Page 1 of Tone Deaf

Chapter One

Callum

The moment I step into the house on my three-acre mountain retreat, I’m able to breathe a sigh of relief. I bought this property with money from my cut of the first royalty check the band received. It was the second best damn decision I’ve made so far in my career—the first was agreeing to form Warrior Black with my best mates, Danny, Connor, Raef and Bobby. They were the first kids to befriend me when my mum and I moved from Australia to the United States, and to this day we’re still tight.

I love this time of the year in Colorado. The chilly March air, the thin layer of snow glistens in the bright sunshine. The mountains—with the still-green needles of their Colorado blue spruce, Douglas fir, and Ponderosa pine making it obvious why this town was named Evergreen. It can’t be any more perfect.

The air is clean and woodsy smelling. My breathing is easy, even though the town is about seven thousand feet above sea level.

As I stand in my own private space, the tension headache I’ve been battling for the past few days begins to ease into nothing.

Don’t get me wrong, I love being around my friends—being on the road—touring. But in the last two years, after Ron Darling became our manager, we’ve gone from a band playing local gigs to one that goes on tour, and have screaming fans at every stop.

And let’s not forget theinvitesto music festivals like Rocktoberfest. We are going again in October—for thethirdtime. Talk about a mind fuck. It hasn’t been all rosy, though.

Our frontman, DannyRavenWells, had a stalker right before our first trip to Rocktoberfest. Not only was that scary as fuck, but the band ended up with twenty-four hour security—and what an adjustmentthatwas for five kids from the Chicago ‘burbs. Then, as we were getting ready for our second year at Rocktoberfest, we had to deal with Connor’s pedo-uncle’s bullshit. Between the two dramas and touring, lately there has been more chaos than my anxiety can handle.

At least my mates don’t give me any flak when I need to escape into solitude—they’ve known about my anxiety since we were kids. So, the guys are used to me disappearing from time to time.

However, the current upheaval in my life stems from my father—okay, maybe not just him. But Callum Brian Fitz, Senior—Brian to most, has been the bane of my existence as far back as I can remember. He’s been even worse the last three months. His calls and texts have been a constant buzzing, like an annoying fly. No matter how often I tell Brian to fuck off, the man doesn’t want to listen.

And yes, I call him by his middle name because he doesn’t deserve my respect or the honor of being called Dad, or even Father.

The call I got from him two nights ago was the breaking point for me.

In the past, when Brian poured his negativity like molten metal, trying to scar me all the way down to my soul, I was ableto ignore him and move on. For some reason, this last call hit me differently, even though the deep-rooted barbs he spewed weren’t anything new.

According to Brian, I don’t associate with the right people. My friends are degenerates. I won’t go anywhere with my playing. My band’s so-called music is loud and senseless. My appearance is far from presentable. And I’m gay.

Well, sorry to disappoint you, Brian.You can go fuck right off.

I’m proud of all those attributes—from my friends to the people I associate with. And the music? It’s what saves my sanity from imploding. My life wouldn’t be the same without the music that flows through my head and out my fingertips. The bright melodies bring color to the darker corners of my life. I guess a part of me—the ten-year-old kid I used to be—is still chasing Brian’s approval. But the adult in me saysI don’t give a fuck what he says… Much.

My father is tone deaf to who I am as a person, as a gay man and as a rocker.

Brian might have donated the sperm, but he certainly isn’t my dad. Not like Connor’s dad, Markus Wild—our drummer’s father was kind, respectful, supportive and just an all-around good human. He treated me as if I were his son, too. It was a dark day for our Wildman—for all of us, when Mr. Wild died four months ago.

I still feel the sting of the loss, almost like I’m the one who lost a father. It’s as though one of the strings on my Fender Stratocaster snapped and the steel wire cut sharply across my heart. I’m not alone in this—we all loved Markus and his death created a seismic tremor whose aftershocks are still rippling through the band. It’s taking us a bit to recapture our energy.

Brian’s call wasn’t the only reason why I left. The band decided to take a break after our eight-week U.S. tour, and we’ve each gone our separate ways, as we try to heal.

Danny is with Tobias and his dog, Scout, at the lake house. Connor and John are spending quality time with the Connor’s mother. Bobby and Raef said they were headed to Vegas, where our lead guitarist has a condo, along with their security, Fig and Jordan. We were all glad when Jordan rejoined our security team after a short sabbatical from the tour. Though, he’s disposition has changed some. He’s quieter—more reserved than before. But that’s okay by me.

So here I am, slowly breathing in and out, as I gaze out the floor-to-ceiling window at the mountains.

Blow out the bad. Inhale the good.I repeat that mantra over and over until my mind clears and my body settles. I’m ready to hunker down, absorb the quiet and solitude this place affords me. With the tranquility the house radiates, I hope to write a few songs and enjoy the solitude.

After stowing my clothes and guitar away, I check the fireplace, making sure the flue is clean. Nothing would shatter my visit more than having a chimney fire. I pay a property management company to check my place, but you can’t be too sure.

Seeing only unobstructed daylight in the flue, I light one of those artificial logs in the fireplace. Once done, I uncork a bottle of one of my favorite pinots and fill a glass.

Glancing down at the dark liquid I’m swirling in the glass, my mind shifts to the night before last. To Brian’s nasty call that drove me over the edge, which made me search for something harder than my usual pinot.

Remembering that Raef had a bottle of Macallan fifty-year old single malt, I stole it from cabinet he hides it in, and nearlydown myself in a eighth of the bottle to drown out the memory of Brian’s words.

Once Raef finds out, I hope he won’t be mad at me.

It had worked, but it also numbed my resolve to stay distant from two of Warrior Black’s bodyguards—Pennington Gallagher and Dominic Rossetti.