1. Chapter 1

I didn't remember the exact moment I became somewhat complacent about performing, except that it was a recent development. About a month ago we were finishing up a show and from a technical aspect, the show had gone smoothly. Was it flawless? No, but rarely did that happen in this business. We strive for perfection every time we pulled up to another arena to do a show but hiccups were bound to happen. What mattered, though, was how we or our crews corrected and compensated for them.

Tonight it flowed seamlessly. The lighting was excellent, the sound was great and my band brothers were in the zone for every single song from our carefully selected set list. The audience was wild, too, jumping around in the rows and aisles, positively loving our performance. It was a total rush but I expected as much, this being the last show of another long and grueling tour—and to do so in Vegas was always a special brand of crazy good.

Some nights we got the mixture of everything just right and exploded together on stage. This was one of those nights, but as I walked off stage after the final encore I remembered feeling a sense of indifference. It was something I'd never felt before. I definitely didn't like it and for some really strange reason I knew weeks later I'd still be grappling to pinpoint what exactly I was feeling.

Don't get me wrong. I knew I had one the best jobs on the planet and I didn't for one second take for granted the privileged life this career had afforded me to live. I think what I meant to say was, the allure of stage lights in my face and having an over-excited audience spread out before us screaming out our names during a show still existed. The high we got from performing was just as incredible now as it was in the beginning, but in the last month of the tour I noticed I was leaving the stage far more exhausted than I should have been and it was not for lack of physical conditioning. I worked out every day either running, doing cardio, or lifting weights to stay in peak form. The fatigue I was experiencing was more of a mental exhaustion than a physical issue with endurance. My body was used to our ninety-minute sets but the last few shows we did I walked away feeling twice my age and I didn't think that should be the case. I was too young to feel that way.

The perks of fame and success were still there, too. It was a constant revolving door for us to attend the best concerts in any city we visited, as well as be VIPs at the most notable parties, and we never waited in line for a damn thing anywhere we went. We were pampered and spoiled with every single one of our whims quickly granted—no matter the ridiculousness of the request or the time of day. Our fans had been loyal since day one. Each of us were aware of the pedestal our audience had put us on and we knew we had them to thank for the lavish lifestyles we were living.

We'd also been fortunate that the attention we'd received from the entertainment media had been very fair over the nearly two decades we'd been part of Iris. Their presence in our lives was a necessary piece but they'd been decent to us during interviews and guest spots on television and also radio. All in all, they'd been worth the headaches that occasionally went along with them. The one negative was the ever present, rogue paparazzi. Being under a microscope was a strange way to live. We were constantly being seen through the lens of someone's camera—whether it was pointed six inches from our faces or shooting us from a mile away while in the privacy of our own homes taking a piss. It was kind of like being a caged animal at the zoo. We knew people were watching our every move and all we could do was try and go about our lives as if they weren't there.

Good and bad came with every job out there but being in a world-touring rock band I could safely say the good far outweighed the bad—in my opinion, and I was pretty sure my bandmates would agree with me on that.

Performing was hard work, though, and staying in top physical shape wasn't optional if you were going to have the stamina to do the best show possible every time we took the stage. The hours we kept and the busy schedules we were required to juggle were all a drain to our minds and bodies. We survived the rigors because we did a lot on self-care like yoga, massage, acupuncture, and chiropractic help to get us through our long tours and these professionals traveled with us to make sure we survived the long months on the road in our best condition—both mentally and physically.

The stressful part for me was being the brainchild for the new material Iris produced. It was mostly up to me to write the lyrics and lay out a rough idea of the musical tracks the band would play to go along with the words. Occasionally one of the guys would bring something he wrote to the band for consideration but typically this job rested on my shoulders. Once I had the base line on a few songs I brought it to the band, and we worked together to expand on what I'd outlined until we had a final product worthy of being part of the Iris catalog. For the eighteen years Iris had existed that was how we'd done the creative aspect of things and I'd had no problems with this—until now.

I loved my band brothers more than some of my biological family members and I also loved the long list of friends I had accumulated over the years. My life was full. It didn't feel like anything was missing. I lived alone, mainly by choice. I was comfortable being by myself and I never felt lonely. Believe me, there's a big difference between being alone and being lonely. It was easy to find someone if I felt like getting laid but I stuck to hook-ups and kept it brief and impersonal on purpose. It was much less messy that way. I'd seen the ugliness the guys in my band had suffered through, whether it was from a dirty divorce or a bad break-up, and I didn't need that in my life. I was fine scratching the itch when I needed to blow off some steam and leave it at that.

So, if my life was this perfect and my bank accounts were loaded up with more money than I could ever spend in two lifetimes, what could I possibly have to be unhappy about?

That was a good question and one that I had recently spent countless hours and days considering. I shouldn't be having a pity party for one. On the surface my life was awesome—better than my nineteen-year-old self ever thought was possible back when I arrived in LA to make my mark. But lately I'd been wondering if maybe it was time I took a step back from it and perhaps considered a break from the rigors of the business. I was just that bone-tired to have thoughts like that but I was also almost certain the other three members in Iris didn't share my thoughts on this. However, it wasn't the Gage Tennison band. It was called Iris and it consisted of four highly-skilled musicians who played together on stage as a four-man group.

I met Kenny Costello, our bass player, about fifteen years ago when we were playing together in another band called The Notables. Turns out we weren't that noteworthy because the band broke up less than a year after it started which left me and Kenny looking for a new gig. When none of the auditions we went on clicked for us, we forged the impossible dream of creating our own band, and that's when Iris was born.

Back then, Kenny was an interesting, complex dude with a keen sense of humor that rivaled the class clown in any group. Fifteen years later he was still a somewhat juvenile man who loved pulling pranks on those he loved, or even making himself the butt of a joke. His dyed hair was onyx black, nails also painted black that matched the touch of black eyeliner smeared under his ice-blue eyes. Sometimes when he looked at me just the right way and in subtle lighting, his striking eyes gave me chills, which was exactly the reaction he wanted people to have. Those were the first detail I noticed about him outside of his mad bass skills.

The other thing about Kenny? He was a professional flirt. He would pour his charm on just about anyone he met—including women, when I knew for a fact he was gay. I found that out soon after we formed Iris and I walked onto the tour bus to find him getting a blowjob from a dude I recognized as one of our roadies. Kenny put the moves on me more than once, too—even though he knew I was straight. He was harmless and I never felt threatened by his overt flirting, although I often wondered why he hadn't given up after all these years. I pretty much knew his actions weren't serious and after spending as much time together as we had, it become part of the game he enjoyed playing. No harm, no foul. I never took offense to his actions. If anything, it was a compliment that a good-looking guy like Kenny thought I was hot.

We auditioned numerous drummers and ended up picking a guy named Ross Spector—or Speck for short, though there was nothing "tiny" about him to warrant his nickname. He was a brute of a man with wild, sandy-blonde dreadlocks that flopped around his head like the legs of an octopus when he played. Both muscled arms had full sleeves of tatts and there was ink all over his broad chest along with nipple piercings. He looked like a total badass and I loved him on sight. He looked like a freshly released beast from the gates of Hell and I just knew our audiences would love watching him perform. He played his skins like he was out to slaughter them with arms flailing about over his head and feet stomping on the pedals. He was a blur of motion—absolute full-body participation every time he sat at his kit. We actually had to train him to turn down his thunder just a touch on some of our slower songs to make them sound less like a battle cry for war.

To round out our sound we hired a killer rhythm guitar player, Ward Pinecest—who I sometimes called "Pinecone" which he didn't appreciate but it was all in fun. He was a quiet guy with light reddish hair and kind of stayed to himself, but his vibe on guitar was a perfect complement to my lead riffs. We gelled nicely and that's what this was all about—the blended genius we made as a group.

Fifteen years later, we still blended well—on and off the stage, which made my complacency about performing feel so wrong. It was not only me out there giving my all. We were a four-man team. I couldn't just one day decide to not show up to work or walk away from being the lead singer and guitarist for our band. I signed a contract saying I'd show up and do my part to the best of my ability. But I couldn't ignore the feeling of needing time to work through some shit in my head, like why I might want a long break from the business. I hadn't had the balls yet to broach this subject with the guys or even with our band management. At least, not yet, but I was getting there. Before we headed into the studio to record I would need to have this sorted out with myself and everyone else who mattered.

I didn't want to use the "R" word (retirement) because at thirty-seven years old that seemed far too young to put myself out to pasture and it wasn't really what I was looking to do. Most of the musicians I grew up idolizing and emulating were still burning up the stages and they were well into their seventies and eighties, so why would I feel burnt-out before hitting forty?

Our music continued to break sales records for our record label and the fourteen-month tour we literally finished performing tonight was sold out months and months ahead of the very first show. Logically I should've been floating on a cloud of bliss all the way to a well-earned tropical secluded island vacation before we got into the studio again but that's not where I was headed and I was somewhat resentful about where it was that I was going.

Instead of thinking about having beach sand stuck between my toes I was sitting in the backseat of a limo on my way to a waiting jet at the executive airport just beyond the glow of the Las Vegas strip. Anxiety wouldn't let me relax and honestly I was feeling kind of trapped. My band would say I had no one to blame but myself because the prime time I wrote new material was while we were on tour. I know, being on tour was a crazy time to expect to focus on intricate musical compositions and heart-aching lyrics that made our audiences go ape-shit but for some reason I'd always worked best when surrounded with distractions.

Writing songs didn't happen this tour and I couldn't blame any one thing for the reason behind it. Fourteen months of bouncing around the globe and I had nothing more than about half a song written which I didn't particularly think was all that good. My bandmates were pissed off that I'd squandered the time on the road—even implied my focus while on tour was more about getting my rocks off than putting pen to paper. Maybe they were right. I didn't know, but we parted ways at the arena barely civil with one another which was a rarity for us. I felt as though I let them down but, damn it, I was fucking tired. Our agent suggested we hire a collaborator to help me write this next album and get me back on track but I couldn't do that. It felt like cheating to have someone else work with me and wouldn't the songs sound contrived with another creative mind helping? I'd never had a problem before, so why the fuck now?

I agreed to go into seclusion—without the rest of the band—for about a month to see what I could come up with. If the results were still nothing, then I would have to consider other options because the clock was ticking. Our label was expecting another album from us sooner than I wanted to think about and I had nothing to bring to the studio, not even so much as an idea that we could build on. I tried involving the other guys this time with the writing process but it led to useless bickering before they walked out on me to start their vacations. I guess I was on my own with this and the pressure felt like a ton of bricks sitting dead center on my back.

And that was why I was flying out of Vegas alone after the completion of a very successful tour, then after a brief stop at my house in LA, I'd be jetting to the east coast. Our agent leased a compound in the Adirondacks for us to occupy when needed. I'd been there before with the band in better times when we were working together on a project. I was hoping if inspiration bit me in the balls at the compound they'd fly out to join me and we could finish the project as a group. Otherwise, it would be me, myself, and I for this trip—and for the foreseeable future.

I honestly didn't mind the time alone. I was used to that, and considering where my head was at, it was doubtful I'd be very good company for anyone. Which made this secluded, five-bedroom, six-bathroom estate on a lake in the middle of nowhere the perfect place for me to be. I could fish, sunbathe, meditate, hike, you name it, it could be done there—and of course, get inspired to write insightful songs worthy of Iris to perform on stage one day. I should be thrilled to be heading to upstate New York, coming off fourteen months of nonstop work and debauchery, but frankly I just wanted to sleep—for at least a week. Then I'd have to buckle down and get to work. At least that was the plan. What actually happened once I got there was to be determined.

The flight from Vegas to LA was quick then a driver took me to my house to pack up my things. Some of my belongings were being shipped out east separately but the personal shit I'd be taking with me. I was just about finished putting things into a couple of duffle bags spread open on top of my bed when my agent called. I rolled my eyes at the sight of his name on the screen of my phone.

"For fuck's sake, I'm almost done packing and then I'm heading back to the airport," I barked into the phone. No hello, just full-on Gage Tennison attitude, but it felt justified. Even if it wasn't, that's what he was getting.

"Quit it, Gage," my agent, Ray Sisco, replied. "You're making it sound like you're being sent to San Quentin's solitary confinement against your will. This is a lavish—and expensive—working vacation for you. Most people would give their left nut to spend time at a retreat like this."

"Yeah, yeah. What-fucking-ever. I'm following orders and will be out of your hair soon enough," I proclaimed.

"The reason I'm calling is to see if you could remain in LA for a few days," Ray said. "I have a couple of new candidates for the Personal Assistant position for you to meet and possibly approve."

"Fuck that," I groused. "Everyone wants me to write music, so that's what I'm going to do. You can deal with the PA assignment yourself. Especially since you're so hell bent on me even needing one."

"Who else is going to keep you on time for your meetings, shows, interviews—and your life in general?" Ray questioned. "You need someone to keep you on track and in the loop with band business."

"I've been PA free for the last several months and things have been fine," I argued as I zipped up another canvas bag.

"You think things have gone smoothly? Really? Then how do you explain the lack of music you've created during this tour or the interview you were thirty minutes late for in Denver?" Ray hammered away at me. "And let me remind you, we wouldn't have to keep hiring new assistants if you could simply keep your dick in your pants and not have to fuck every PA that works for you. You've gone through three PAs in the last year alone which is saying something since you've been on tour that entire time. I'm still not sure if the last assistant is filing sexual harassment charges against you or not, so you better get serious about this shit. I can't do it for you."

"She has no leg to stand on, Ray, since she's the one who came on to me," I pointed out. "If anyone should be filing assault charges it would be me."

"It's a matter of ‘he said—she said,' Gage. You know how the courts side on cases like this."

"Just pick someone you know I won't want to bone and we'll be good," I offered with sarcasm.

"Okay, fine," Ray spat. "I'll hire someone without your approval but I refuse to listen to one second of complaining about the person I pick." I heard papers shuffling in the background and then Ray started talking again. "There's one male candidate who is very qualified for the job. I'll offer him the position, since the last time I checked you weren't playing for the boys' team which means he's a safe bet. I can arrange a meeting for you tomorrow in LA before you take off for New York."

"That's not happening," I fired back at Ray. "I'm flying to New York tonight or I'm not going at all. Let me know now before I finish packing."

"Let's be clear about this, Gage," Ray said using a menacing tone. "You don't have a say in this and I have a signed contract to prove it."

I scoffed loudly and rubbed my forehead. "If you want me to have a PA so fucking bad then send him to the compound and I'll meet him there," I suggested. No way would Ray agree to that which meant the meeting wouldn't happen until I returned from New York. That was a win for me.

"Deal. I'll bring him to you myself next week and maybe by then you'll have some new music to play for me."

"You've got to be kidding me," I complained.

"This is no joke, Gage. I'll see you on Monday and I'll have your new PA with me," Ray confirmed and disconnected the call.