1.
DEX
A few months ago...
I pace back and forth in the narrow back alleyway, flipping an unlit cigarette back and forth between my fingers. I’ve quit a hundred times over, but somehow I always go back to them in the end.
Old habits die hard.
I take a long breath, trying to calm the hell down. It’s just a private party, barely a couple of hundred people. I’ve sold out stadiums before; played to thousands of screaming fans without a flinch. Hell, I even played the Grammys drunk out of my mind -- the only thing I remember from that night is the three blonde backup dancers I took back to the hotel for a very special after-party.
This should be a breeze.
Except I haven’t played in public since that night in London, over a year ago. The night I’d rather forget, the one that haunts me through every waking moment and sleepless night. After that, I swore, I was done with music for good. The label begged me, threatened all kinds of legal bullshit. I had a contract, I couldn’t just quit in the middle of a sold-out world tour. I didn’t care -- I walked away from the band and left it all behind without a second thought. I left LA, bought a house on the beach away from the clubs and paparazzi, and turned off my cellphone for the first time since this whole whirlwind began. Ready to start a new life over, away from the madness and fucked-up world that had become normal to me.
Until the cravings started. My urge, my own private drug.
Music.
The rush of performing. The power of the spotlight. It’s a high like no other, and hell, I would know. I’ve spent the past year trying desperately to replace it, and nothing has even come close.
Old habits die hard.
I could feel it creeping back again, the itch getting stronger. My old manager could tell: he started calling round the clock, offering new shows, a small tour, an EP on an indie label. If I didn’t want the major label scene, then we’d do it differently this time: my rules, my way.
He doesn’t understand the real reason I can’t go back to that life.
The back door of the restaurant opens. A guy poked his head out, Garrett, his name is. The bartender from the place in Beachwood. “Hey, Dex,” Garrett calls back to me. “We’ll be ready in like, ten minutes?”
“Sure, great.” I nod, jittery.
The guy pauses. “I really appreciate you doing this.”
“No problem,” I wave the thanks away. “I owe you, man.”
Garrett nods. “Whenever you’re ready.”
The door shuts. I throw the cigarette down on the ground, unlit, and grind it with my heel. I can’t bail now -- I agreed to play this opening to make up for leaving them in the lurch back in the spring.
It’s what you wanted: a hit of the spotlight again. So what’s your damn problem?
The problem is, I know, just one hit can never be enough. My whole life has been a parade of reckless excess: too much booze, too many girls, too many damn regrets. I’ve clawed my way out of the viper’s nest one time, but I can tell, I’m right back on the edge again.
