New Inspired Muse: Texas Redemption, #3

By April Murdock

Wally Chastain is wildly talented an his fans idolize him and the music his band makes. He's happy when he's writing but performing is the rush that keeps him alive.

Shiloh Whitefeather is a free spirit who gets as much as she can out of life every day. Optimism and being a light for others is part of who she is in spite of the difficulties she's facing.

An unusual electricity vibrates between her and the rockstar gorgeous man she meets by chance at her second job. He looks familiar, but she can't place him. They swap numbers and she doesn't recognize his name. She wouldn't since it's fake.

Unexpectedly, she hears from him. She'd been sure she'd never hear from him again which was mainly the reason she'd given him her number. While being the lifeline he needs from doubt and loneliness, she's opening up to him more than she everr has to anyone else. Money's still tight for her, but at least her mother's treatment is going well. She's so thankful for that and also the understanding from Wally who is becoming her best friend.

But he isn't the person she thinks he is. When the secret of his true identity comes out everything falls apart. He's lost his inspiration and she's lost her voice of reason. Can she forgive his lies even when she finds out why he kept the truth from her? Can she really be in love with someone she thinks she doesn't know?

Everything's bigger in Texas. Even redemption.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sweet River Publishing
• Release date: Dec 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223343196

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The video started on Wally Chastain’s iPad, and he wiggled the end of his cord to make sure his EarPods were plugged in all the way. The activity he was about to engage in didn’t amount to anything wrong, per se, but it wasn’t something he wanted to broadcast, either. He’d catch a lot less flak if none of his bandmates knew what he was up to, so he wanted to keep this on the down low.

Ladies and gentlemen, the announcer spoke enthusiastically over the PA system inside his video. Fresh from their Grammy win at the Staples Center, please welcome the Bastions!

Through his buds, the intense, high-pitched shriek of his favorite guitar echoed out off the stage and over the wall-to-wall bodies within The Wiltern historic theater in Los Angeles. Then came what Wally most sought, the wild anticipatory roar of the crowd. Even though this was a recording of a live event from six months ago, the love and approval of his fans washed over him all over again. He closed his eyes, soaking it up like a dry sponge dropped in a bucket of water.

And luckily, reliving the high he got off his concerts did what Wally hoped it would. It cheered him up. His own voice came through the speakers next, the mid-range baritone that a reporter from Rolling Stone magazine had once referred to as both smooth as silk and delightfully rough as sandpaper at the exact same time.

As the first lyrics from the Bastions’ number one Billboard hit, Dangerous and Disdainful, rode through his eardrums, Wally drank in how his voice cascaded over the sounds of his electric guitar, Jorge’s bass guitar, Sammy’s drum beat, and Lee’s violin. Their rock band had skyrocketed to the top of the charts by being a bit experimental with their sound. Lee’s violin was an element few hard rockers ever tried, let alone used on the regular, so the Bastions had stood out from the rest right from the beginning.

But Wally knew it wasn’t just their willingness to think outside of the box that made their band so successful. It was how his guys blended together, how all their songs remained unique because he himself wrote the music and lyrics, and the fact that they’d been discovered so young that they’d broken a bunch of the tried-and-tested rules without knowing any better. The four of them had started by plinking out riffs inside Wally’s garage in his hometown of Lubbock, Texas during high school and had then skyrocketed once they’d been discovered.

Ironically, Wally had been the only one with any real training as a vocalist. He’d been in both his school’s cheesy chorus and his parents’ church choir, though Lee and Jorge had each been members of the orchestra and Sammy had been playing in the marching band. When they all raised their voices in song, it created this natural synthesis that sounded rich and vibrant. Wanting to stay close, they all attended Texas Tech and over their weekends, Wally had shared his compositions with them.

They learned to harmonize and to play their individual instruments in a way that complemented their other bandmates. Over the next four years, their friendships grew closer knit and the art of their craft increased. By the time they were seniors obtaining their various degrees, they were rehearsing together every night and performing at several local talent shows where they were not only winning prize ribbons, but audience members were posting their music up on YouTube. This exposure led to a hoity-toity talent manager from Hollywood appearing at one of their small venues. Wally had been thrilled to hear the magic words.

I’d like to extend to you an offer of representation.

Wally’s professional music career had coalesced into this perfect storm that just… worked. The camaraderie, the music, the rush of performing, the awards and accolades, it had become not just his bread and butter but his whole world. His life grew to encompass the music industry and everything that came with it, and he’d gotten such a kick out of working, playing, and rocking hard. But now, after a decade of fast living and countless hits within the hard rock genre, the storm had quit being so perfect. The bloom was off the rose and the luster no longer shone as brightly.

Why?

Because the staple of his creativity, his ability to compose and write all their songs, had abandoned him. Wally had lost his way. The music was gone. Just poof! As if an evil sorcerer had swung a magic wand, stealing away the lifestyle he so dearly loved.

Now, every time he took his pencil to his empty reams of sheet music, all he could draw was a blank. This was something he’d never experienced before, and frankly, it felt terrifying. Devastating. Career ending. Wally Chastain had become known for being a singer/songwriter as well as a guitarist. But without that skillset, where would all the cheers and applause go? What would become of all the fame and riches he felt so dependent on?

And that didn’t even take into account the Bastions as a band. His mates were his best buds who relied on him to come up with the melodies and songs they’d become renowned for, and if he could no longer pull that particular rabbit from the hat? Gloom and doom, baby. Gloom and doom.

Wally had grown accustomed to his millions, and as a kid who’d been raised just this side of poverty, he didn’t want to lose that. He was also used to spending his money almost as soon as he made it. He remembered those undergrad days when he’d survived on a constant diet of hopes, dreams, and ramen noodle soup. It’d been mobilizing but also scary not knowing where his next meal would come from. It was one thing to live hand to mouth in your late teens and early twenties, but at thirty-one, the idea didn’t appeal to him anymore. Not even a little bit.

So, he had to keep going. Had to bulldoze his way through this horrible writer’s block.

Somehow.

Tension and worry over his tenuous circumstances had made the painful stiffness in his neck and shoulders return to boulder-hard levels, so he attempted to relax as he continued to listen to his set back in LA. Except that everything went dimmer all of a sudden, forcing Wally to open his eyes… and mutter an oath under his breath. Sammy loomed over him, his velvety dark features twisting into a smile as he leered down at him sardonically.

"Man, are you watching a recording of yourself? Sammy laughed, the shaking of his head causing the gold chain around his neck to glint even in the low light within their tour bus. That’s pretty narcissistic, even for you."

"One, we’re all up there on that stage, so that means I’m not a narcissist for watching us play, Wally defended himself, though he doubted he was convincing anyone. Automatically, his right thumb found the braided black leather cuff he always wore and dragged his lucky guitar pick out half an inch before sliding it back home. He caught Sammy watching this nervous habit of his with a smirk and halted his movements. And two, shut up."

Sammy cackled with laughter, drawing the attention of Jorge and Lee. Awesome. Wally really had hoped to avoid this, but apparently, that wasn’t meant to be, especially when Sammy called out, Hey, you two, get a load of ‘I’m my own biggest fan’ over here.

This had been a running joke between all them for years now. The four of them each had their own public personas. Lee was the Korean guy with hair down to his shoulders who had the whole quiet and tormented musician thing going. Which wasn’t actually true, by the way. Lee was just more of an introvert than the rest of them.

Jorge was the bilingual flirt who had women flocking around him wherever he went. The impression stayed close to reality in Jorge’s case. He’d dated more fellow songstresses and celebrities than anyone could sneeze at.

Sammy was the larger-than-life yet cool-as-a-cucumber member of the group. When there were disagreements between any of them, he also served as mediator and peacemaker in chief. It was a good thing Sammy’s degree had been in psychology, unlike Wally himself, who’d only earned a BA in Music. He’d put his money on a single outcome without hedging his bets one iota. For him, it was Russian roulette. All or nothing.

Which seemed super shortsighted at the moment.

Wally was seen as the headman of the band, the main face of it. In fact, the band’s moniker the Bastions was a loose play on his surname of Chastain. While the entire band could be found in numerous photoshoots and the like, it was Wally who was the household name. He’d appeared by himself on SNL, on the Late Show, and on the Today Show—luckily those weren’t back to back. He’d done full interviews with lots of pics for GQ, Men’s Health, People, and Rolling Stone magazine. If he went anywhere without a disguise, he’d be instantly recognized. It was the price of fame.

And Wally loved it.

Mostly.

He loved the perks of people knowing who he was without him having to explain. He loved receiving all the backstage passes, all the invites to the VIP rooms in clubs, and always being welcomed into any fancy eating establishment, the reservations everyone else had to make weeks or months ahead of time unnecessary for him. Being the center of attention and enjoying the luxury of so many liking him was sort of his thing.

Hence, Sammy’s none-too-subtle reference to his narcissism. Not that Wally genuinely was a true narcissist, or at least he didn’t think so. He just sincerely enjoyed garnering other people’s approval and praise. It might be somewhat of an addiction, if he was honest. Which gave him all the more reason to feel stressed at his creative dry spell.

Wally was saved from any further heckling by the booming bellow of their bus driver, Charlie. Strap in, crew. I’m taking off.

Clicking the off button on the iPad, Wally sat up from the pull-out couch and took one of the upright seats in a hurry. All his bandmates followed suit. When Charlie said he planned to take off, he never joked. Either you got your behind latched in or you paid the consequences, something each of them had done at one time or the other. Charlie didn’t believe in gentle accelerations or gradual stops. He drove the bus like a sportscar, and woe be to anyone who wasn’t adequately prepared.

The band might’ve fired Charlie a long time ago for these antics, but they didn’t. He took care of them when they needed it, kind of like a den mother. If that den mother was six foot five, bald-headed, so burly his visage was more beard than face, and could bench press four hundred pounds. Often, he also served as their first layer of security. So when he threw the key in the ignition and the bus didn’t move, all four of them noticed. Their heads came up in unison, waiting for the telltale rumble of the massive diesel engine to catch.

It didn’t.

Whoa. Is there a problem up there? Sammy asked without looking directly at anyone. The whole reason the band rode in a tour bus rather than flew to most of their venues was due to his insane issues with airsickness and flyer’s anxiety. To say that Sammy wasn’t a jetsetter was a vast understatement. When they had a gig overseas, Wally always had to dose his buddy with sedatives just to get him through the flight. Fortunately for Sammy, Burt Cossack, the band’s manager, kept scheduled concerts off American soil to as much of a minimum as possible.

Rather than answering, Charlie yanked on the latch for the folding doors and lumbered outside. A minute passed, then two. Wally had been about to go back to his iPad when their driver emerged. Gotta call a mechanic. Bus is broken down.

What? Seriously? Jorge asked, frowning. Their bass guitarist hated being at a standstill. He stayed a ball of energy who didn’t feel comfortable unless he was on the go.

Serious as a heart attack, ensign. Charlie related everything to ranks within the Star Trek franchise. If someone left him irritated or unimpressed, he called them by a lower rank like ensign or lieutenant. If they’d pushed his buttons too far, they could even become a cadet. Being a commander meant they’d landed on his good side. But it almost took an act of congress for him to refer to someone as a captain. Once, though, when Wally had arranged for a woman Charlie had a crush on to get front row center seats to one of the rare Dolly Parton concerts, Charlie honored him with the rank of admiral for an entire blissful weekend.

The clincher was that where they were—Amarillo—was