Washed away by the sea’s calm,

Nurtured by the wind, the sound of her song.

The breeze gently holds me high.

The weight’s lifted up to the sky

Elevated, raised, floating up high.

What remains is a stain, just a stain, a stain.

Lips touching softly on mine, hidden desperations,

An island of questions, my pride.

My pride, my pride, my pride.

The phone vibrates in my pocket, and I take it out to see it’s my sister Madison, so I push ignore. Hell, I wish I had that ability growing up.

Twenty seconds later, it goes off again.

911, call me now

I walk away to call her back, expecting the worst.

“Memphis,” she whispers.

“Mads, what’s going on? Mom and Dad—”

“They’re fine. It’s Tally.”

“Did they get the flowers I sent to the service?”

“Her dad died, like, two months ago.”

“So what’s the problem, Mads?”

“I want to bring her with me to—”

“Oh, hell no.” I laugh. “Can you even imagine her hanging out with the band?”

“She needs to get away. If she can’t come, then I’m not coming, either,” she huffs the threat.

“All right then. See you next—”

“Memphis!” she screams in the phone.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mads, fine. Whatever. Just don’t expect me to hang out with her.” She starts to argue, but I don’t give her the chance. “I’m at my last show, Mads. Chat in a couple days.”

I shove my phone back in my pocket just in time to hear the last chorus.

***

Last night, we actually crashed at our place for the first time in as long as I can remember. It was actually nice to dive into my bed—alone—and sleep.

Sleep? Hell, is it possible? A one year’s tour has ended, a year of traveling across country, spreading STD everywhere. It was a fucking dream come true. Record sales were good, and we were getting airtime on local radio shows and satellite radio.

We rode coattails. It’s never been my style, but the opportunity to do so was sick. So, last night, as I lay in my king size bed, butt-ass naked with the fan blowing across my freshly showered body, I couldn’t stop the shit-ass grin from spreading across my face.

I cannot believe it. I’m a fucking rock star, bitches!

Now, we sit back at headquarters, Forever Four, and wait for Xavier and Nickie D. For once, we’re on time, and they are late.

“I can’t wait to get away. Need some inspiration,” Finn says as he links his hands behind his head.

“And a razor.” River smirks.

“Fuck that,” Finn grumbles, running his hands over his beard.

“Lumber-sexual,” Billy says, and we all look at him like he’s lost it. “Read it somewhere.”

The door opens, and X-man walks in with Nickie D behind him.

“You’re late,” I say smugly.

“We were on an important call,” Xavier says as he sits down with a shit-eating grin on his face. “You ready to do this without Burning Souls?”

“Fuck yes—”

“After a vacation, I hope,” Billy interrupts. Again, we look at him like he has three fucking heads. “Never wanted in to start.”

“You like it, and you know it, Billy-boy. Stop acting like this isn’t the greatest fucking thing you’ve ever done in your life.” I laugh, and he looks at me. “Come on, man, tickling the ivory then whatever piece of ass you want after.”

“I am a pianist,” he states blankly, “not a rock star.”

We all look up as Taelyn Steel slides in and shuts the door behind her. “You love it, and you know it, Billy.”

“Okay, bottom line”—Xavier stands up—“opening for Burning Souls was an amazing opportunity for Steel Total Destruction.” He tries to look annoyed whenever he says the band’s name, but I know better—hell, we all do. X-man is amused as hell by the band’s name. “But headlining your own tour is insane. It’s the difference between twenty-five K a show, which you get eighty percent of, split between four of you after expenses: gas, bus rental, crew, hotels, meals, and whatever incidentals you have. You each probably made seventy K for the year—”

“That’s a shit load of money.” River rubs his hands together, and all I can think is, how much of that shit will you spend on candy?

“It’s really good.” Xavier nods. “But do you want more?”

“Who doesn’t want more? Hell, show me the dough, bro.” I laugh.

Instantly, everyone is in hell-yes-we-do mode.

“Irish,”-Xavier’s nickname for Taelyn-. “Nickie, and I have lined up a fifteen city tour. The lowest paying gig is two hundred K; highest is two hundred fifty K. That means three million dollars. A million will—”

“What the hell did you just say?” River gasps.

“Fifteen city tour,” Xavier says, looking at him.

Finn looks at him suspiciously. “No, man, after that. The money.”

“Three mil.” Nickie D smirks. “That’s saying no one backs out. Contracts are on their way as we speak.”

“Fifteen percent stays here,” Xavier interjects. “Expect twenty percent to be used for expenses. Merchandise will be split fifty-fifty after expenses. My guess is you’ll each make about five hundred K after all is said and done.”

“Holy fuck! Holy motherfucking fuck!” River says what we are all thinking.

“If that gets you excited, man, understand that isn’t shit compared to what record sales can be if you get your asses writing.” Xavier looks at River. “And stay fucking sober.”

“Like you did for Burning Souls tour,” Taelyn interjects, making a point to her husband about River’s ability to keep his shit together for the tour.

“I know you’re all heading down to vacay in Miami for a while, but you need to be writing music, too, not just getting laid. You catch me?” Nicki D says sternly. “The more we have out, the better sales are, and the better sales—”

“More money, baby.” I high-five Nickie.

“More money.” He grins.

My father passed away from a heart attack four month ago. In that time, I have watched Mom, the grieving minister’s wife, go from singing his praises in front of the congregation he led for more than fifteen years before the Lord Jesus Christ took him home, to a sobbing mess who is trying to figure out what to do next when she thinks I am asleep.

After his death, I spent spring break helping her pack up the parsonage, where we had lived there my entire youth. His church family adored him and whenever there was talk about moving us to another church, they fought to keep him here

“No, honey, that belongs to the church,” she would say as she took pots and pans out of the boxes I was packing them in. Then the same was said for the knives, the plates, the forks, even the furniture.

“This is all you have?” I asked, as I looked at the seven boxes that contained fifteen years of personal property collected between her and my father.

She smiles. “That’s more than I’ll need.”

Once in the tiny, furnished apartment, we put away those seven boxes, and she was right. In a five hundred square-foot apartment, she would not be able to fit much more.

Today, I look around my side of the empty, shared dorm room. One year under my belt at Julliard was much more than I had ever dreamed or prayed for. One year of instruction in classical ballet, I think as I open the dresser drawers one more time to make sure I haven’t left anything more behind.

I won’t be coming back.

I feel tears prick my eyes, and I push them back. I don’t want my mother to see that this is bothersome to me. She has already offered to pay next year’s tuition with the money from my father’s very small life insurance policy he had from working at the church. However, I refused because that is all she has. That and a social security check that would just barely pay for the rented one bedroom apartment she just moved into and her health insurance premium.