Chapter 1
ONE
DECLAN
Four years later
I’m a fuck-up, and I ruin everything.
Everything I do.
Everything I touch.
I ruin it all.
My hands were made for destruction.
I wasn’t always this way; I once had my shit together and had the perfect life. Or, at least as perfect a life as someone like me can ever have.
I had a fucking bombshell of a wife. I had a son who my world revolved around, and he saw me as his hero.
My life was great.
Dream job, dream family, dream life. But dreams never last. Eventually, we have to wake up, and before you know it, you’re a shell of the person you once were. Now I hardly recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror.
I’m a fuck-up.
I let my perfect life slip through my fingers. I let my demons control me. They told me I wasn’t good enough, that I didn’t deserve my perfect life, and once I believed them, I woke up from my dream.
Goodbye wife. Goodbye son.
Now I’m struggling to hold on to the only thing I have left.
My career.
Some days it seems like I’m struggling to hold on to my fucking sanity.
After all I’ve lost, you’d think that would be enough to make me snap the fuck out of my stupor and get my life back on track. But I’m too weak to do that. I don’t want to do that. I like to wallow in self-pity and numb myself when it all becomes too much.
Giving in to the voices in my head makes me feel at ease.
I gave in last night, as I’ve been doing every night since the ink dried on my divorce papers nearly two years ago.
Sure, I’ve had extended periods of sobriety since then, and by that, I mean my drug use hadn’t been as frequent. As for my drinking, that’s been a daily occurrence.
Last night started with one drink, and that turned into another and another, followed by a pretty girl who had more to offer than what’s between her legs. Vaguely, I remember snorting lines of white powder off her silicone tits, but with my memory lately, I can’t be certain if it was the woman from last night or a week ago.
The days and women all seem to blur together.
Wandering hands roam over my back, followed by a trail of wet, fervent kisses.
“Baby,” the woman whines, her tongue tracing over the shell of my ear. “I want you. Please fuck me.”
Since she asked so nicely, fuck it. With my erection growing, I quickly sit up and pin her underneath me. Within seconds, I have my dick wrapped in a condom, and I’m shoving myself into her wet pussy. I love the way her cunt stretches around my thickness. I have no mercy as I fill her to the hilt, and she takes all I have to offer like a champ .
I’m fucking the nameless blonde six ways to Sunday when I hear the door of my hotel room suite slam shut. From somewhere in the room, a light flicks on, encasing the room in a soft yellow glow.
With a groan, I turn my head to see Benny, my manager, standing at the foot of my bed and shaking his head at me.
This isn’t the first time he’s found me balls deep inside a random woman, and I know it sure as fuck won’t be the last time.
My eyes burn from the light, so I close them and focus on the feeling of having a pussy around me. I don’t lose momentum as I fuck the woman. Her porn star moans are too fucking much, but that doesn’t stop me from getting what I need.
“Really, Declan?” Benny huffs, and if I open my eyes, I know I’d find him rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “Hurry the fuck up and get in the shower.” I crack my eyes open, giving him a playful smirk.
He walks away, disappearing into the living room of the suite.
Two minutes later, I’m filling the condom with a load of cum and pulling myself out of my nameless fuck, not caring that she didn’t finish. She can get herself off while I shower. I got what I needed.
Disappointment flashes in her eyes, and I have to look away because it’s too fucking early to see that look—especially from someone whose name I don’t remember and I’ll never see again.
From the living room, Benny yells, “You’ve got fifteen minutes. Take a shower, and I’ll get you some coffee. Get the fuck up!”
I grab the gold dress from the floor and toss it onto the bed. “Sorry doll, you need to get dressed and go.” I turn my back on her, make my way into the bathroom, and remove the condom. After flushing it, I step into the shower. The cold water from the rainfall showerhead hits my heated skin, cooling my temperature and shocking my nervous system.
I never fuck without protection, but I don’t trust the women that fill my bed enough to leave them with my used condom. I never take it off until I have a chance to flush it.
There’s no need to worry about the woman stealing anything from me, because I know Benny will check her before she leaves and make her sign an NDA.
Ever since some random groupie recorded us having sex and partying, leaked it to the media, and then gave several interviews on our time together, Benny has insisted I make all my women sign an NDA. I never remember it beforehand, but I can make sure I get their signature before they leave. With Benny here, he can do it for me.
He wishes I were more careful. I’m already well-known, the last thing I need is having my name dragged through the media again. I should be careful, especially considering my career is already on the line.
Everyone is tired of my shit. Hell, I’m tired of my shit.
It’s exhausting constantly letting everyone down, but I can’t seem to stop.
It’s who I am.
I’m Declan Valentine—the fuck-up. I’ll never be anyone different, so there’s no point in wishing for it.
Thirty minutes later, I’m sitting in the studio alongside my band mates, Adam, Damon, and Cole, remaining silent as we conduct our first interview in nearly a year.
Now that Riot is making a comeback and making moves, it’s time to control the narrative regarding the bad press we’ve been receiving, starting with being open and honest. Our fans have had many questions, and they’ve all gone unanswered for far too long.
The last few years have been hard .
Today is already hard enough.
I’ve tried to pretend I didn’t know what day it is, but no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to forget.
Today marks both the best and worst day of my life.
Eight years ago, it was the best day.
Four years ago, it became the worst.
On the drive over, Benny warned me to be professional and not say anything that could be used against our band. I’ve been on my best behavior since arriving, my hands in a white-knuckle fist, nails biting into my palms as I try to get through the day until I can drown myself in a bottle of vodka and forget about my cruel reality.
“It’s been nearly a year since Riot’s last tour and just as long since you’ve released any new music. Why did you decide to make a comeback now?” the nosy reporter asks, her blue eyes looking directly at me, a sign that she expects me to answer. Everyone knows I’m the reason we had to cancel our tour and postpone our album release.
“Well, Alyssa”—I mentally pat myself on the back for remembering her name—“as you and everyone else know, I went through a dark period.” The reporter, along with everyone else with eyes and social media, knows what happened to me.
Three months after my divorce, my entire life had been exposed, and the media found out a lot more than I’d ever wanted revealed.
The media found details about Luca’s death and about my time in rehab. I’d tried to keep it quiet, but I should’ve known better. They don’t know I was high that night, but everyone now knows I was the one driving. They assume I lost control of the wheel because of the rain.
For once, I’m thankful to have the media printing lies about me.
They say I developed an addiction after the accident because of the painkillers the doctor prescribed. They say from there, I fell into a downward spiral of drugs and alcohol until one day my wife left me. It’s partially true, except that’s not when my addiction began.
For months, they printed my entire life in full color, and my face was on the cover of every magazine around the fucking world.
I’m the reason my band, Riot, has been having such a difficult time lately. I haven’t been able to write, and since I’m the lead singer and songwriter, without me, there’s nothing. My bandmates and best friends have been suffering because of me.
Yet another reason I’m a fuck-up and failure.
Shockingly, they’ve all stood beside me. They could’ve kicked me out of the band and found a new lead singer, but none of them wanted to do it.
As teenagers, the four of us started Riot. We’re in this together.
“Yes, I heard about that… and I see you’ve had quite the media attention recently.” She sits back in her seat and scrolls through her iPad with her perfectly manicured finger. “The death of your child, rehab, divorce, and most recently your sex tape was exposed.” I hold my breath, my heart beating rapidly in my chest at the mention of my child. Today of all days?
I adjust my posture on the stool I’m sitting on, nails breaking the skin on the palms. My jaw clenches, teeth grinding together painfully as I attempt to ignore the feeling of my skin crawling, my mind racing and begging for a drink in order to be silenced. The woman continues speaking, unaware I’m doing everything I can to remain calm.
“I’ve been a Riot fan for years, and I never knew you had a child. You once said you enjoy being transparent with your fans, and yet, no one knew you were a father until recently.”
Fuck.
It’s time for the questions I hate and always try to avoid.
This is a perfect example of why you cannot believe the media and what you see online. It's time to stop being a fucking pussy and control the narrative. They’ve printed so much false shit about me. The timeline is fucked up, and no one seems to know what’s fact or fiction.
Inhaling, I close my eyes and slowly uncurl my fists, wiping my bloodied palms on my black jeans. For the first time, I calm myself and think before I speak. “My son, Luca, died four years ago today. Today is his birthday. He would’ve been eight. After his death, I couldn’t cope and did things I’m not proud of. It led to rehab, and then my wife and I divorced. We were both young when we had him, and we wanted the best for him, which is why we got married. We’ve always been better off as friends rather than husband and wife.” I’ve rehearsed what to say with Benny a thousand times. I know how to react when Camille and Luca are mentioned. “My ex-wife and I wanted to keep our son out of the media, and that’s why his existence was kept private.” For years, there was speculation in the media about whether I had a wife and child. I never confirmed or denied the rumors. Cam and Luca never joined me on tour for this exact reason.
As soon as we found out Camille was pregnant, we agreed to keep our son away from the hungry media vultures. We were successful for years.
“As far as the sex tape goes, that was recorded without my consent and directly violates my privacy. My lawyer is happy to answer questions you may have about it, but I will not as there is an open case.” I lie easily, giving the blue-eyed reporter a threatening smile, daring her to challenge me.
Truth is, I was high as a fucking kite when I agreed to let some random chick I met at a club record herself sucking my cock. She said she wanted to make her ex-boyfriend jealous, and I happily dropped my pants. I was too high to remember the NDA, and sure enough, three days later, it was posted online. My face isn’t visible, but you can sure as fuck see my tattoo-covered arms and hear my voice. The bold RIOT tattoo across my knuckles was visible while fisting her blonde hair and telling her how good her mouth felt around me.
There’s no denying it’s me. My face didn’t need to be visible .
“What message do you think that sends to your fans? They should trust you, but you couldn’t trust them with the truth about your family,” the reporter says, brushing a piece of dark hair from her slender shoulder.
Don’t get me wrong; I love my fans, but I’m not obligated to tell them every fucking thing about my personal life. I decide what to share with the public. I don’t owe anyone anything.
“Can your fans trust you to remain sober?” she continues, the question making me want to laugh. I’m not sober, but she doesn’t need to know that. In fact, if I had it my way, I’d be drinking myself into a blackout right now.
Thank fuck, Adam cuts in before I respond. “We are all brothers, and we stand behind each other completely, no matter what happens. Declan went through a lot, and with love and support, he’s back and better than ever. Right now, we are preparing for our move and in the process of writing our new album.” He pats me on the back, his hand squeezing my shoulder reassuringly. He knows what today is and how hard it is for me.
Over the years, Luca’s birthday and subsequent anniversary of his death has become easier to manage. I used to spend the day sending my fists through walls, mirrors—anything, really. Then, I’d bury myself in a mountain of coke.
This year, I’m going to drown myself in a bottle of liquor.
I’d say that’s progress.
As you can tell, therapy has been working for me.
Adam stands up from the stool he was sitting on. “We are happy to be working on a new album and get back on tour soon. We appreciate your time and hope to see you at one of our shows.” Leave it to my best friend to swoop in and save me and end the horrible fucking interview.
Benny ushers the woman out of our studio, and only once she’s gone can I breathe. I hate answering questions about myself. I’m thankful I kept my cool and refrained from doing something I’d later regret.
With shaking hands, I swipe a bottle of water from the mini fridge and twist the cap off, chugging the cold water down as Adam walks over to me.
“You good, bro? I know Cam and Luca are your soft spots.” I don’t make eye contact, but I nod.
Adam and I met when we were sixteen. We were in the same group home for about six months before we ran away together. We’re more than best friends—we’re brothers—and sometimes this fucker knows me better than I know myself, which is why I don’t want to look at him. I know what he’ll see on my face.
My palms are sweaty, my skin is pale, and my hands are shaking. I’m itching for a fix. I’m too sober to deal with this shit.
Too fucking sober to be reminded of what a failure as a husband and father I was. I killed my son and drove my wife away. I’m trying to move forward, but with today being the four-year anniversary, I can’t deal with it.
Not sober, at least.
“I’m fine.” I grunt, tossing the empty bottle into the recycling bin.
“Speaking of Camille, she’s been trying to reach you. She called me when you didn’t answer. Her flight lands soon. Are you going to pick her up or send a driver?” Fuck. I forgot all about Camille coming to New York today.
When we visited our son's grave for the first time together, we promised each other that we’d meet and visit his grave every year. Today is his birthday, another year of him being gone, which means we’re supposed to see him.
Sensing my sudden panic, Adam places his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, brother. I’ll go pick her up. Are you still at the same hotel?”
“Yeah,” I mumble, scrubbing my hands over my face. I’ve been staying at a hotel for a while now. Camille and I decided to sell the penthouse we once shared. When the realtor came to view our house, I had no choice but to escort her inside. It was my first time stepping foot in the time capsule since being divorced. A place we once called home.
She’d opened the door to Luca’s room before I could stop her. A fresh wave of emotions had come over me, undoing all the progress I’d made.
That was the day I walked out the front door to get high after being sober for nearly a year, and I haven’t stepped foot in the penthouse since. I haven’t been able to return when I’m in an active addiction.
Not when I’m the reason the bed with the Paw Patrol sheets is empty.
My addiction killed my son. I killed my son.
Without making eye contact and without another word, I rush out of the studio just as quick as my long legs will allow.
My palms are clammy, I’m sweating, my chest is tight, and my vision is becoming blurry. I can’t tell if my hands are shaking or if it’s just my vision.
Everything is too much. Too fucking much on today of all days. I can’t do this. Not sober. I’m feeling too much, and I don’t want to feel anything.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I fucking can’t .