FALLEN STAR rewrites (Unused)

Recently, I had Fallen Star professionally edited, and in the process I considered doing major rewrites to the book. Ultimately, I decided to leave the story the way it is (but my perfectionist, type A personality really struggles to leave my older work alone because I feel like I’ve come so far as a writer) but thought I’d share the two chapters I rewrote here in case you were curious what the start of Fallen Star would look like if I wrote it today. Enjoy!

 CHapter one

Zen

            When did I become an empty vessel?

            Apparently tonight I’m all about being a dramatic asshole and now really isn’t the time, but seriously.

            When?

            Because there are literally people screaming my name right now and the ground underneath my feet is shaking with the force of their craving for me, for us, and here I stand, throwing back a shot of something clear in an attempt to feel something.

            Any-fucking-thing.

            We’ve got a couple of minutes to kill before I can’t avoid the spotlight any longer, and True sidles up beside me, grinning so wide the dimple in his cheek pops out.

"Listen to the screams, man. Is there anything better?" He closes his eyes and inhales, like the smell of cheap perfume, sweat, and desperation are all he needs to survive. He gets off on this shit. To be fair, I used to, too. I frown, trying again to recall when that changed.

It’s been ten years. Ten long as fuck years of waking up in strange beds, miles traveled to places I never really got to see, destinations so unimportant they all blurred into something unrecognizable, and somehow the time just melted away. Here I stand, about to walk out on yet another stage and give the people what they want.

What they demand.

And I’m numb.

This used to be my drug of choice.

Getting high off the adrenaline of hearing people scream my lyrics back at me, the pounding bass thrumming through my veins. But like with any drug, one hit was never going to be enough, and now I drag myself through the motions, needing it to survive but lost to it all the same.

Wishing it was different, but rehab won’t get music out of my soul. Something inside of me’s broken and I don’t know how to fix it.

"It's the same shit, different night," I mutter, though I doubt he can hear me over the crowd. It sounds like white noise to me.

"Dude. We're living the dream.” He opens his arms wide and gestures toward the rapidly filling stadium. “Tell me you'd give this up." When I stay silent, he keeps going, thinking he’s making his point. He’s not.

"You know it’s not going to last forever, and we all agreed we’d ride this wave until it crashed into the shore.”

I roll my eyes. True can fit a surfing metaphor into anything.

He throws his arm across my shoulders and pulls me in for a half-hug. “Doesn’t matter how cranky you are. We’re family and you don’t walk out on that. So knock your shit off. Go eat a goddamn snack or something." He reaches over and snatches the empty shot glass out of my hand, shoving me away from him at the same time.

I flip him off as I catch myself before I fall, and then bail over to the drinks table. I’m not hungry, but I sure as hell will take another shot.

I tip my chin up at the roadie manning our makeshift backstage bar. Calling it a bar is generous considering it’s a sticky folding table littered with shot glasses and liquor. There isn’t even ice.

He pours me something–I don’t care what–and hands it over. I toss it back before True can stop me and slam the glass back onto the padded surface of the table.

My best friend moves up beside me, shoulder to shoulder, as we watch people scurry around clearing the shit off the stage from the opener and getting us set up.

True waits me out, knowing he’s poked at me enough. This right here is the benefit of being closer than brothers with your bandmates. We all get each other on a level people outside wouldn’t understand. The alcohol licks into my veins and the buzzing of my mind slows.

"Shit has gotten too fucking easy. There's no challenge, nothing to separate today from yesterday. Every minute bleeds into the next and my life feels like it’s wasting away. How are you not bored?"

He looks at me like I’m a moron. "You’re joking, right?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding, dickface?” I shove my hands in my pockets and scowl in his direction.

“We get to play our music—the music we write—for thousands of fans. They memorize our lyrics, tattoo them on their bodies, scream them so loud sometimes I think my ears are going to bleed. I don’t know what’s going on with you lately, but you used to think there was nothing better, the same way I feel. The same way I thought we all felt.”

Maddox walks over with his usual cocky bullshit hanging over him like a shroud while he zips up the fly of his ripped jeans. His dark hair’s messy like he just got fucked, and his bass is slung across his shoulder like a rifle. He doesn’t trust anyone with his baby. He nods to me before glaring at the roadie serving as our own personal bartender.

“Whiskey,” he barks.

I smirk as I watch some groupie slink out of the hallway he just came from, tugging her tiny dress down to cover her ass. “You get a biter or something?”

His eyes slide over to me as he picks up his shot, sloshing some over the side. “Or something,” he mutters before throwing it back.

I laugh, but it’s hollow. “I’m sure you’ll find someone to help you get over it.”

Our redheaded she-devil of a manager stalks over to us in heels so tall, I’m surprised she doesn’t lose her balance and tip over. “Three minutes, assholes.”

Montana shifts her glare across the four of us—Jericho apparently magically appeared from somewhere, drumsticks in hand—before it settles on me. “And we don’t have time for your depressed, melodramatic bullshit tonight so paste the brightest, fakest smile you’ve got on that pretty boy face of yours or I’ll really give you something to be unhappy about,” she threatens.

I choke back a real laugh this time. The idea of our five-foot-whatever manager getting one over on me is fucking funny. She narrows her eyes even further and the grin slips off my face because that look in her eyes is just this side of psychotic.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be a good boy,” I say, patting her on the head and she launches herself at me while True, anticipating her move, catches her around the waist and hauls her off while she spits curses at me.

She loves us, but we don’t make shit easy on her. Can’t say I blame her for cussing us out every now and then.

I turn to Jericho who’s watching me right back through his onyx eyes. His black hair glints under the dim lights and tonight he hasn’t even bothered with a shirt, the dark ink of his tats covering his upper body almost completely. He tilts his head, studying me while I watch him right back.

“You got something to say too?”

He slowly shakes his head. “Not a damn thing.”

The stage manager moves onto the bottom step and gets our attention, yanking the mic from the headset he’s wearing away from his mouth. “You’re on in one minute!”

The ground trembles underneath my feet the fans freak the fuck out. The lights go out in the stadium and our intro video beings to play.

The four of us pile into a group hug like we have since our very first show, foreheads pressed together and arms wrapped around each other. We don’t speak, just spend thirty seconds in the silence and comfort of knowing we’ve got each other’s back.

When we break, we silently move under the stage and onto the lift. It’s so dark, I can’t even see in front of my face but there are tiny marks painted in glowing paint to direct us to our spots.

I brace myself as the platform beings to rise, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly trying to get my head in the game. This place, on this stage, there’s no room for questioning my life choices. Right now, none of that matters.

These people came for a show and I’m the main attraction.

CHAPTER TWO

ZEN

My eyes fall shut as I rise through the floor of the stage into the waiting darkness. The last few seconds of nothing before my mask slips into place. The energy crackles in the stadium as people fidget in their seats.

The platform jerks to a stop before settling into solid stage below my feet. I find my glowing mark and my fingers grip around the microphone stand left there for me. In a few short seconds, the spotlight will find me like it always does, and the show will begin.

"Zen! Zen! Zen!"

The crowd chants my name and I let their adoration wash over me, rolling my shoulders back and curving my lips into a smirk. True strums his guitar and the crowd goes fucking nuts.

We start off our set with Sparks and Gasoline off our last album and people in the crowd light up sparklers they’ve smuggled in so the whole place is on fucking fire.

“What’s up, LA?” I yell into the mic once I belt out the last lyrics of the song. I step up to the edge of the stage, and stare into the sea of faces, none of which register in my mind. “You guys know we always save the best for last, right?”

They scream and I flash them my cockiest grin as Jericho taps out a rhythm on his drums to punctuate my words. “It wouldn’t be the end of a Shadow Phoenix tour if we didn’t have our final show at home. So, are you ready to get wild?”

Jericho kicks off the first beats for “Echoes” and I let myself get lost in the song as True and Maddox join in. For a second, it’s like we’re sixteen and back in True’s garage, just the four of us with a crazy dream.

The drum beat pounds under my feet as I move across the stage. My voice rises above the deafening cheers of the crowd as I let my frustration out in a scream.

Jericho's arms move so fast he bounces on his throne, his dark, angular eyes focused on the snare drum in front of him and the kick drum at his feet. He never misses a beat, keeping us all on the same page. 

The climbing notes of True's solo midway through our third song almost can’t be heard over the shrieks of the audience. The crowd goes wild when he does shit like this. My green eyes lock with his blue and he throws me a cocky grin. He knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing riling them up. He feeds on their energy like a vampire.

  When I glance at Maddox, his glare is focused out into the abyss of the crowd, not settling on any one spot for long. He doesn’t bother looking my way. Guess he’s still pissed off over his unsatisfying blowie.

As we transition into “Bleed Out the Pain”, my mind starts to wander. My mouth is moving, perfect notes spewing out of it and filling every inch of space in the stadium with me like muscle memory. I’m drifting into the numbness, the nothing.

I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

But I don’t exactly have a choice. It’s the four of us to the end. Always has been, always will be.  

My only escape comes in a bottle and burns on the way down. 

I blink, snapping back into reality as the last notes of the last song—“Shots Fired”—fade out. The fans scream as the lights blink out.

I bring the microphone to my lips one last time. “Thanks, LA. It’s been real.”

Real fucking tired.

I don’t stick around for an encore, ready to get fucked up and forget about the nothing inside of me. I may not be able to do anything about it, but I can sure as fuck slap a liquor Band-Aid on it with a side of groupie pussy.

The guys are on my heels as I hand my mic off to one of the roadies and bail down the side steps of the stage. Sweat pours down my face, burning my eyes. I grab a towel someone holds out for me and swipe it down my face as I make my way back to the dressing room.

The cheers of the audience are quickly replaced by the low murmur of shouted conversations and clothes rustling as people make their way out of the arena and our tour crew starts tearing down.

“Thank fuck we’re done!” Maddox yells as he flops back onto the leather couch, letting his head drop back. His sweaty hair falls into his eyes, and he flings his arm up across his face. “I’m ready to get fucked up.”

Jericho closes the door behind us, tucking his sticks into his back pocket. He uses a towel to swipe the sweat off his bare chest and tosses it in the trash when he’s done. True throws him a black t-shirt and he slips it over his head.

“You’re always ready to get fucked up,” True says, rolling his eyes.

I grab my phone off the table where I left it before the show, scanning through the messages until I find one from my assistant. “Trev says everything’s set up at my place.” I take the spot next to Mad on the couch. “Time to spread the word.”

 My mind shifts to the afterparty while the guys pack up their shit and change. It’s the same party every night. Nothing ever fucking changes. I’m living some serious Groundhog Day shit. After high school, I thought the parties would change, and they had. The women got more plastic and aggressive, the drugs and liquor got harder and more expensive. But it still feels like the same damn thing every fucking night.

We rush through the meet and greet, more than ready to end this tour and get the fuck out of here, showering off the sweat and the last six months on the road before we jump in Maddox’s Jeep.

“Why the fuck are we letting him drive?” True asks, buckling himself up and testing the seatbelt to make sure he’s strapped in.

“Good question,” I mumble, doing the same.

“I think we can all agree we have a death wish at this point,” Jericho adds, being ballsy as fuck and taking the passenger seat. He immediately grabs for the oh shit handle and grips it tight.

“Shut the fuck up. Have you died yet?” Maddox snaps.

True shakes his head. “Keyword being yet.”

The tires squeal as he takes off like a goddamn rocket and True goes ghostly pale. My heart’s in my throat as the Jeep goes up on two wheels while Maddox takes a corner to merge onto the freeway.

“Jesus fuck,” True yells as he kicks the back of Mad’s seat. “If you crash and I die, I’ll haunt your ass for eternity.”

“What was that?” Maddox asks with a manic laugh, while turning the music up to eardrum shattering levels. “Can’t hear you.”

And as we fly towards home and the night ahead, and my brothers bicker over the thumping music, I close my eyes hoping that when I open them, somehow, impossibly, things will be different.