I’m safe. I’m free. I’m flying high above the mansion, gazing down at the roof. Soaring into the clouds, breathing in the salty breeze blowing in off the coast.
When I come to, my legs are walking me toward the stairs, my hands stinging and dripping blood across the tiled floor and up the steps. Dave screams in the background, demanding I practice in my room until—in his words—I “stop being such a fucking wreck.”
Once in my room, I sit at the smaller upright piano and raise my hands to the keys, flinching as searing pain shoots from my fingers up my arm. Some spots continue to bleed from where Dave whacked me the hardest, spilling crimson fluid to the ivory keys and staining them an ugly, dark brown as it dries. For hours, I play, dissociating from the pain in my hands and the knowledge that my life is not my own.
Around midnight, I receive a text from Dave, telling me he’s going to bed. Another message vibrates through, ordering me to stop playing so I won’t wake him up.Just as well.
Like a zombie, I rise from the bench and stumble to the bathroom, so desperate to be rid of my clothes that I end up ripping them at the seams. I jump into the shower, and this time, the freezing temperature is a welcome sensation. It soothes the angry welts on my hands and clears my mind, washing away some of the more negative thoughts and whisking them down the drain with the rest of the water.
I look downward, cringing at the ugly scars covering the creases between my thighs and hips. It’s the only place that’s covered whenever I’m sitting in my skimpy outfits on stage—the only place no one but me will see. At the reminder of them, my throat constricts painfully. I hate how weak I am, how fragile. I hate that I can’t doanythingto change my situation.
With a deep sigh, I shut off the water, dry off, and climb into bed. I try reading for a while, hoping that will ease some of the weight sitting on my chest, but it only sends me spiraling into a deeper pit of despair. It reminds me of all the things I want and can’t have.
Putting my book carefully back onto my shelf, I pull out the phone Dave got me a couple of years back. I can’t download apps, but I do have access to calls, messaging, and the internet for learning purposes. I have to be careful not to use it for too long because Dave’s account will be notified after thirty minutes, and I’ll lose my only outlet to the real world.
Right now, I don’t care. As long as I keep it quick, I’ll be fine.
Before I know what I’m doing, my fingers are typing Riot’s name into the search bar. Ever since he told me he was in a rock band, I’ve been curious. Growing up, I never had the chance to listen to new bands or keep up with current pop culture trends even though I desperately wanted to.
As soon as I press enter, pages upon pages of articles pop up. Fan pages, lists of accolades, and many,manystories chronicling his misdeeds over the years. They call him awomanizer,aviolent bad boy, an alcoholic party-addict… the list goes on and on.
I freeze on a picture of him from a couple of years back, his abdomen glistening beneath the heavy stage lights and forearms taut as he works the strings of his electric guitar. Just like in my dream, he’s shirtless and dressed in the sluttiest leather jeans I’ve ever seen. They cling to his body, highlighting the impressive bulge between his thighs and cut low enough to showcase the strange swirling patterns creeping up to his hip bones.
He’s wearing an extremely ornate septum piercing—different from the one he has now, but still beautiful—and the twin lip rings at the center of his bottom lip are gleaming as brightly as his cold-rimmed eyes.
I stare at the picture for so long, so intently, I forget to breathe. When I realize I’ve been creeping on my guitar teacher for the past God knows how long, a deep flush creeps over myface, and I immediately scroll down the page, away from the enticing image.
Unable to help myself, I click on an article dated a few weeks before I met Riot at Hightide Records. It’s titled “Washed-up and Crashing out! Riot Arden’s latest weekend disaster!” and published byZZ Insider. Normally, I wouldn’t give any time or attention to the tabloid, but I’m curious to see what Riot was up to. And possibly seewhyhe ended up in Saltbloom.
Knowing I’m crossing a boundary, but unable to help myself, I click on the article. The first half details—dramatically—an evening where Riot wound up punching some dude in the face. Apparently, it was hard enough to break his jaw, and the guy ended up pressing charges. It doesn’t say anything else about the case, and there are no follow-up articles, so I assume something was worked out in the background between the two parties.
Is that why he’s here? Is he lying low until this whole thing blows over?
I shrug, realizing I may never know, and continue scrolling through the article. The next half details Riot’s past and childhood, and though I know I shouldn’t, my eyes pore over the words, too intrigued to look away.
For all our new readers who haven’t been following along, here’s a little backstory on our favorite messy musician: verified by our fact-finder, Janice Combs. (;
Riot is the son of Tom and Allegra Arden (The lead guitarist and singer from the legendary rock band, Crimson Thunder!!)
Riot and his younger brother, Rush, grew up in the spotlight, enjoying a luxurious lifestyle on behalf of his parents’ long-term rock legacy (And that’s not just me saying that! #factchecked)
On the morning of May 23, 1990, both Tom and Allegra died in a tragic, unexplainable plane crash on the coastof Moriton City, leaving their sons Riot (10) and Rush (8) without parents (So Sad ): My Heart!!!)
Reeling from his parents’ untimely deaths, Riot and his brother Rush were taken in by Violet Arden, Tom Arden’s sister!
Wanting to preserve Tom and Allegra’s legacy, the boys continued with their musical career, starting the band Riot Rush with Riot (16) on guitar and Rush (14) on vocals (So young and so talented!!!)
In their first year, the Arden boys signed to AMPED! record label, releasing platinum records like “Chaos Prelude”, “Love to Hate Me”, and “Distortion”.”
(I absolutely LOVE those songs!!! Jam session, anyone?)
Fame, drugs, money, and women—that was an average day in the brothers’ lives. And, like Tom and Allegra, it all came to a crashing halt when Rush Arden met his tragic end?—
I stop reading at that point, deciding I’ve officially pried too deeply into Riot’s personal life. If he ever wants to tell me what happened to his brother, he will. Until then, I don’t need to read a bunch of stories from people who likely have no idea whatreallyhappened. I should know. I’ve had many, many stories written about me that were outright lies. They’ll do anything to sell a story, even if it means making stuff up.
I blow out a breath and turn off my phone, my arm falling to the mattress with a dull thump. I’m more wound up than I was before I started looking, and I know there’s no way I can go to sleep now. Thoughts of Riot swirl in my mind, embedding themselves into every dark corner of my soul, heating my skin with desire.
Riot… bad boy Riot Arden, giving sweet little me guitar lessons.
