1. Chapter One

“Son of a mother fucking bitch!” My boot hit the front of the amp and left a big ass dent. No clue what I slipped on, though it was likely my own sweat. Fucking nerves. I looked like I’d run five miles the way it dripped off me. Great, something else I couldn’t afford to replace.

Could my life get any worse?

“Whoa, dude, it can’t be all that bad.” Marv? Merv? Melvin? Something with a fucking M said. I was shit with names and was lucky to have even found this audition. My former manager, and I use the word former loosely, was sent to prison shortly after I signed with him and left me to figure shit out on my own. Nicholas Shane was arrested for dirty dealings that included numerous offshore accounts, all of which were seized by the Feds. If I wasn’t so fucking desperate for a new gig, I would still be at the bar drinking. But noooo, instead my dumbass followed through with the already scheduled audition even though I had no idea how I’d get paid even if I got the damn job. Wasn’t that all handled though one’s management team?

Failure was inevitable.

When would life stop fucking me without lube?

I swore to whatever deity there was that this was fucking karma and all over a piece of ass I never even got to come inside of.

Had I not gotten greedy and fucked up my last job as Ryder Hampton, the lead guitarist for Maiden Voyage’s backup guitarist and sound tech, I would still be living the life. Now in the aftermath of sleeping with Nicholas’s son, Lucas, who was at the time of said incident Joey Hayes, lead singer for Social Sinners’ boyfriend, I was well and truly fucked. And not in a good way.

What a fucking mess I made of my life and nearly a decade later, I still paid for it and due to that I was broke as fuck.

Have I used enough fucks to accentuate the shittastic storm I currently waded through?

Now, here I was, auditioning for a new band and a gig I surely just lost out on with the attempted aerial maneuver that ended with my foot somewhere it shouldn’t have been. I glanced back at the amp, not my amp mind you. My eyes landed right on the dent where my boot made contact. I shook my head and unplugged, knowing full well this audition was over. “Um, I’ll pay for that.” How, I had no fucking idea but the way these guys glared at me warned I was on the verge of a royal ass beating.

And not the good kind that came with a happy ending.

One on one, I may have had a chance but three on one, nope. There was no way I wasn’t going home bloodied and bruised. To make matters worse, I hadn’t struck a single chord to prove my worth as a guitarist.

“Damn straight you will.” Of course, that growl came from the scariest fucker in the band. The dude towered over me by at least a foot, not that I was the tallest at five foot ten, but still.

“Wait.” The glare directly focused on me shifted as the guy nearest leaned forward and the two remaining sets of eyes moved to him. The wicked gleam in his said I wasn’t gonna like what he was about to say. “I know who you are.” The other two stared blankly at him. “Play ‘Her Embrace.’”

Fuck. Me.

I ran a rough hand over my face and wondered when I let my hair get so out of control. Irrelevant at this point but the one thing I’d hoped to not disclose until I had a fully signed and executed contract in hand was who I used to be. The life I selfishly fucked up. Without a word, I plugged back in, double-checked my tuning, and broke into the opening for the song I swore to never play in front of others again. As my fingers effortlessly moved over each note, it wiped the scowls clean off their faces. They didn’t stop me as I flawlessly completed the five-plus-minute song that Ryder Hampton wrote about the only woman he loved, his beloved guitar, and waited for them to laugh and tell me to get the fuck out as so many others had done during past auditions. Humiliation was all they wanted so if or when they ran into the guys from Maiden and Social, they could diss me. When all was said and done, I packed up my cords but before I tucked my baby back into her case, the one who’d asked me to play crossed the room toward me .

“I’m Jason, by the way. Lead singer for the band formerly known as Playing With Fire. We’ve decided to rebrand as soon as we’re whole again.” Jason and I shook hands as the other two neared.

“Josh Gray.” They knew of me but never addressed me by name and I’d only signed up for the audition under my first name. Like I was fucking Prince or Cher. Right, like my sad ass would ever achieve such recognition. I’d avoided giving my last name whenever possible. I decided to give it to them so they could get the inevitable Google search out of the way. After that, I’d likely be shown the door.

I was either about to meet my new band or get my ass kicked.

“Marley, I play bass.” He gave me a two-finger salute. Thank fuck it wasn’t just one.

“Nigel. Drums,” the huge guy that said I’d be paying for the amp replied as he stood behind Jason and Marley, arms crossed, clearly still not feeling me, and I didn’t blame him. My rep was shit and kicking the amp, even accidentally, only made it worse. The dude was like Glen Danzig on steroids. Think Viking style and height with a huge blondish mane to match. Massive arms completely sleeved out with a total fuck the world attitude.

“So, um, who do I owe a new amp to?”

“He’ll do.” Nigel nodded and returned to his seat.

“Well,” Jason began, “seems you passed the Nigel test, so I guess you’re in, but bring your own fucking amps to destroy next time.”

“Understood.” As I finished packing up, they got into a heated discussion over renaming the group. Not sure why they decided to rebrand but, whatever. I was here to play and for the paycheck. They could call us the Lame Ass Ducks for all I cared. At this point, I’d nearly run out of things to sell to make rent and I’d play naked if that’s what it took.

“Dude!” Marley shouted and threw his hands in the air. “This is fucking chaotic.”

“A giant chaotic abyss is what it is,” I mumbled to myself. No beginning, no middle, and no end. An abyss. Just like their conversation. Was this what I had to look forward to? Who was I kidding, I’d suck a raunchy old fucker dry for a god damned check.

“That’s it.”

“What’s it?”

Listening to their conversation was like a rock and roll version of who’s on first.

“The band name.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I had my back to them and had no clue who said what to whom and zero desire to get involved. In my life, keeping my mouth shut and my dick in my pants were the best things I could do.

“Chaotic Abyss.”

Wait, what? Fuck.

Slowly, I turned and found all three sets of eyes on me. “Well, if you learn our songs as fast as you named the band, you’ll do all right.” Jason smiled wide, kinda wigged me out. “Guitarist hired, check. Band renamed, check. Now to get signed with a reputable management company while lining up more gigs.”

I truly was starting over, but at least they appeared to be happy. Maybe. Kinda. Well, all but Nigel. I think his default setting was resting dick face. Were all drummers this fucking angry or just the ones that met me?

Guess dear old dad wasn’t the only one my existence rubbed wrong.

Who was I kidding, I hated myself so how could I expect anyone else to give a shit? These guys only wanted me for my talent, and I’d do well to remember that.

I sat my stuff by the door and returned to the table they had set up in the middle of the empty warehouse. “So, is there like a contract or something I need to sign?” Being picked up as Ryder’s backup right out of the gate never gave me any real-world experience. Their band management took care of everything. Now I guessed I’d have to learn to decipher legal documents. Not my forte by any means. Hell, I never graduated high school and it was highly unlikely I’d understand more than where to sign my name. My past sang that crystal clear when my dumbass signed with Nicholas without doing my homework first.

“Nah, man. Not yet. We’re still unsigned and had to push back the gigs we had scheduled when numbnuts walked off stage during our last show.” Jason sighed.

“And on a night with scouts in the crowd.” Marley shook his head. “If I ever see that fucker again...”

“Well, better he did it now than after we got signed.” Nigel had a point, then they would’ve been in a mad scramble for a replacement or be in breach of contract. “And he’s not worth an orange jumpsuit so let it go.”

The Seattle music scene was crazy, as it was in LA and Nashville so I more than understood their frustrations. Bands were a dime a dozen here and if you didn’t have a gimmick or a sound that stood out from the rest, you’d get lost in the crowd. For me, I’d left Tacoma as soon as the ink was dry on the contract with Maiden, the first of two I’d ever signed without reading, only to return with my tail tucked between my legs and a shit rep to match. Getting away from my old man’s flying fists was worth the cases of ramen I lived off of over the years. Being back here stirred up long since repressed memories and the nightmares had returned, only drowned out when I could afford a bottle of whisky to silence my screams.

“Here,” Jason handed me his phone. “Put your number in and text yourself so you have mine. I’ll add you to our group chat. While you’re at it, add your email. That way when I get our schedule laid out, I can shoot it over to you.”

Well, I guess I had a job?

“I’ll start making calls.” Marley grabbed his phone and wandered off. Their team dynamic hadn’t been shared which left me even more in the what the fuck dark. How would I fit in? I wasn’t new to social media, but I also didn’t post anything that benefited anyone but me. Fuck, I had so much to learn.

“Is there something I can help with?” Hopefully Jason, who appeared to speak for the band, could fill in the blank.

“Be back here tomorrow at two for practice and a band meeting. Hopefully we’ll have a lineup of shows to go over then we can see where your strengths lie and where you can help.” Jason’s easy smile said more than his words, he was the glue for this band.

“Right on, thanks.” How long would it take before they tired of my inability to have any abilities that didn’t involve a guitar? I nodded, thanked them and loaded up my car. Thankful as fuck I hadn’t had to pawn it—yet. My 1968 black-on-black Charger R/T with a 426 Hemi was the first big purchase I made back when I had a job. I rented an onsite storage unit with a garage door that my complex offered which was likely the only reason she hadn’t been stolen. After that, I added to my guitar collection which was all but gone now. Life was much easier when your room and food were paid for while on the road.

I headed off to my usual haunt, a hotel bar near SeaTac in a shitty as fuck area of town. The surly bartender was hot, though he constantly shot down my advances, and the drinks were affordable. Well, he was surly with me but that was nothing new. To everyone else, he was as kind as could be. If I could just learn to engage a brain-mouth filter, things between us would be different. But one must have that in order to activate it.

Couldn’t blame a guy for trying, even though I was a total commitment-phobe. One-night stands I fucking rocked, relationshits were just that—shit, and I avoided them like the plague. Playing guitar and fucking were all I knew. Guess I had two talents after all. Yay me.

Man bun, sexy black-rimmed glasses. Dark, wavy hair that was only let down long enough to resecure the bun. Tall, slender and a ridiculously captivating smile I got lost in. Reagan, bartender extraordinaire, delivered snark and adult beverages with grace and ease. It was hard to get mad at his snark because you were far too enthralled with his charismatic allure to do so. Hipsters weren’t usually my type, but something about Reagan did it for me. Either that or it had been far too long since I busted a nut.

“And so, he returns.” Reagan winked as he wiped the bar down. Huh, the wink was new, and I’d take it as a win. “A little late today, aren’t you?”

“I’d watch it if I were you or someone might get the wrong idea and think you kept track of me.” Would be a first. Unless I was late for Maiden’s practices literally no one in my life ever gave a flying fuck where I was.

“You wish. Usual?” Straight to business was how he rolled.

“Please.” I glanced around the bar, only about ten heads filled seats in the dimly lit room. “Light night?”

“Seems to be. Sun was out today so most are enjoying the great outdoors I’d guess. Gotta soak up the Vitamin D as much as you can up here, Arizona boy.”

I never bothered to correct his assumption I was from AZ. Once, it came up in conversation right after I moved back to Washington, and he asked where I came from. Usual bartender chat but it was better no one knew I was from here. As far as I knew Reagan had no idea who I was, and it was best to keep him in the dark about that. “True dat.” One thing I did miss about Phoenix was the sun. Having been born and raised here, I ached for those bright rays in the land I’d once called home and swore I’d never move back. Yet here I was.

Fuck. My. Life.

My only hope was my old man hadn’t heard of my return, not that he’d ever looked for me before. He’d likely demand money for booze if he knew. Ironic, considering I was about to drain a glass of the amber nectar myself. Guess this apple didn’t fall far from the tree in that sense, but at least I wasn’t an abusive, alcoholic fuck who only knew how to talk with my fists.

“You all right over there?” Reagan gestured to my glass. Generally, I downed the first one as quickly as he set it down yet today, lost inside my head, I hadn’t touched it.

“Yeah, sorry.” I shot it down and gestured for another.

The audition really was shit. A three-hundred-dollar amp down the toilet, and now instead of manning up and spending what little I had to purchase a new one, I instead chose to drown my sorrows and wallet in the bottom of a bottle. Again.

Will I ever be any better than my piece of shit sperm donor?

Second drink drained, I decided to call it a night. Tossed down cash for the bill on the bar top and with a nod to Reagan, I was out the door. Ten minutes later, I stepped inside the shithole I’d called home since I’d returned to the Pacific Northwest. I opened the fridge and grabbed a half-empty take-out container. Smelled fine so dinner was served.

I plopped down on the threadbare couch that came with the rental and groaned as I caught a glance of my reflection in the mirror. Haggard as fuck. I resembled the loser that I was. Overgrown beard, hair a greasy, unwashed mess. WTF, Josh? “This was what my life has become. This, Josh, is what happens when you get too full of yourself.”

Even Reagan knew not to waste his time on me. Hell, looking like this I wouldn’t touch me, let alone consider a date. No wonder he turned me down—repeatedly.

Date? Where did that thought come from? You can’t afford to feed yourself, how in the hell do you think you could afford another human mouth to fill.

I’d sold all but three of my guitars when I moved back and left myself with two electric and one acoustic. Small lot for a professional guitarist to have. Honestly, I’d lucked out working for Maiden but by the same token, never really made a name for myself with a band of my own. I was nothing more the man who kept Ryder Hampton in tune. Shout-outs inside CD jackets but never a mention outside of that. Maybe the tides were changing, and I had a chance to right all the wrongs and prove my worth in this short life I’d have. With hard work and perseverance, I could become a real man. One I could be proud of.

We are only as good as our greatest dream.

More like, delusions of grandeur. Guys like me didn’t get breaks, unless bones counted.

If this gig was for real, I would have to pull my own weight and who knows, maybe get a friend or two out of the deal. Would be the first time for sure. Those who acted like my friends when I had money suddenly disappeared when the well ran dry. Super fucked up, though given what a douche bag I was I couldn’t lay all the blame on them.

I was tired of feeling, tired of running from the past and from myself. I should’ve been excited at having a new band yet there I was, alone, sulking in a deep river of self-loathing. What’s the meaning behind all of this, could someone please explain or was that asking too much?

I tossed the empty container aside, grabbed my acoustic and strummed the opening chords to Slipknot’s song “Snuff.” Melancholy lyrics to end the shittastic evening with. One moment I was up, the next I was down. I had more issues than meds could fix.