Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 129207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
It’s a balancing act, and for the most part, it works. Though come tonight, I can guarantee that balancing act is going to be sent flying off course because I don’t intend to fly back to the U.S. without partying it up one last time with these wild Aussies.
Two and a half more minutes, and we’ll be done.
My fingers work madly over the strings as the sound of my solo breaks the fucking sound barrier. Okay, not really, but I like to think it does, and judging by the way the crowd screams for more, I like to think they think so too.
My solo ends, and not needing my electric guitar for the rest of the song, I whip it around to my back and toss my pick toward the crowd before grabbing the microphone and leaning into it.
The lyrics fall from my mouth like second nature, and I watch as girls scramble in the crowd, fighting over the pick I just tossed down to them. I can’t help but smirk. It’s the same everywhere we go. Any scrap of us they can get their hands on, they’ll fucking try.
Me on lead vocals and rhythm guitar, Axel on lead guitar and backup vocals, Dylan Pope is our bass man, and of course Rock Huxley on the drums. The four of us make up Demon’s Curse, and as of six months ago, we became the top-selling band of the century. Not going to lie, hearing that news right before leaving on a world tour might have been the highlight of my career.
I’m just entering the final chorus of the song when a woman sitting on her man’s shoulders rips her tank up, letting her big ol’ titties fly free, and just like every time we get flashed, a stupid grin tears across my face. It happens every show without fail, and yet every damn time, I turn to Axel and watch as he struggles to keep his composure.
What can I say? The man is addicted to tits. He’s like a kid in a candy store, and if he could, he’d crowd surf off the stage and motorboat her. But the moment his gaze lifts to mine, it’s fucking over for us.
We giggle like teenagers who’ve skipped out on third-period history, hiding behind the science building and looking at porn because someone said something about a rusty trombone, and you just had to figure out what the fuck they were talking about.
I try to remember that I’m supposed to be a professional, but I barely get the last few words of the chorus out. Anyone would think this shit would bounce off me by now, but apparently, no amount of years as a fucking rockstar and having girls throw themselves at me is going to keep me from laughing at a pair of jiggly tits.
Who would have known?
The show comes to an end, and after bidding farewell to our incredible audience, we finally put an end to the Australian leg of the tour.
It was amazing. Such a fucking rush.
Performing like this for sold-out stadiums across the world is more than just a dream come true. There’s only a small handful of people who get to say they can do this for a living, and it’s the best feeling in the world.
The guys and I stumble our way backstage. I can’t speak for them, but the rush of the show has left me feeling alive. It’s like inhaling a line of coke without having to deal with the comedown that follows. Though to be fair, coming off weeks of back-to-back shows always leaves me feeling hungover, which is exactly why these next two weeks of rest couldn’t come sooner.
My downtime is writing time, and with the tour wrapping in a few months, we’ll be heading back into the studio to work on a new album. When that happens, I need to be prepared.
I’m the only one in the band who writes. The others dabble from time to time, but they’ve never felt confident enough to put their words forward. So far, it seems to be working for us, and to be honest, I don’t think I’d be comfortable singing someone else’s words. When I write, it means something. They’re not just words on paper. Every song we’ve put out comes directly from my soul, and it’s the only way I’m able to find peace within myself.
I’m a fucking wreck. Have been since the day I packed my bag and left Michigan behind.
For me, writing lyrics and putting them into songs is my diary. Eventually, every thought and emotion that’s torn through me becomes part of a song. It’s my coping mechanism, and so far, it’s the only one I’ve found that works. The only issue is, there’s only one person who creates such a stir within me and is capable of bringing out those words, and the longer I go without seeing her, the harder the songs become.