Lyrics that Burn, page 1
Lyrics that Burn
Survival Records book 1
Leah Steele
Lyrics that Burn by Leah Steele
Copyright © 2023 by Leah Steele
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review, and except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
For permissions contact:
leahsteeleauthor@gmail.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, 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.
Cover by Pretty in Ink Creations
Contents
Dedication
Join Leah Steele’s Readers’ Group
TWs for Survival Records
1. Raina
2. Raina
3. Raina
4. Raina
5. Tristan
6. Raina
7. Raina
8. Nash
9. Raina
10. Raina
11. Keaton
12. Raina
13. Blake
14. Raina
15. Raina
16. Raina
17. Keaton
18. Raina
19. Raina
20. Tristan
21. Raina
22. Tristan
23. Raina
24. Raina
25. Raina
26. Raina
27. Nash
28. Raina
29. Raina
30. Raina
31. Raina
32. Raina
33. Tristan
Continue Raina’s story in Riffs that Ruin
A note from Leah
Books by Leah Steele
About Leah Steele
For all my book girlies who wish they had a tall, silent, broody drummer who knew how to use his sticks…
Stay up to date with Leah Steele by joining her Facebook readers’ group, Leah Steele’s Ravens. Ask questions, get first looks at new books/series, and have fun with other book lovers!
Join Leah Steele’s Ravens
Sign up for Leah Steele’s Newsletter
Spotify Playlist for Lyrics that Burn
Please Read!
The Survival Record series is a reverse harem themed book, meaning the female main character will end up with three or more love interests. Our FMC struggles with a lot of dark thoughts… Please keep your mental health as a top priority. This book might not be for you, and if it’s not, I thank you profusely for your interest! Maybe one of my other books will be perfect for you.
Seeing as how this is a series, Lyrics that Burn will end on a cliffhanger. You will possibly be left with more questions than you started with.
Please continue reading if you would like to know the possible triggers (or a shopping list) in this book. Be prepared to find self-h@rm, su!c!de attempt, dr*g use, mentions of past s. ab*se, past mentions of non-con TOP, mental health challenges, anxiety, depression and PTSD.
Deep vibrations shake the walls, drawing me away from my escape. The numbness is wearing off, lifting like a cloud. My fingers twitch in an attempt to wrap my arms around it, as if I could hug it to myself and keep its mind altering powers. Yet I remain sunken into the couch I’m stretched out on, staring at the ceiling.
It’s the same routine I cycle through before every show. And every time I find myself disappointed that my reality hasn’t changed when the high wears off.
They say insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results… I must be insane.
Taking in a deep breath, I let it out slowly in hopes it gives me the strength to move on with my day. The sounds of the bass leaking through the ceiling temper as the final notes of my opening act fade into nothing but a memory.
Moments later, laughter floats in from the hallway outside my door. I know who it is instantly. The alternative band my label—Lexington Productions—chose to open for me, noisily making their way to the greenroom. I know they’ve made it when the sharp screams of excited groupies drown out the other sounds filtering in from the stadium.
Technically, the groupies hold backstage passes to meet me. But I’ve abandoned the idea that they won’t toss me under a bus for the chance to see one of the attractive openers instead. It’s happened more times than I care to remember.
Creaks and moans come from above me, the telltale sounds of the roadies setting up the stage. Damn it. Time to get going.
With a groan, I push up from the couch, taking my time to stretch before moving to the mirror to check my makeup. My team left thirty minutes ago, knowing my routine well. I need the silence before a performance to get into the right headspace.
At least, that’s what I told them. I suppose it’s no longer the truth.
Once upon a time, when I first started, I needed the calm serenity before I performed. Stage fright made me nauseous the more I hyped myself up, and the only thing that helped was noise canceling headphones. The quiet peacefulness was something I needed to push myself in front of a crowd. Now, though, I need the time to enjoy the last of my downers before taking the uppers that get me through a performance.
A quick swipe of the lipstick left on the dressing table has my lips pucker perfect. The label is obsessed with me posing for pictures with the not-so-classic duck face. Somehow they dubbed it as me being pucker perfect. A term that makes me want to roll my eyes every time.
Thud. Thud. Thud. The knock at my door stands out from the muted sounds coming from the arena. “Two minutes,” a roadie calls out.
Fuck.
My reality of time is passing slower than it should. Or would it be faster? Either way, I should’ve realized how close I’m cutting it. The downer must’ve been stronger than I thought. The downside of never having a consistent dealer and moving from city to city constantly is that you don’t always know the quality of the product you’re getting.
Now that I’m paying attention, I can make out the impatient cries and shouts as the crowd grows restless for me to take the stage. Usually, when the loud chants of my name reach the dressing room, I know it’s my cue.
Closing my eyes, I take another deep breath, willing my anxiety to hold off until later. Six more shows until the tour is over. I only have a few more to make it through, and then I can take a break.
Raina. Raina. Raina.
Their demands grow stronger. I can almost feel the walls shaking with the strength of it.
With a sigh, I reach for my purse. Tossing my phone on the table to free some space, I dig into the bag, searching for the tiny vial of coke. I’m not even sure why I carry the blasted device with me. It’s not like anyone who cares about me calls or texts or reaches out in any way.
He stopped doing that long ago.
Damn it, Raina. You don’t have time for those memories today. Or any day. Forget him already.
Opening the vial, I dump a portion onto the dressing table and straighten it into a line with a credit card. Using a rolled up hundred-dollar bill to snort it, I take my beloved upper and embrace the lifeline it offers like it’s the only thing keeping me alive. The tabloid who said I’ve lost all sense of class clearly didn’t know I use a hundy. It’s not like I use a single dollar bill. Come on.
Rubbing the remnants of the white powder from under my nose, I double check I don’t have any makeup under my eyes and straighten my skintight clothes. The outfit screams sex appeal while somehow still trying to give an air of wholesome. It’s a complete oxymoron, and I’m not sure who Lexington Productions is trying to fool with it. I’ve asked repeatedly to change my style, and I’m ignored every time, telling me they know what the industry wants.
It’s total and complete bullshit. Many performers before me changed their image part way through their careers. And they were better off for it. My label simply enjoys controlling every aspect of my life. They love suppressing me into a tiny, suffocating box that leaves me devoid of any happiness. They’ve even stolen my joy of performing.
Power and energy course through my veins, giving me a false sense of being alive. It’s all the manufactured excitement I need to push through this performance. My heels clack against the stairs as I run to the upper level where the stage is. A pulsing beat announces my impending doom.
Perhaps not today. But eventually this will all be the death of me.
I barely make it in time, the stage manager giving me a disapproving frown as I pass them, reaching for the bedazzled microphone. Licking across my teeth, I work my face muscles, getting them ready to hold the fake smile for the duration of my performance. The roadie rolls his eyes as he hands off the equipment and walks away without a word.
At this point, I’m not surprised my crew hates me. It started off with the label spreading nasty rumors about me, and now I’ve simply embraced the drugged out popstar diva persona. I enjoy keeping everyone at arm’s length instead of the fake friendships they used to give me. Nothing in showbiz is real, not even me.
My band takes their positions, and the crowd screams. The chants of my name rise to a whole new level and once more, I have to close my eyes to center myself. I listen to the way their voices rise and fall, taking their energy into myself, searching for the joy I once held. It’
With a dazzling smile, I waltz onto the stage until I find my mark mapped out on the floor. Turning to the crowd, I give them the pucker perfect pose they want, knowing cameras are going off all over the stadium.
For a moment, I scramble to think about what city we’re in. Nashville, Indianapolis, Columbus… My heart stops, and my breath suddenly catches in my throat as I stumble over what venue we could be in, then the realization hits, we nixed that line in favor of a fanbase nickname. We had no other choice when things got so bad that I had to cope by numbing myself with drugs.
“Good evening, Storm Chasers! Are you ready?” I call into the microphone. The crowd goes wild, and this time my smile is genuine.
Strutting across the stage, I wave to the fans in the front row. Their screams swell, and while I can’t see through the shining lights, I can imagine the way they jump in front of their seats. Striking a pose once more, I hold up my fingers, letting the band know it’s their cue. The catchy melody takes hold of the audience from the start, and the moment I open my mouth to sing, they’re entranced.
After parties are the worst, made even more unbearable when the label demands I participate. They’re crowded. Filled not only with the who’s who of the industry but also crashed by groupies and the occasional paparazzi that slip through security at the door. It’s loud and, more times than not, sweaty. I won’t even mention the debilitating flashbacks I now get.
The only upside is the flowing availability of getting my hands on more drugs. I already popped a Xanax the moment I was off stage, and the second I walked through the door here, I grabbed a jack and coke. Mixing the two is a big no no. But I like to live life on the edge of not knowing anything that’s going on around me.
Numbness is my new home. Fuck anyone who tries to get in the middle of that. I’m not afraid of death as a side effect. It sounds like a nice reprieve.
“Scored some oxy,” Nick, the lead singer of Napalm Delights, announces, dangling the clear baggie filled with pink pills. He does it in such a taunting way before dropping it to the coffee table between the couch I’m sitting on and the one he flops onto. I’m not sure why he’s even here. I used to open for his band when I first started out, but we aren’t touring together now. Thank god.
And while I’m thinking about it, I’m not sure why I was ever opening for him. Our music styles completely clash. That being said, I’d much rather move into rock like he has instead of being stuck in the overly bubbly role I’ve been shoved into. As long as I can stay as far away from him as possible.
His band mates take the remaining seats, and my hope of being surrounded by nobodies is dashed. I’d take simple hopeful musicians crashing the party any day over these guys. Brad drapes an arm over my shoulders and drags me into his side. The cloying scent of cloves overwhelms me, and I want to throw up. He’s making it impossible to remain numb. My only solace is that I chose the edge of the couch. Now no one can sit on my other side.
Or so I thought. Russ, the band’s lead guitarist and self proclaimed master finger banger, perches himself on the armrest. The man doesn’t know shit. Images of him using his fingers on me try to claim precedence, but I shove them to the back of my mind. Now isn’t the time to lose myself in my worst memories.
“Smile!” Curtis yells, making me jump. The flash on his phone goes off before I’m able to hide myself from view as he takes a selfie of us sitting here. A glance at the coffee table shows the baggie of pills resting right in front of me, and it wouldn’t surprise me if they planned it that way. Not to mention the rumors that will spread like wildfire. Raina and Napalm Delights, Together Again! Raina and Her Struggles With Addiction. Popstar Falls From Grace.
Whatever. I can’t control the conclusions people jump to. It’s not like they haven’t been fed a false narrative from almost the beginning. I hate this industry.
Curtis tucks his phone away and snatches the baggie, taking a pill before passing it to his bandmates. “How’s it going, Raina? We’ve missed having you around.” His tone is teasing, but I know exactly what he means and the thoughts flashing across his mind. He’s sadistic as fuck and gets off on the screams of his partner.
I’m saved from having to answer by Alyssa striding up with a starry-eyed youth trailing behind her. She’s a personal thorn in my side, the mediary between me and the person who holds my career by the fucking nuts. AKA my manager. “Wait here until Mr. Lexington is ready for you.” The girl smiles up at her like she hung the moon in the sky. She exudes innocence, something that won’t last long. Not if she’s waiting to meet the owner of the label.
My manager from Hell runs her hand over the silky strands of hair on the young woman’s head in a soothing manner. “You’ll be safe here with Napalm Delights until he’s ready to see you.” I can’t help my scoff. What a fucking lie that is.
Before Alyssa walks away, her gaze flashes to me, giving me a narrowed glare. It’s clear she’s telling me to shut my fucking mouth, and nothing good will come from me saying anything. I’ve weathered that lesson many times over and still haven’t learned to keep my mouth shut. I try, but my brain and mouth seem to lack the ability to communicate.
The young girl, probably around fifteen, drops onto the couch with a coy smile and a blush staining her cheeks. Straight long brown hair frames her face and there’s a sparkle to her eyes that says she’s never experienced hardship in her life. She’s not cut out for this business. She’ll be chewed up and spit out, which is evident by the way she grips the clutch strung over her shoulder and drags it onto her lap like it’s a shield that will protect her.
Nick leans into her and drapes an arm on the couch behind her. She looks at him with stars in her eyes and her lips part. When nothing comes out, Nick takes that as his cue. He brushes the back of his knuckles along her cheek and down her jaw. “And who’s this pretty thing sitting next to me?” His tone is too flirtatious for someone her age. But that’s never stopped him before. He said the same thing to me the first time I sat next to him.
Back then it had butterflies swarming, now it turns my stomach like I’ve taken a sip of sour milk. I focus on my breathing, refusing to show the band surrounding me any emotion. They don’t deserve to know the part they played in destroying my life.
“I’m Carmen,” she whispers, her gaze dropping to her lap, unable to hold eye contact with him.
Nick places a finger under her chin and tilts her head until she’s looking at him again. “That’s a pretty name, Carmen. Are you a singer?”
Her face lights up with a smile. It’s easy to see how she caught the attention of the owner. “I am. Mr. Lexington is interviewing me to possibly take me on as his personal managing artist.” The fool is beaming. She thinks it’s an honor. He only takes on one artist a year after all. Nobody seems to point out it’s almost always a young, beautiful girl.
“Is that so,” Nick coos. His bandmates perk up, listening to every word, but they’re happy enough to let him take the lead. “I bet he’ll snatch you right up.”
My stomach turns like the sea on a stormy night, and I have to fixate on a point on the other side of the room to make sure I don’t snap. It’s going to happen all over again. Another innocent soul ripped to shreds. First by the owner of the label, then by whichever bands he decides to give her to as a “reward”.
It’s not right. Someone needs to put a stop to the cycle. It’s the same thought I have every time I watch this same scene play out, and I always fail. Maybe today will be different.
As if sensing my train of thought, or perhaps it’s because they’ve seen it happen before, Russ’ hand lands on my shoulder, keeping me in my seat. At the same time, Brad’s hand slides onto my thigh, teasing under the hem of my skirt. I can’t let their intimidation stop me.
“Carmen,” I call, gaining her attention. The brightness in her eyes seems to dim. I’m not a sexy rock god like the boys giving her attention. “You don’t want the attention of Mr. Lexington. You don’t kno—“
