Fuck.
18
HEAT IN THE HILLS OF COLORADO
RUBY
Four days after the Backdoor Incident That Shall Not Be Named, I’m pretty sure I’ve found a rhythm to this madness.
Sure, the rhythm is chaotic, exhausting, occasionally terrifying, and punctuated by stray guitar riffs and fans screaming for Saint Sin like he’s the second coming of Lucifer, but a rhythm is a rhythm.
The Riot Saints finished their last Colorado gig last night to the manic sounds of crowds roaring, lights burning hot and Zane singing to me so blatantly the director muttered “Christ, can someone get him a leash?”
Today is supposed to be quiet.
One last morning in the lush and beautiful mountains before heading back to LA for downtime.
Two weeks until Europe and the second half of the music video.
For someone whose only overseas trip was an enormously clichéd weekend in Capo for spring break, I’m excited about exploring Europe.
But I’ve kept the excitement on the down low because…Zane.
I’m pretty sure just a flicker of excitement will have him kidnapping the entire band, chartering a private jet, buying Europe, and banning every male citizen from looking at me.
I woke up hoping for a peaceful breakfast.
Which is exactly why I should’ve known something catastrophic was coming.
Because peace? In this house? With this man? With his mother?
Please.
The only peaceful thing here is the coffee machine.
And even that occasionally makes a noise that sounds like a distressed animal.
I mean, last night before the gig, Mama Draven dragged a giant bowl of crystals onto the balcony at sunset, arranged them in a perfect spiral, and insisted the band “stand in the vortex” so she could cleanse their auras.
Jude tripped into the quartz pile.
King swore he’d seen enlightenment in the form of his hot high school English teacher and cried.
Zane stood there like a pissed-off demigod while she chanted in Sanskrit-adjacent syllables she absolutely made up.
So it’s withmuchtrepidation that I approach the kitchen this morning.
I hear them before I see them.
Zane’s deep voice and Mama Draven’s theatrical hums drift down the hallway, along with the scent of pancakes thick enough to choke a small horse.
“Ruby!” Zane calls. “Get in here so I can feed you!”
Feed me.
Because apparently I’m livestock now.
I mutter under my breath the whole way to the kitchen, but the second I step through the door, everything stops.
