Behind the Lyrics by Melissa Riddell
Chapter 2
Viktor Farrow
“What kind of shithole is this?” I peered through the tinted back windows of the Escalade to stare at the dismal, empty desert that went on forever.
Why would any sane person choose to live here?
Before me lay a small building, barely bigger than the bathroom in my home in England. Chipped in some places, the brown stucco looked like someone scooped a handful of shite, threw it at the walls, and called it a day.
The two vehicles in the car park weren’t much better but one in particular drew my attention. I stared with equal parts revulsion and morbid fascination. It was a Ford pickup from the seventies, or maybe the forties—it was hard to tell with all the red rust gracing its body—and looked to be missing its passenger-side window. But never fear—a black trash bag, taped over the opening with silver duct tape, protected its precious interior.
“I know it doesn’t look like much…” My PA held up a hand as if he could physically ward off my next sentence. I’m sure my face gave away my mood. Pissed.
“It needs to be fucking demolished, Andy. What in the actual fuck were you thinking, booking me in a place like this?” My assigned driver, Clive, parked the SUV next to the rust bucket, and I sneered.
How could someone stand to drive around in that thing, knowing people were watching?
“I was the fucking singer of Angry Gods, not some new cover band guy looking for a minute of air-time wherever he can find it.”
“It’s the only place nearby that could fit you in.” Andy’s face flushed, and he pulled at the collar of his suit, beads of sweat forming on his brow and running down the sides of his face.
“Yeah, I can’t imagine why, can you?” I threw open the door and stepped into the heated air. There wasn’t another building or home for miles. Only desert, gigantic cactus plants, and rocks dotted the landscape. “It’s a goddamn wasteland, you imbecile. No one in their right mind would want to drive out here.”
“Please, Mr. Farrow, just give it a shot.” With a desperate grab to the door handle, he jumped out of the front passenger’s seat and faced me, hands clasped at his chest. He always reminded me of a little dog jonesing for a piss. “What’s it gonna hurt?”
“What’s it going to hurt?” I tried to breathe through the rising anger. “It’s going to hurt my fucking career. Look at this place.” I scowled. Surely this is a joke. But I knew it wasn’t. Again, I cursed the weakness that had brought me to such a low point in my life. Self-control. I’d always had issues with it, and at age twenty-three, when I’d become a real god—at least in my mind—I’d lost myself completely. And everything I’d ever cared about.
Andy twisted his hands together. His gaze darted from my face, to the building then to the sand surrounding everything in sight.
“Fuck,” I groaned. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we? I want to get out of here as quickly as possible before the paparazzi get wind of how low I’ve sunk.” In a way, this was a fitting scenario. If I wanted to resurrect my career from the grave I’d dug with my indiscretions and poor life choices, then I’d have to start from the ground up.
And this was certainly scraping the bottom of the barrel.