Sheet Music - A Rock 'n' Roll Love Story

“There was a box of them out by the production department back at the music hall.  I figured you’d want one and decided to help myself.”

Michael’s eyes were still glued to the cover art when the limousine stopped in front of his hotel.

“Are you okay?” Bull asked, giving Michael a nudge.

“Yeah,” he nodded.

“Come on, I’ll take you upstairs.” Once inside the suite, Michael immediately went to the bar and grabbed a full bottle of whiskey as if it were a lifeline.  Then he removed the disc from its case and loaded it into the compact disc player by the television.

“Do you want me to stay?” Bull asked, concerned with Michael’s actions.

“No. I should probably listen to this by myself, don’t you think?  But thanks.”

“Okay.  Call if you need anything.”

Michael nodded and sat on the couch to remove his boots.  When he heard the door click shut, he hit the play button.  The room quickly filled with the sound of Annie’s voice.  It echoed inside his head and vibrated through his body.  He remembered some of the songs but most were completely new to him.

At times, she sounded like a wounded child and at other times her voice was filled with bitterness, anger and regret.  The lyrics were a perfect portrait to what she had been through – what he had put her through.

The impact of this personal glimpse into her soul hit him like a bus.  When his emotion surfaced it was unstoppable and all-consuming.  He openly grieved for his losses.  He cried for Annie and he wept for Brian; which was something he still hadn't done since his death.  His failures seemed to outnumber his successes.  His greatest achievements seemed worthless now.  He felt worthless.  The more he wallowed in misery, the deeper he slid into an abyss that had become his life.

When the liquor behind the bar was depleted, his body filled with rage.  He cursed everyone in his life.  He cursed himself.  With each regret he threw another glass at the wall.  When he ran out of glassware, he started with the furniture, turning over whatever was too heavy to throw.  Staggering from exhaustion and booze, he tripped over a broken leg of a coffee table and fell to the floor.  In the pre-dawn hours, Michael, bloodied from a gash on his forehead and several more cuts on his hands and arms, hit his proverbial rock-bottom.

Several hours later, Bull entered the war zone that was once the living room of one of Trump Tower’s finest suites.  He rushed to Michael’s side and slowly lifted him upright.

“Jesus Christ!  What the hell did you do?”

Michael’s eyes rolled and tried to focus.

“Oh man, you’re bleeding,” Bull exhaled, visually searching the room for a phone.  “You’re going to need stitches.”

“No doctors,” Michael moaned.

Bull pulled Michael to his feet and dragged him into the bathroom.  With one arm holding Michael upright, he managed to clean the blood and glass off his boss’s face.

“You know something?  I’m getting tired of cleaning up your messes and it ain’t getting any better.”

He lifted Michael’s face and held it pinched between his fingers.  “You need help, man.  The kind I can’t give you.  Are you getting my drift?”

Michael nodded.

“Then what do you suppose we do?”

Michael closed his eyes.

“You’re not passing out again, man!  Now what do you think we should do?” he asked, shaking him awake.

“I need help,” Michael muttered softly.

“Finally, a rational thought comes from your mouth.  Where do you want to go?”

Michael sighed.  “As far away from here as I can get.”

“Fine.  I’ll take care of it.

Before the end of the day, Bull had Michael’s forehead stitched and then admitted into one of California’s finest rehab facilities.  It overlooked the city of Los Angles and was the best money could buy.  It would take sixty days for Michael to recover completely, physically and emotionally; and when his time was over, he vowed to take back control of his life and reclaim his family.