1
Riot
Washed-Up and Crashing Out! Riot Arden’s Latest Weekend Disaster!
My eyes skimover the headline ofZZ Insider, not needing to read any further to know what the tabloid is saying about me.
Bad-tempered alcoholic. Worthless drug addict. Defeated. Loser. Failure.
A shadow of a once-great rock star. A hollow shell of the man I was before I lost everything. Before I went off the deep end. Before I became a gold mine for the tabloid vampires that profit off every one of my life’s tragedies and bad decisions.
“Why are you showing this to me?” I tear my eyes away from the cover, blinking away the red haze of anger as I meet my manager’s narrowed gaze.
Enzo presses the tip of his index finger to the first paragraph, his brow pinched in a deep frown. “That. Thatis why.”
I lower my eyes to the page, my expression morphing to match his as I read.
Riot Arden is up to his usual CHAOTIC escapades!
An entire evening of drunken partying filled with women, drugs, and debauchery wasn’t enough for our bad-boy Riot… he had to add ASSAULT and BATTERY to his list of misdeeds before going home for the night. (More like *morning*… ahem…)
An anonymous source told ZZ Insider that they were enjoying a quiet, relaxing night at their local bar when the drool-worthy rock star walked up and tapped them on the shoulder. (Cool, right? WRONG!)
As Anonymous turned, they were greeted with a malicious Riot Arden, who pulled back his fist and PUNCHED Anonymous in the FACE!
(If you couldn’t tell by now… it was UNPROVOKED!)
Needless to say… our insider is PRESSING CHARGES. He wants Riot ROTTING behind bars! (And honestly… this journalist can’t disagree with that sentiment. Sue me.)
More details to come as the case unfolds!
Below the article is a picture of Riot Rush from three years ago—specifically of me screaming into a mic on stage. My long black hair frames my face in a wolf cut style. Several pieces are slicked to my skin by sweat, others catching on the ornate septum jewelry hanging from the center of my nose. Someone has taken extreme care to highlight the twin rings at the center of my bottom lip, and they practically jump off the page. I’m shirtless in the picture, with a pair of low-cut leather pants my stylist shoved me into in order to show off the ink covering my neck, torso, and pelvis.
And there, in the corner of the photo, is Rush.
His face is blurred, half of it hidden by his bright red bangs as he leans over his guitar—but the sight is enough to pull the breath from my lungs.
I shove the magazine off the table, trying to retain my composure even though an elephant-sized fist tightens aroundmy heart.Rush. How long has it been since I thought about my little brother?
The answer comes before I have the chance to blink.Too long. Much too long.
I try to take a deep breath, fail, and dig my thumbnail into the raw skin lining my cuticle, letting the sharp pain drag me down to earth.Focus. This isn’t about Rush.I shove all thoughts of my brother to the back of my mind, packing them up in a neat little box and locking it up tight. When my vision clears, I take a deep breath and focus on Enzo.
“That weasel from the bar is pressing charges? Why the fuck haven’t I heard about this?” I demand.
“You’re hearing about it now.” Enzo’s chest heaves with a sigh as he slumps into his office chair.
“Okay,” I mutter, trying to concentrate on anything other than the wild stuttering of my heart. “What’s the damage?”
Enzo frowns, looking anywhere but at me. “Luckily, your lawyers worked out a deal.”
I raise a brow, not liking his tone. “Whatkindof a deal?”
“Better than you deserve, considering all your priors.” Enzo huffs. “No time served. Just a couple of hundred hours of community service.”
“A couple ofhundred?”
Enzo blanches. “You broke hisjaw,Riot.”
