Hound Dog’s Howl (Saint’s Outlaws MC: Memphis Chapter #1)

Chapter 1

Nash

I t was one thing to be screwed by the prettiest little thing in a bar, it was another to be screwed by someone you trusted. Especially when it comes to money.

Especially when they were the ones that were responsible for your career and making sure you made the lifestyle you earned. We’re all human! We get back what we put in, correct? Or is that the lie we’re all told at the beginning of life?

I stood in the recording studio, thumbing through the endless music that was written for me, because God forbid I didn’t know what I wanted to sing or what I thought my fans wanted to listen to. When I signed on to the recording company, I wanted to be authentic. I was the young kid that was plucked from the streets because I grabbed the ear of the right person at the right time.

Fast forward a few years later, I had become a puppet that was controlled by money. My voice became controlled by those behind the scenes. I wasn’t singing what I wanted but couldn’t argue or everything I had earned would be taken away. I helped with my family, and Pop’s health would be taken away. I didn’t know where to go from there.

I scanned through the songs in my hands and nothing was jumping at me. That was until I found a few that had the same style that called to me. Between the words and the flow, it was like poetry; it was realistic.

It felt right.

I pocketed those songs because, call me a selfish bastard, but sometimes I took what I wanted.

If I was going to be controlled by someone else, play along with their games and their commitments, I was going to take something that they didn’t deserve.

Over the years, I saw things that deemed me over exaggerated, too “pent up with nerves”, or sometimes untrustworthy. When I spoke with my brother, Memphis, the night before he told me that I needed to take back control and regain my voice. He promised that he would help with anything he could.

I mean the man moved across the state and planted himself with a motorcycle club after leaving the youth shelter and “being called for a different purpose”. What do you expect from the second generation of a motorcycle club member?

Only difference is that Pop’s club decided to disband after too much shit went down with their president, and the club was beginning to be under fire. It was better to move quietly than fight to the death.

Pops told me the night before that he and Mama would be okay, they were grateful for the help over the years. Mama said she would miss being my biggest fan, but made me promise that I would sing to her. Pops said it wasn’t my job to provide for the family, that he was going to work at the plant.

I knew his health was finally catching up to him, he tried to hide it. Between the club “business” and working in the factory, his back was giving out on him and sometimes his hands would spasm. The doctors said that they were working on a diagnosis, but we had no answers.

My brother was the dreamer, the one that was soft. Me, on the other hand, I had a hard, protective heart. Even when the studio wanted more from me, attempted to soften me up, it never worked.

Thus, I was given the “bad boy” of country music personification. I was still working on my “image”, my name. I wasn’t a “chart topper” but I was getting noticed more and more. But little things proved to me that no amount of money would be worth anything in the long run.

When I called a meeting with my producer and agent, I had every intention of making my demands and telling them the direction I wanted to go in. I had every notion to tell them that I noticed them not giving all the earnings I made and was contracted to have in my accounts. Their accountant had told me that everything was there.

But I knew it wasn’t. They still had their teeth sank in me. They wanted me to make them the hottest company to work with, to attract other artists only so the studio would bleed them dry. They’d take the naive ones, the inexperienced dreamers for a ride that there was no getting off of.

I tapped my foot, waiting for them. They were making me wait, probably thinking that I would sweat it off and give in to them willingly.

I took one look in the mirror, and I didn’t like what I saw. The pale excuse of a man. The shadow of the strong man that my folks raised me to be. I didn’t look like I was, they thought I wouldn’t see, but I had a sense. I did my own digging and flipped through the pages of my contract.

I could have consulted with Eric, but I didn’t want to interrupt his busy schedule. The man would have done anything for me, he offered to help me with my contract while he was finishing law school, but I put too much damn faith that it was my break, a chance to change everything.

But there I was after so much “faith” for the people that believed in me, or so I thought. I believed so much, but when life gives you lessons and hints, you don't ignore them.

I waited for another thirty minutes before I was going to take out my phone and rip a new one with my agent. Jerry, my agent, was supposed to be there on time, as he promised that everything was going to be okay. I waited for Derek, my producer and part owner of this studio, to come with Jerry. No one else was to be in the building except us, no one else worked on the weekends.

The more time went on, I knew they were scheming. There were threats to my future, to my music. I started to pace the studio, enough to possibly burn a hole in the floor. My nerves turned into sparks of anger. I was about ready to officially walk out that door.

I was about to burn the image of “Nash Young” from the world and rip the history away from people. I wasn’t an artist anymore; I lost that part of me when the music never felt right anymore. I had a higher standard of what I wanted to be, and yet it was never fulfilled.

Part of that was my own fault, allowing someone to tell me what to do and how to do it. How to feel, how to write, that’s what they took from me. They took what being an artist, a musician was about.

As my hand reached for the exit, the twist of the knob stopped me. With a wide smile, Jerry walked in the room, arms spread wide like it was the best thing in the world to be in his presence. The man acted like he gave everything he had, like he was a god to worship.

“Nash, my boy, how’s my little rockstar?” he asked, attempting to embrace me. I wasn’t anyone’s “little rockstar" anymore. Not when it felt like they stole the music out of my soul.

I took a step back, crossing my arms in front of me. Jerry dropped his head and signaled Derek to walk in the room, like the little lap dog he was just waiting for his master to call. Derek’s eyes turned away from me as he tried to take a seat at the sound panel.

“What happened to professionalism?” I sneered. I was furious to the point of my blood boiling, creating a volcano ready to burst.

“We’re a few minutes late, nothing to worry your pretty little head about,” Jerry continued in his conciliatory tone. My eyes started to twitch, my fist clenched by my chest.

“I see, you’re wanting to talk business.” Jerry shook his head, deciding to brush past me to land his oversized ass on the couch.

“Didn’t call you to braid my hair,” I huffed out. “Jerry, Derek, I have been making a fortune for you all, and I think it’s only fair that I get my correct portion of profits.”

Again, I wasn’t trying to be greedy, but no one was going to stiff me out of my money. Jerry leaned over, looking at Derek with a shock and confused expression. He pursed his lips. “You have been, Nash. I don’t know where this is coming from. If it’s more money you’re needing, we can look into touring, opening for bigger names, but you have been paid what you’re worth.”

“Nash, I don’t think you mean what you’re accusing us of,” Derek tried to gaslight me. The knife that severed into the final link.

“No, that’s what I was accusing you of, stealing what’s owed to me. You think I’m lying? Funny because it seems over the past two years, the amounts keep diminishing. The pay out should have been the same through my contract.” I rushed to my backpack with all the papers that I printed off, showing the amounts that were deposited into my account, which I then strategically sent to other accounts for my own safekeeping.

I shoved the papers on the table in front of Jerry, showing him the truth behind his lies.

“I have given this studio the best years of my career, but every year I did more of what the studio wanted of me. I started to sing other people’s songs. I became a version of myself that I’m not. Yes, I’m partly to blame, but other than that I have worked my fingers until they bled or I was on the verge of dehydration.” I started to explode.

All the thoughts that I kept to myself to save face, appease everyone, just exploded out of it, and admittingly felt freeing.

I didn’t shed light on the copious amount of addictions that could have been formed as they attempted to influence me.

Derek swung around to see what I had laid on the table. His eyes started to switch back to Jerry and then back to the papers. His reaction told me everything I needed to make my next move.

Did they really think that I wouldn’t notice a few tens of thousands of dollars? That I was eventually going to be the “good little boy” and keep doing what they wanted? If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. I was going to set myself free.

I couldn’t trust my life, my career in anyone else’s hands anymore. Between the thievery and lies, I needed to do things on my own.

“So, because you were all late and wasted what chance of civil conversation between artists you had, I’ll skip to the next part. Either give me my money or I walk. I walk out of here and rip up the contract.”

It was a risky move, but enough was enough. It was time to be a fucking man and remind people that they didn’t steal from me.

“I don’t know what to tell you, my boy. You have been given everything.” Jerry leaned back on the couch. “If sales or traction was down, it wasn’t on us.”

“You’re going to sit there and tell me it’s my fault? I have done everything you wanted, what more do you want from me?” I asked.

Jerry folded his hands. “Nash, I like you, hell, love you like a son I never wanted, but you have to remember who found you on the streets, gave you a chance, even helped you in the beginning with your dad’s health bills, with all his heart problems.”

“So what, you’re taking more of a cut for repayment instead of having a fucking soul?” I was seething with anger that it was steaming off my skin. There was a pounding in my ears, blurring out the world around me.

“Well, if you want to be greedy and look at it like that, sure. Just a repayment. We made you, we built you up. You should be thanking us. Right Derek?” Jerry said.

I twisted my head to see Derek nodding like a good puppet.

Music and artistry was long gone. Especially from me.

Before I could speak, he continued, “I’ll tell you what. You do some tours, and a new album, the studio was thinking pop country this time, and maybe a few commercials, we can get that money back up to par.”

Was he fucking for real? More work only for them to continue their ways. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

The true explosion happened when I knocked Jerry to the ground as he tried to stand up and set me straight. My fist connected straight to his jaw, pummeling him to the ground. His groans were enough to bring a smile to my ass. I threw in a couple kicks to the gut. He had it coming, and in that moment, screw all the rules, because I was back in control, even if I was full of rage. Derek cowered in the corner, stuttering as I approached him.

Bending over to meet him face to face, I wrapped my hand around his throat. “If anyone asks, it was self-defense. Or better yet, don’t say anything at all. You know who my father was associated with.” Derek nodded at my empty threat.

“I’m walking away, Derek, and if I was you, I’d re-think Jerry. Be a fucking owner and stand up and toss the guy to the street. But this is the last time you will ever see me.”

I grabbed my guitar case, my backpack, and took out a cigarette. I flicked a light to it, and for added dramatic flair, I flicked the lit cigarette in the next room. The studio was either going to be cleansed or burned in hellfire.

As I walked down the hall, someone bumped into my side. A quiet little grunt sparked my ears. I look to see a little auburn beauty with a notebook in her hand. She straightened up, adjusting her clothes before looking at me. Her hazel green eyes shined through her thick framed glasses. “You might want to leave the building and call the fire department, honey.”

She fell silent as I turned away.

I hoped she did the same, if anything I hoped the poor little soul had a better life walking away from the studio.

As I walked away with an emptiness in my chest, I began to think about the next steps. I couldn’t go back to music, not when I had no motivation anymore, and barely anything to produce. But I wanted, more like needed, to protect those that had a dream.

A dream is worth protecting, even if you have to fight everything in your way. Unfortunately, artists of all realms are easily taken advantage of.

My next steps were just a phone call away.