered with parked cars, from people who probably shouldn’t get behind the wheel. Music floods through open windows. Groups gather here and there, smoking, talking, and drinking.
House parties aren’t really my thing. I go to some parties thrown by the label that happen to be in houses, but they are far less wild than this. It fills me with memories of shitty houseparties back in Utah. High school days, when I only dreamt of being as famous as I am today.
It fills me with pride to walk up the walkway and have people do a double take. They know me. They know my band. The fact that I’m here is shocking. I should be out in the VIP section of some club, hanging out with models, rock stars, and other famous people. Yet, I’m here at the same party as them.
I can hear them whispering among themselves. That doesn’t bother me in the slightest. I’ve learned how to deal with the whispers, the rumors, the gossip. Being a famous rock star has its perks. If the only downside is people talking crap about me, I’ll take that in good stride. Let them talk. Sell their stories. All it does is create a bigger buzz about me.
“Ben!” someone calls out. “You came!”
My head whips around to find a face I sort of recall. It could be Oscar or someone else from his band or another band entirely. Who knows. I don’t honestly care. If someone is bold enough to call me over, I’m going to go. Might as well have a partner in my crimes tonight. A wingman, if you will.
The guy looks a little younger than me. Probably in his early twenties. Caramel brown waves sit on his head. A round, boyish face, with a button nose and light blue eyes, watches me as I move closer. The sleeves of his red flannel are pushed up, revealing a few random tattoos on his light tan forearms, and a band tee underneath lets me know he has good taste in music.
I weave through the crowd, catching a few stunned faces with jaws dropped in recognition.
“Oscar said he invited you. I didn’t think you’d actually show, though.” He laughs. “Is Wes with you?”
“No.” I shake my head.
Wes is who people really want to meet. They consider him the genius behind the music we make. The lead singer always gets all the glory, and Wes deserves it. He does a lot of the workto earn it too. I write a good portion of the music, but the lyrics are mostly his. My guitar riffs are always my own. Maybe built off his input, but I do my own little tweaks to make it fit my vibe.
Most people drool over the lyrics, though. And Wes is mighty fine with a pen. The guy is a bleeding heart of hope and despair. I can’t wait for people to hear the new stuff. I wonder whether a whole album of love songs will sell.
“Ah. Right, he probably isn’t allowed to party since he is on probation.”
