Love's Paradox

Chapter 1: Watch Them Burn

All you need is love.

John Lennon

Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls;

the most massive characters are seared with scars.

Khalil Gibran

A hillbilly stripper, a snarky hair stylist, and a rock star walk into a bar. You might think this is the beginning of a joke, but it's not. As a matter of fact, this is my life, and one of those individuals is me. Hint: my bag is in the shape of a guitar.

Okay, okay. So I'm not a rock star. As a matter of fact, I only know a few chords. But I can rock out to any ol' country song, belting out words at the top of my lungs. Hank Williams: eat your heart out. Seriously, it's not about musical talent; it's about style. And thanks to my amazing hair stylist Cherry, I look the part as much as I play it. Long, dark hair with streaks of electric red, heels so tall and sharp they could be used as swords, faux-leather pants, and a sparkly top that'll be sure to stop traffic on a sunny day. Not because I look damn good wearing it, mind you, but for the fact I'd light up like a disco ball.

My friend Hunter, southern accent, cowboy boots, and oozing hillbilly—also the most popular male entertainer in all of the south—escorts me inside the tiny bar like I'm the number-one bestselling country music artist instead of the temporary labor gal that I am. In a nutshell, I fill in at offices, factories, and once, a farm. The upside is that no day is ever the same, the downside is that I never know when I'll be called into work or where that work will be.

Loretta's Bar is empty besides a couple of college boys playing pool in the back on a table that's covered in beer and possibly blood stains, and three bikers sitting at the bar trying to look grim and intimidating, in which they succeed, greatly.

My life used to be different. Easier. Richer. But now I drown myself in a few beers—sometimes more—several nights a week. Most wonder how I got here, how my life spiraled down to the pits of country hell. Well, it all started when I was fifteen and met the person I thought was the love of my life. Now, that's laughable. One has never been so epically, horribly, alarmingly wrong before in her life. But hey, I guess I needed to be proven wrong at least once in my lifetime, just to know how it feels.

"Rae!" Cherry calls from the bar.

I stumble and almost break my guitar while trying to right myself, not at all liking these ridiculously high heels. I'm a boot or flip-flop kind of gal, so my current shoes are my own personal death traps. The drive over here was frightening enough. That poor pedestrian saw his life flash before his eyes as my feet tangled together. Luckily, I squealed to a deafening halt with a foot to spare. How does one apologize for that kind of trauma? She doesn't—she flees while her two best friends cackle like hyenas. The same best friends who were screaming at the top of their bloody lungs moments before my screeching stop.

Walking like I have a giant rod up my ass so I don't trip over my own feet, I amble over to the bar.

"You got your ID, hon?" the bartender asks as she wipes down the bar.

Cherry gives me an apologetic look because I'm not twenty-one. Not for another ten months, according to my driver's license that I so helpfully left in the car for this very purpose.

"Sure," I say with so much confidence one might actually believe I'm of the legal drinking age. I open my wallet and theatrically search for my ID. "Shit. Where is it?" I pull out tampons, lip-gloss, receipts, an old ticket to the Stud Club—don't ask—a shriveled piece of gum, and a wadded up tissue. "I don't know where it is."

"No ID, no admittance," the bartender says without blinking.

I look up in exasperation and sigh heavily while stuffing everything back into the black hole that is my purse. "But I'm in here all the time. Just last night you served me beer." Which is a straight-up lie. "Plus," I add, holding up my guitar, "I'm tonight's entertainment."