Redemption (Tattoos & Tears - Brody Book 1)
Redemption
Tattoos and Tears – Brody – Book 1
By Amiee Louise
Published by Scarlet Lantern Publishing
“I’d rather burn out, than just fade away.”
– The gospel according to Brody Lennon Hart
Copyright © 2021 by
Amiee Louise & Scarlet Lantern Publishing
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Other Titles by Amiee Louise
Other Titles by Amiee Louise
Tattoos and Tears
- Dark Rockstar Romances -
Tempations
Revelations
Confessions
No Regrets
Tattoos and Tears - Brody
- Dark Rockstar Romances -
Redemption
Absolution
Prologue
Brody
Redemption
(rɪdempʃən ) (ri-demp-shuh-n)
Word forms: plural redemptions
1. variable noun
Redemption is the act of redeeming something or of being redeemed by something.
[formal]
He craved redemption for his sins.
2. An act of redeeming or atoning for a fault or mistake, or the state of being redeemed.
3. Deliverance from sin; salvation, atonement for guilt.
Synonyms: paying-off, clearing, squaring, honouring.
I’m asked on a near daily basis ‘why do you do what you do?’ It’s a loaded question but the answer is plain and simple. I’m a fucking rock star, it comes with the territory. The sex, the drugs, the women. The typical, cliché rock n’ roll lifestyle. It’s every young boy's dream to fulfil their childhood fantasies, all whilst doing what they love best. The music, playing on stage to thousands of people per night. The buzz you feel deep within your soul when the crowd sings back a song that you’ve written, word perfect. The euphoria, as the screams drive you to sing the lyrics louder and to play that guitar harder than you’ve ever played before, like your fucking life depends on it. The feeling of blissful rapture when I listen to the sea of people chanting our name, the deep rumbling roar of ‘Vengeance, Vengeance, Vengeance’ echoing in my mind and driving me on, as I lose myself in the music.
When I play guitar, it’s just me and my guitar, nothing else exists. Everything is just inconsequential, trivial, fucking white noise. In all my years in the music industry, on the road, touring, meeting, and greeting fans, I never let anything get in the way of that, except maybe my two vices, but these days they stop at ink and class A’s (but I was working on the latter)
I was strictly professional, until I met her, Raleigh fucking Storm. She was my next favourite mistake, my saving grace, my fortress of solitude. When she was around, I didn’t need the drugs, I didn’t need the other women, I didn’t need anything, I just needed her. The fame meant nothing. When she was around, we were just two fucked-up people falling hopelessly in love.
We weren’t without our demons. She was a troubled actress, who had a mighty fall from grace in the glare of the paparazzi’s lens. She ended up in rehab because of poor choices and bad life decisions. We both did. In my head, I had some sort of twisted notion that everybody needed saving, when it was really me that needed saving, from myself most of all.
Amongst all of the chaos and carnage, she was the one to save me from the wreckage. She saved me from drowning in a sea of white powder and pills, she made me rise up like a phoenix from the flames. Over the years, I'd seen the most hideous, awful, disgusting things. And yet, even after almost a decade of therapy, I still resorted to my go-to way of coping. I got high, but after I met her, I didn't want to be that person anymore. She made me want to be a better man, a better version of myself, version 2.0. I wanted to overcome my demons and do what normal people do. Go to the pub, go to the gym, and work out excessively, or just fuck her, until I didn't want to get high anymore.
I needed her like I needed oxygen, I loved her like I'd never loved anyone before. This alien feeling, which made my heart soar and my stomach fill with butterflies, it was all consuming, punch-in-the-gut love between two consenting adults. Raleigh Storm had turned me into a sober, monogamous man, who didn't need to shove thousands of pounds worth of cocaine up his hooter, just to feel...something. Being with her made me go from feeling nothing to feeling fucking everything, she made me whole, and that was enough.
Our story from the beginning was messy and unconventional. A rollercoaster I didn’t want to get off. She made me fall in love with life again, she was my second chance at righting the wrongs of the past. She was my fucking redemption.
1
Brody
1 Year Ago
The nightmare is back with a vengeance, the same one that has haunted me for fucking years. The boys can’t know, no one can, not this time. To them, to the fans and to everyone else, I am Brody Hart, from Rancid Vengeance. The flamboyant, outgoing, crazy motherfucker, with the split tongue and the tattooed cock. The guitarist, with the bad boy reputation, who parties all night, the one who works hard, plays harder and fucks like a rock star.
No one needs to see this fucking sweat drenched, snivelling wreck at two o’clock in the morning. They need to see my lively, fun-loving, crazy alter-ego Snake, playing guitar, in my element, bouncing all over the stage. The one who shows the fans a good fucking time, gives them the show they deserve and gives them their money’s worth. Not this scared, vulnerable, fucked up, man-child, sitting in the corner of the room, bare chested and clucking for something to take the edge off, to calm my racing thoughts. Something to shake the image of my ten-year-old self, finding my crack whore, junkie mother dead, with a needle hanging from her arm. The acrid smell, the cold, clammy feel of her skin as I touched her.
It feels as if I am that scared ten-year-old boy again, and I do what I always do when this happens. I race to the toilet to empty the contents of my stomach and vomit violently into the toilet bowl. I lean heavily against the wall, pressing my cheek to the cold tiles to cool my damp, heated skin. Fuck, I need a hit, so bad. Just a taste of that delicious white powder to obliterate my fucked-up thoughts, to quiet my inner demons and find the true peace I deserve.
The truth is, I was born an addict. I was fucked from birth. Everything about me is addicted in some way. My personality, my constant need to get off my face and my extreme
ly unhealthy obsession with self-destruction. I wipe my mouth and splash my face with cold water as I head back into the bedroom. I find myself reaching for my phone and dial the only person who can talk me down from this ledge I seem to find myself on.
“Hello?” he says in his gruff voice that I have become accustomed to over the past fourteen years, and I clear my throat.
“Len? It’s me.”
I try to disguise the waver in my voice. I fucking hate it when he worries and knowing I’m the cause, makes me feel even worse.
“Do you know what fucking time it is, boy?” he growls, his voice laced with sleep. I find myself smiling at Lenny’s candour.
“I’m really sorry to call you so late. I’ll make it up to you, old man. How about that Jaguar X-Type, I’ve been promising you?”
He chuckles throatily.
“You know the way to my heart, son. Now, my old man intuition tells me, you didn’t fucking call me in the middle of the night just to exchange pleasantries?”
I smile to myself, at his brutally honest words, as I jump off the bed awkwardly.
“I-I had the fucking nightmare again, Len. Bollocks! I was fine, at least the drugs blocked it out, but now- I’m feeling it, to the nth fucking degree and I don’t like it, not one fucking bit.” I say with a tight jaw, and I pound the heel of my hand against my temple.
“I can’t deal, Len. I need to get high, fuck me.” I curse, as I frantically pace the floor, like a caged fucking animal.
“Listen to me, son, you’re doing so well. Nance and me are so fucking proud of you. You don’t need to shove that shit up your nose anymore, B. You are stronger than this, it’s been six months, that’s an achievement. Remember all those therapy sessions? All that time spent in rehab, it will be wasted, if you go down that road again. We don’t want that for you, you’re like a son to us; you gave us purpose after Daryl died. You gave us hope, don’t you ever forget that.”
I suddenly start to feel bad for calling and unloading on Len when it is coming up to the anniversary of their son Daryl’s death.
Daryl Dean Nicholas was Lenny and Nancy’s son. He died at the age of twenty of a heroin overdose just like my mum. I was there when he died, I was the one who found him with the needle hanging from his arm. I fell in with the wrong crowd and Daryl was part of that crowd, but he was different from all the others. He just liked to party and to have a good time. We were similar in that respect, which is why we became friends. That is why I ended up crossing paths with Lenny and Nancy. I feel an intense guilt deep in my gut every time he brings up Daryl, I know he doesn’t blame me for his death, but I can’t help thinking, why him and not me.
“Do you need me to come over, son?” he asks as softly as he can manage with his gravelly voice, from smoking forty fags a day.
“No, course not, don’t be silly, Len. I’m all good, honestly. I shouldn’t have called, I’m sorry.” I say ruefully, hoping to fuck that I sound at least a little convincing.
“Oi! Don’t you ever fucking apologise for needing to talk to someone, son. It’s good that you decided to pick up the phone rather than going to score. That’s progress right there and I’m so bloody proud of you for that.” There is a hint of gratification in his voice, and I smile at his sentiment.
“Don’t you go getting soft on me there, old man!” I tease. I always do this whenever shit starts to get serious, I throw in a joke.
Back in school, I was the class clown, the joker, and the wheeler-dealer, all rolled into one. All to disguise the fact that I was going home to an empty fridge and to find my mum more than likely on the sofa, strung out, with a needle hanging from her arm and one of her many boyfriends zipping up and leaving. I shake that particular unwanted memory away, as Lenny’s throaty chuckle fills my ears.
“What have I told you, you cheeky little fucker, less of the old! You’re not too old for a clip round the ear, boy!” he chastises, but I know he doesn’t mean it. The sound of Lenny’s wheezing cough has me feeling more than slightly panicked.
“Fucking hell, Len, you sound like you’re hacking up a lung there! You good?”
I try to disguise the alarm in my voice, concerned for the only father figure I have ever known.
“All good, son, don’t you worry about me, there’s life in the old dog yet!”
I laugh.
“Ah, so you do admit you’re old?” I say cheekily.
“Fuck off! Go and get some sleep, B. Come by the club tomorrow, we’ll have a proper chat then. I’ve got a thirty-five-year-old single malt that needs drinking. Are you sure you don’t need me to come over, son? I can be there in twenty minutes, fifteen if I put my foot down. Just don’t tell Nancy! You know how much she worries,” he asks again softly, and I smile to myself.
“Yeah, I’m sure, thanks, you get back to Nancy, give her a kiss from me. I think I’ll try to get some sleep. I’ll catch you tomorrow, Len, bye.”
I hang up, grab myself a glass of water and make my way back to bed. I lay there, staring at the ceiling for the longest time, going over and over the past in my head. What was so wrong with me, that my own mum didn’t even care about me? I torture myself for what seems like hours. But in reality, it is only minutes, and I am resigned to the fact that it is just going to be like any other night, I can’t sleep. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get my brain to switch off. My mind is like an internet browser with forty-four thousand tabs open…all at fucking once. I am lucky if I get two or three hours a night these days.
Before I know what I’m doing, I pick up my phone and dial the one person I’ve been told time and time again to stay the fuck away from.
"Kev, its Brody." I say rather apprehensively. He is the last person I wanted to call, but I need a fix so fucking badly, my mouth is watering, and I can literally taste it. That chat with Lenny didn’t help and my body is craving just one last hit.
Kevin Adams is my old drug dealer from Brixton, my old stomping ground. We used to hang out together in the early days, before Rancid Vengeance made it big. He was never really a close friend, simply an acquaintance. He just someone who Daryl and I happened to get high with occasionally. He was someone who could supply us with what we needed for a good time.
"Brody, my man. Long time, no speak." He greets me a little too enthusiastically, and I pause.
Do I really want to go back to my old ways?
"Wondered how long it would be. The word on the street is, you're clean."
I run my hand over my head.
"Yeah, you heard right, it’s been a while, but I just need a little something to take the edge off, man."
I try to sound nonchalant, but I’m fucking desperate. I need…crave oblivion; I need to forget, just for a little while.
"I've been warned specifically not to sell to you; I’ve been threatened, rather graphically, by your boy Sam if I remember right. Something about cutting off my dick and shoving it down my throat.”
Fucking Sam.
“I’d like to keep my tackle intact, thank you very much, so I'm going to have to pass and say no, man. It could damage my business and my reputation, I'm sorry."
I growl. His fucking reputation? He’s a drug dealer for fucks sake!
"Look, Kev, I'm fucking desperate. No one needs to know. It will be between you and me, I swear. You know I always pay you well, please, I wouldn't ask if I didn't need it, come on." I try my hardest to persuade him. Fucking junkies will say just about anything to score. “I was your best customer at one point, I’ve helped you out more than once, come on, mate, please, you know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it.”
I look up to the ceiling. Fuck me; I am just about holding it together.
“Alright, alright, but this stays between us, man. No one can find out about this, not even Sam.”
He sounds genuinely terrified, and I roll my eyes.
“You have my word, thanks, man, really appreciate it, usual spot in say…” I pause to look at my smartwatch on my bedside table, “thirty m
inutes?”
He sniffs.
“Works for me, Hart, usual?”
My whole body is vibrating at the prospect of finally getting a hit, after all this time.
“Make it double my usual, Kev. I’ll pay you twice what you’d normally get,” I bargain with him, doing my best to sweeten the deal.
“You’ve got yourself a deal. Thirty minutes and don’t be late, Brody.”
With those words, he hangs up. I dress quickly and casually in combat trousers, motorcycle boots, a white vest, and a black leather jacket. I grab my motorcycle helmet and leave the house, as quietly as I can manage. Sam and Peyton don’t need to know about this. Just one more hit then I’m back on the wagon.
I make my way down to the garage and walk casually over to my bike. My electric blue Honda CB1100XX, my baby. She is a beast of a bike - a four-cylinder, six speed - and she goes from zero to sixty in ten seconds. I bought her with my first month’s wages, when the band made it big. It’s not about the extravagance or how fast she goes, it’s about the sentiment and sense of achievement I felt when I first bought her. Sam and I have our bikes in common, but unlike Sam, I ride to escape. I ride to feel the road beneath my feet and the freedom that the open road brings. The bike is an extension of my body, the speed and the blur of the horizon whizzing past is fucking exhilarating to me, there is nothing else like it.