“What now?” I slur, turning my head as fast as I dare to meet the eyes of the stranger standing behind me.
Only, it’s not a stranger.
It’s my brother’s ex, Rebekah.
I take one look at the woman who helped kill my brother and vomit all over her sequined dress.
10
Riot
Rebekah screams,but I don’t hear it—too busy watching the contents of my stomach run down her calf and into the crevices of her expensive-looking heels. Repulsive, but also satisfying.Verysatisfying.
I don’t even realize I’m laughing until the icy splash of her drink hits my face—and even then, it’s not enough to faze me. Without a word, I slide off my stool and stumble toward the exit, ignoring Rebekah’s incessant screeching.
I’m vaguely aware of her calling out to me, but I have no fucks to give and zero desire to speak to her, so I keep going. I step out into the night, letting the door slam closed, cutting me off from the chaos erupting within the bar.
But as soon as that happens, a new kind of hell unfolds.
A small group of paparazzi closes in, cutting off my exit. Camera lights flash, blinding and overwhelming my senses, when paired with their excited chatter. I hold a hand up to shield my eyes as the voices grow increasingly demanding, but I can’t find a clear path out of this mess.
Just then, Rebekah stumbles out of the bar, still wearing my vomit and screaming something that gets lost in the other sounds filling the air.
“Fucking bastard!”
That I am able to make out—though it’s mostly from the movement of her mouth. I turn away from her, desperate to get away and put some distance between us before I do something I’ll regret—like vomit on her twice.
“Go away, Rebekah!” I snarl. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
“No!” She reaches out, gripping my arm so tightly her acrylics pierce my skin. “You can’t just ignore me, Riot!”
I shove her off easily, not wasting another moment of my attention on her. The crowd of paparazzi has shifted, and I see a perfect path to escape. I cast a glance toward my motorcycle, and at that moment, the world decides to upend itself, threatening to send me crashing to the wooden porch. I’m far too drunk to ride away from this madness, so there’s only one other option.
I run.
Down the sidewalk and across streets I run, weaving through crowds of open-mouthed tourists as I race toward the heart of Neon Valley City.
That’s where all the taxis will be—which is what I need, because I don’t have time to wait around, hoping an Uber driver will accept a three-hour drive to Saltbloom at this time of night.
I lose my pursuers on Main Street after ducking into a twenty-four-hour smoke shop. The owner gives me a suspicious look, but otherwise doesn’t comment on my haggard appearance. I buy a couple of lighters and make small talk until I’m certain the paparazzi have moved on, then step outside and hail a cab.
I offer the driver five hundred dollars to make the three-hour trip to Saltbloom, and even then, he almost refuses me. It’s only when I promise to give him a signed copy of Riot Rush’sChaos Preludealbum that he agrees. Though he never loses that deep scowl.
As soon as we get to the town limits, the driver pulls off to the side of the road. He gives me his contact information and speeds off into the night, leaving me to walk the last two miles back to my hotel room.
I don’t mind. The fresh air will help sober me up a bit.
The temperature is surprisingly nice, and there’s a slight breeze that makes the humidity slightly less stifling, so it’s not a terrible journey overall. My mind, on the other hand, is a fucked-up jumble of emotion and memories.
Starting to regret the whole “sobering fresh air” thing.
I’m unsettled for the rest of the walk back to the hotel. I can’t stop thinking about how Rebekah so casually touched me and said my name. Like I would behappyto see the woman partially responsible for my brother’s death. Like we werefriends.
I had to see that wretched woman today of all days. Like a cosmic “fuck you” from the universe.
The thought of her fills me with rage, and I hasten the rest of the way back to my hotel room, desperate to drink these vile thoughts away. After stripping my leather jacket, shirt, and shoes, I climb into bed with my comfort bottle of whiskey, so unsettled that even memories of Eloise fail to calm me.
There’s a sour taste in my mouth that the burn of the whiskey doesn’t help, and I fear there’s nothing in this world that could. Seeing Rebekah reminded me of Rush and how everything had been so good, then so, so wrong. And she wants to act like she played no part in it. Wants to weasel her way back into the limelight.
