Jaded Hearts (Loaded Replay #1) Read online

  It’s a feeling I don’t think I’ll ever get used to.

  It’s a feeling I hope I never have to live without, but in the same breath, one that I wish I could have just a little reprieve from.

  I could feel them before my feet even left the dressing room. The sounds of pure fan-crazed madness stayed with me while I walked the long corridor that leads from all of the dressing room and storage areas to the belly of the beast, so to speak, under the stage area.

  It was the biggest rush in the world. No high in the world could ever compete with this pre-show adrenaline rush.

  I loved it.

  I hated it.

  Every second of the buildup before a show was euphoric. Every second and every minute of our almost three-hour set was even more so. The letdown, crash and burn, and sweaty, hot mess that would follow in its wake was just as beautiful as the beginning of it all.

  This was our dream.

  This was our life.

  Our completely out-of-control, insane life.

  No matter how much I loved it, though, I still have moments when I wish we were back in some no-name bar just dreaming of the big stage. Where no one knew who you were and still couldn’t get enough of your music.

  This has been the guys’ and my lives for the last few years, though. And love it or hate it, you don’t ever go back to a normal life after finding the kind of fame we have. As soon as Loaded Replay hit the music scene, we have never stopped climbing. We started out as a small house band, hitting every local bar or dive that would have us. There was no active hunt to find what we have now. I think we honestly would have been happy just creating music, no matter what, because we had each other.

  Things got insane when we were first discovered. A sound like ours hadn’t existed since the late seventies. Sure, we don’t sound exactly like the classic southern rock bands that flooded the music scene back then with heavy guitar solos and drum beats that made your blood flow a little faster—but that’s because we sound better.

  I like to think of Loaded Replay as a Lynyrd Skynyrd sound with a new-school twist. Someone once compared us to a Skynyrd and Fleetwood Mac love child. Our new twists and flair are what make our sound unique from that old-school sound. We take the old-school sounds and mix them with the new-school influences of our youth.

  We’re pure sex in music form. An orgasm to your ears, if you will.

  Even with all that, though, nights like this remind me that with every high you climb, a downfall is always to be found. The moments that make you wonder if this is something that you can live your life always doing. Those stolen moments make me question whether we could give it up and attempt to live a life as close to normal as we could find.

  Something away from the madness.

  On those nights, I stand on the stage, surrounded by people who love the person they think they know, and feel like the loneliest person in the world.

  It makes no sense, not even to me. I should be happy, loving life and counting my blessings. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not completely miserable. I know how lucky we are. No matter how I feel, it isn’t just me in this either. I love these guys and would do everything for them, but is it too much to ask to find someone who will love me—Wren—at the same time as giving me a little shield of normalcy by creating a relationship that I have yet to find since we started.

  I’ve been struggling with this for a while, and even if it wasn’t for the crazy fans who have been getting too close lately, my guys can feel that something is wrong. I think that is a big part in why they’re sticking close. They can sense my discord.

  It’s probably also a big reason why they’re so dead set on hiring our own personal security. They can sense my mood, and it’s set off every overprotective ape vibe that they have. They might not know exactly what they’re sensing, but they’re not going to leave anything to chance. I love my guys to pieces, but at times like this, I feel like they’re smothering me.

  I stop my inner pity party when the crowd’s deafening screams and cries for me pound into my brain. I reach out right when one of the roadies—Kellie, I think her name is—starts to mess around with my earpieces, securing them behind me before laying each one on my shoulder for me to put in myself. The second I push them into my ears, though, the headache that had been crawling up my spine all night bursts into fireworks of pain. The swarm of unease in my belly from my migraine is making itself impossibly known.

  I feel like I’m going to be sick.

  Or pass out.

  “Thanks, Kel,” I tell her when she moves to step away, after handing my mic over to me. She looks away, something she’s done since the beginning of our tour. I’ve tried to make her comfortable with us, but regardless of what I do, she never seems to handle being close. I don’t mind, though, because she hasn’t ever given me any warm and fuzzy feelings anyway.

  I look over at the guys to see if they’re ready. Pushing aside the pain of my headache, I give them a bright smile and a thumbs-up. You can tell by just one look at the three of them—all looking like overgrown kids on Christmas morning—that they’re feeling the pre-show rush. Their smiles are wide, and their eyes are totally wild. They’re ready to rock the shit out of New York City.

  “Let’s do this, boys,” I call out to them. We take our places on the platform that will rise, bringing us from underground to smack dab front and center of the stage.

  Before we even reach the stage, Wes starts to move his fingers; the deep bass that ripples through the speakers increases the intensity of the crowd’s screams. When the platform locks into place, I toss my hair over my shoulder, look through the blinding lights at the mass of people before us, and give them what they want.

  Myself.

  And they go absolutely manic.

  Two hours and fifty-nine minutes later, I’m ready to throw up because my head hurts so badly.

  I take a deep pull of air through my nose and open my mouth to belt out the end of our latest hit, “Black Tears,” the first single from our new album, Black Lace.

  You broke my heart

  With one black tear.

  I thought from the start

  It would last for years.

  I hold the last word out, providing the harmonic rasp that I’m known for. I give the crowd what they came for. The power of my voice, the mask I wear that makes them think I’m having the time of my fucking life, and my boys at my back.

  I make sure they aren’t aware that this migraine is quickly making me feel like I’m about to die.

  Don’t get me wrong—I love what we do. We create pure magic with our music. The dreams we crafted in the minds of our fans while they listen to our words and the beats that my boys so masterfully play. It’s because of those dreams that we are able to give them the ability to create memories, enhancing them for the years to come.

  “New York City! You guys are the best! Thank you for welcoming us tonight and coming out to party. Don’t forget to pick up the new album when it drops—we hope you all love our new shit! Until next time, you sexy beasts!”

  I give the crowd another huge, fake-it-till-you-make-it smile before raising my hand for a playful little wave then turning and giving them my back. My smile dies the second I feel the air from our stage fans hitting the back of my bare legs. No need for me to continue the charade when they can only see my backside, and I know they can no longer see my face. The ear-piercing screams and cheers continue as I play the part of sex god rock star, putting more sass in my step than normal—swaying my hips seductively with each stride.

  I see Jamison jump down from the little platform that his kit is set up on, his face still on the crowd behind me. I’m always the first one to leave the stage after our final song. The guys leave their instruments behind to give the crowd a little extra love before joining me backstage. The noise from them amps up even louder than before, and I look over my shoulder to see Jamison and Luke paying a little extra attention to the group of twenty-something sorority girls who were in the
front row all night. Wes usually joins in, but he’s just giving a few lazy waves while looking out at the crowd.

  Instead of leaving the stage, as I normally do, I stand back and place a small smirk back on my face, watching them flirt their asses off. Now that they know the show is over, the crowd is still thirsty for more. We’ve already given them two encores, so there isn’t a chance we’re going to do more.

  My brother turns, shoving Jamison into Luke with a nod in my direction. They give the masses a final wave before heading toward me. I give Wes a small shake of my head when his concerned gaze lands on mine. He knows, just by looking at me, that I’m feeling like absolute shit. He hasn’t pressed me on it yet, but I know it’s only a matter of time. It’s been like this for me for a while now, though, and I know I just need a break. Hell, at this point, I need a break more than I need my next breath.

  “You okay?” Jamison asks. Dropping his sweat-drenched arm over my shoulders, he turns me so we can exit the stage.

  “Just a little headache, Jami. Nothing that a little Advil, a shower, and a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”

  “Need me to wash your back?” he jokes with a wink, but when my elbow lands in his gut, he drops his arm, a rush of air expelling from his lips from the force of my blow. “Fuck me, Wren. I was only joking.”

  “Yeah, well, keep your womanizing ways to yourself or else use it on the easy sluts that fall at your feet, sicko. I’m not in the mood for your jokes today. How many times do I have to remind you you’re like a brother to me?”

  “Hey! They aren’t sluts; I’m just irresistible. They shouldn’t be at fault for my allure. And besides, isn’t the fake brother trend in? Every time I hit that random button on my favorite porn site, I get some weird brother-sister fetish videos that pop up.”

  I stop and point at him. “You’re disgusting.”

  “So,” he says, dragging out the word, “does that mean we aren’t going to make our own amateur film?”

  I hand my mic off to Todd, one of the stagehands who works with our audio and visual team, before pulling my earpieces from around my neck. I don’t even know why they bother fitting me for these things anymore. I get they’re supposed to keep me connected, my pitch toned, and all four of us in sync, but I have never needed help making our music the best it can be. They always end up dangling around my neck anyway. Night after night. Show after show. It never changes. I look around for Kellie to hand her my earpieces, but I don’t see her, so I place them—with the guys’—on the table where some of the other bullshit our roadies are in charge of is piled.

  Our manager, Dix, gives me a roll of his eyes when I stomp past him and into our dressing room five minutes later. He’s frustrated with my attitude, I know, but I can’t seem to give a fuck at this point. No matter how frustrated he might be with me, it doesn’t even hold a candle on the lack of satisfaction we all have with how he’s doing his job. I’ve been asking him to get the label to give us a break for the last two years and nothing; so it’s something I’ve been taking out on him since he can’t seem to make it happen.

  According to him, the label says that we need to keep the momentum of the wave—ride it until it breaks. It’s absolute shit because there is no fucking way that wave will ever break. We’re so on top of our game, and everyone else’s in the industry, that not a damn thing could knock us down from the top at this point.

  What is one damn break going to do to change that?

  Nothing. That’s what.

  But to them, we’re just the cash cow, and fuck us if we’re burned out; they want that cash to keep rolling in. Which is just another reason that I’m sick and tired of all of them. What do they think is going to happen if they keep pushing us?

  “Where are we tomorrow?” Luke asks as he, Jamison, and Wes push into the room, moving Dix forcibly out of the way with little care and a whole lot of intentional movements. I hold back my laughter when I see my brother slam the door in Dix’s face, leaving him in the hallway.

  “Fuck if I know,” Jamison answers him and then instantly shoots a scowl at the door when Dix opens it and enters our area with a huff.

  “You’re all flying out to LA in a few hours. The busses and crew will make their way there as soon as they’ve broken down the set tonight. You have to be in the studio tomorrow afternoon to start recording the next album. You’ve got”—Dix pauses and looks down at his phone—“about two weeks—a little less, actually—to get as much down as you can before the West Coast leg of your tour picks up in Vegas.”

  “Do you think we can have some time to eat, sleep, and piss in between all that, Dix?” Jamison sarcastically says. “Fuck, man, the next album probably won’t even drop until next year. Can’t they let us have a little downtime?”

  “I’ll see if I can pencil that in.” He rolls his eyes with a heavy sigh. “You know I would give you guys more time off if I could, but I have the heat coming down on me from the higher-ups. They want new material, and they want it yesterday.”

  “We just finished our fifth album, Dix. It doesn’t even fucking release for a few weeks and already they’re pushing us. Did you conveniently forget that we are only under contract for five albums with Brighthouse? Maybe you should manage a little better and get back to them about the studio time we won’t be making. We deserve some time off, and you know it. How many other artists do you know who release five fucking albums in four years?” Wes fumes.

  “While doing a full tour for the majority of time each of those years,” Luke adds heatedly.

  “We’ve been doing their bidding for the long enough, Dix. Now, until we renegotiate the contract, that bidding ends. I’m tired, and I need a break.” My no-nonsense tone gets his attention, and he looks at me like he’s just seeing me for the first time. Hell, maybe he is. It’s not as if he’s paid much attention to our wants and needs in the past. I get a few manly grunts in support from the guys, but I hold my hand up before Dix can tell me—again—why we won’t be getting a break. “Make them understand because it’s happening. I mean it, Dix.”

  He sputters, but I get up from my spot on the couch and shoulder past my brother and Luke before entering the connecting bathroom without giving him a chance to speak. It’s time to wash off the last three hours of performing and get ready to apparently head to the airport.

  “Hey,” I hear from the other side of the bathroom door.

  “What, Dix!” I call back, pulling the tight crop top I had worn tonight over my head before starting the shower.

  “Don’t forget you have an interview and photo shoot with Modern Rock magazine when we get to LA.”

  “Seriously, Dix? Do you even look at our schedule? She did the interview last week when we arrived in New York from our hotel room,” Luke snaps in an angry tone.

  “Maybe we should just fucking fire you now! We’ve put up with a lot of your shit, but we aren’t the naïve little fuckers who didn’t know better four years ago,” Wes snarls with so much venom in his words that even through the bathroom door I don’t miss the seriousness.

  Whatever else is said gets lost when I finally step under the soothing hot spray of the shower. I try some relaxing techniques to push away my stress and frustrations while I bathe, but I only seem to get rewarded by my headache intensifying despite them by the time I finish cleaning myself off.

  I grab a towel from the shelving unit over the toilet, where the venue had been kind enough to stock them, when I step out of the shower. I smile to myself when I see the neatly folded pile of clothing on the closed toilet seat.

  God, I love my brother.

  It doesn’t take me long to dress. I pull on my thong and bra before sliding my legs into some of my favorite LuLaRoe leggings and pairing that with a cozy long-sleeve shirt. One quick look in the mirror ensures me that my crotch is covered completely by the shirt—a must when you’re wearing leggings. The last thing anyone wants—especially someone who has to deal with paparazzi—is a picture showing up of your camel toe trying
to eat your leggings for dinner. My hair is leaving drops of water on the gray cotton of my shirt, so I start using my towel to attempt to dry it out some. Reaching out to open the door, I grasp blindly now that the towel’s edges have fallen into my face.

  “Thanks for putting my clothes out, Wes,” I mumble, my voice muffled by the towel. When I pull it down, swiping at the hair that had fallen into my face, my smile dies. Apparently, I’ve stepped into a standoff that would make someone from the Wild West proud. “What the hell is going on in here?”

  “I didn’t put your clothes out, little sister,” Wes says sharply, not looking away from the man who has all of his attention.

  “Wasn’t me either,” Luke angrily adds in.

  “Chance here forgot to tell us that he doubles as a personal assistant,” Jamison all but growls.

  I look over at where Chance is standing—close to the door but near Dix. However, he only has eyes for one man and that man is the only one who probably doesn’t want to kill him right now. I swear the guys look like they’ve been possessed by a madman.

  “Do you want to tell me why a man was in the shower with you, Wrenlee?” Dix questions me as if he has the right to be affronted here.

  “Excuse me?”

  His question confuses me, but it also gets my attention off the three men I love the most doing their best impression of someone trying to kill with their eyes alone. I was kind of enjoying the anticipation of what they would do next. Stupid Dix.

  “You know the label has asked you to refrain from any relationships. They like ‘single Wrenlee,’ you know that. She has more appeal than if you were in a relationship.”

  “Excuse me?!” I repeat, screaming this time, completely shocked at the balls on Dix.