Rocked (The Everyday Heroes World) - Julia Wolf

One

Devon

Wide open road lay in front of me. Nothing but cactuses—or was it cacti?—for company. A few tumbleweeds got kicked up in clouds of dust as I blew through the desert. I hadn’t even known tumbleweeds were real until today. I was an east coast city boy; tumbleweeds were set dressing for old westerns and Wile E. Coyote, as far as I was concerned.

On I drove, no destination in mind. For the first time in my adult life, I had no one to tell me where to be, no appointments or schedules to abide, with only myself as company.

Turned out, I was an insufferable twat.

I was on the run, but I couldn’t run from the thoughts skittering like dried leaves in my brain.

Creek...your album failed. Crackle...you’re practically a has-been at thirty-five. Crunch...you’ve become a caricature of your former self. Crumble...you’ve been gone for three weeks and not a damn soul has missed you.

A hundred more miles, and I’d be in California. Then I’d have to decide: keep on to LA and pick up my life where I left off, or head north and continue to explore while I figured my shit out.

The wise answer would be get back to work—produce a new album, wipe my fans’ memories clean of the last pile of crap I put out. Thing was…that had been the intention of the last couple albums I’d churned out, and they’d been uninspired, bland, beginner’s work.

I was Devon fucking Chambers. I didn’t do bland. And I was far from a beginner. Uninspired though...yeah, that was spot on.

A wave of fatigue swooped over me. It’d been a while since I’d gotten a proper night’s sleep. Laying down for a few hours in roadside motels with threadbare sheets and paper-thin walls wasn’t exactly restful. But I was Jack Kerouacing it, seeking adventure and real experiences on the road. Looking for something.

Something other than bright lights, luxury accommodations, pretty party people, the same ol’, same damn ol’.

Staving off sleep, I blasted the air conditioner in my face. After a while, that didn’t do the trick anymore. I needed caffeine and to move my body. I started looking for a place to stop when the sun caught on a fifties-style silver diner just off the narrow highway.

The parking lot was covered in a thick layer of dust—probably everywhere in the desert was. A few cars kept my SUV company. Fewer people lowered my chance of being recognized. The last thing I wanted to encounter right now was a fan. Scratch that—I’d take a fan over the press any day.

I found an empty booth in the back, grabbing one of the newspapers stacked on the end of the long Formica counter on my way. A waitress stopped by my table as soon as my ass settled on the glittery, red vinyl cushion.

She was younger than I expected to be working in a diner in the middle of nowhere. Kinda cute, in a waitress-in-the-middle-of-nowhere way.

“Hey, I’m Megan. S’up?” Her jaw worked her gum in a cow-like manner. Not cute.

“Hey, Megan. I’m gonna need your biggest cup of coffee. Maybe an IV. Just pump that shit into my veins.” I cocked a grin, trying on my charm for size. It had been a while since I’d used it, and I wondered if it still worked.

She jerked her chin toward the upside-down mug beside my right wrist. “Only got one size. Fresh out of IVs. Anything else?”

I snorted a laugh and flipped my mug over so it could be filled. “I should probably eat while I’m here.” I ordered eggs, bacon, and toast, and Megan filled my cup until it overflowed. I didn’t complain. I was so tired, I had to stop myself from slurping the spilled liquid off the table.

A couple years ago, I would have been snorting a line of blow off the table. A couple years ago, I was even more of an insufferable twat.

Two things served me a nice slice of humble pie and opened my eyes to where my life was headed.

Aforementioned shitty records. Tanking sales. Empty seats at concerts. Stadium tours downgraded to clubs. General waning interest in me as a public figure.

Ex-wife got married and had a kid. There was more to that story, but too much to unpack in a dusty diner in Nevada. Way too much.

Maybe that was more than two things. All I knew was, clicking open a picture of my ex-wife’s newborn baby had me waking up and taking a long, hard look at where I