Chapter 1 #2
“Oh good, because wasting time and money is exactly what I was planning on accusing you of.”
Carl chuckles again, unfazed. “We’re casting for Riot Saints’ new music video. We’ve been through more than five hundred girls. Not one of them worked.”
“And what makes you think I will? You don’t know the first, second or third thing about me.”
“I have a nose for these things.”
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly sprain something. “Of course you do. Well, hey, if you’ve got money to throw at people like Greg, prove you’re not just some sleazebag luring me into something sketchy. Like bubblewrap porn.”
“Fair.” He doesn’t hesitate. “Check your phone.”
A buzz makes me pull my cell phone from my ear.
My eyes widen at the Venmo notification. Two thousand dollars.
I blink. “You just… sent me two grand. Just like that.”
“As a goodwill gesture,” Carl says, far too smugly. “Call it compensation for your trouble. Give me two hours. If you don’t like what you see, walk away. Keep the money. I’m assuming you’ve looked into the band?” he finishes with extra smug sprinkles.
I haven’t.
I hate rock bands as a rule. All the screaming and gyrating and banging about. I also read somewhere that rock bands were single-handedly responsible for ten percent of venereal diseases in the nineties.
Which if true is mega ewww.
My stomach twists.
Every warning siren in my head blares. “I should send your two grand back and be done with this. Everything screams bad idea.”
“Or,” Carl says smoothly, “you could take a chance. You have absolutely zero to lose.”
“Except my dignity, my sanity, and maybe a kidney.”
He laughs again. “Damn, you’re going to be a riot. Ha, get it?”
I roll my eyes again, exhale slowly.
Clipboard Carl might have a screw and wallet loose but he’s right. It’s my day off. I can either depress myself scrolling through new job postings for jobs I’ll never get or…
I suck in a breath. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Or I can send a car for you. Just send me your address—”
“Nice try, Carl. I may be from Oregon, but I wasn’t born yesterday with wind between my ears. And I’m no rockstar’s fantasy idea of a snuff movie star.”
He sputters. “You’re wrong. Look, it’s just, I have a—”
“My brother’s a cop,” I cut in. Lie. My third cousin twice removed is a strip mall security guard back in Bend, Oregon. Close enough. “Just in case you’re thinking of trying anything sketchy.”
Another pause. Then Carl clears his throat. “Fine. I’ll text you the address. Text me when you arrive.”
“Will do.”
I hang up before he can say anything else.
I don’t text Carl.
But one hour later, I’m standing in front of a cavernous warehouse-turned-studio, clutching a latte I don’t remember buying.
Riot Saints’ logo is plastered across the loading bay doors in jagged neon-silver font. There are actual guards with actual guns guarding the perimeter beyond which girls and boys in all shapes and sizes are screaming their lungs out behind metal barricades.
My pulse trips over itself.
I tell myself I’m only here to satisfy my curiosity.
To see what two grand of “goodwill” looks like. To confirm this is all smoke, mirrors, and sleaze so I can walk away with a funny “guess what I did today” story for my Wattpad followers.
A guard in black Riot Saints gear that stretches across steroid-aided biceps steps out of the shadows near the loading bay. “You Ruby?”
My stomach dips. “Depends who’s asking.”
He eyes me for a second too long. “Carl said we’re expecting you.” He jerks his chin toward the yawning warehouse doors. “This way.”
And just like that, I’m in.
The air changes as soon as I step inside, turns thicker with tension, electricity, and the faint tang of stale beer and sweat.
The doors roll shut behind me and—
Sound crashes out.
Feedback shrieks and bass guitars snarl.
A voice like gravel dragged across velvet tears through the space and lodges under my ribs.
From the corner of my eye, I see Carl hustling toward me, clipboard bouncing against his side, already talking a mile a minute about schedules and auditions and “the perfect look,” but his words don’t stick.
Because all I see is him.
Electric silver eyes, huge and unearthly on the giant screen above the stage, pin down the room like floodlights.
He’s shirtless with tattoos slashing across muscle like a roadmap to the devil’s lair. Sweat slicks down his chest as he fondles the mic stand with a large hand riddled with tattoos and rings, leaning into it like he’s ready to break it in half.
Or fuck it.
He doesn’t sing the song; he manhandles then devours it. Each lyric ripped out of him like confession, like punishment, like he’ll bleed if he stops.
The floor vibrates under my platform boots.
My paper cup shakes in my hand and my pulse struggles to keep up. For a wild second I’m convinced the sound is rattling my bones apart.
Carl is suddenly at my shoulder, voice buzzing in my ear. “See? Zane Draven is all raw power. Insane electric energy. The whole album is off the chain. That’s what we’re building the whole shoot around. You’re going to fit perfectly. Just imagine you in the frame, the contrast, the chemistry—”
The music cuts, like someone slashed a cord with a knife, and the warehouse plunges into heavy silence.
Onstage, the tattooed devil god man beast turns his head.
His gaze slices across the room. Lands on me.
And stays.
The world tilts like some stupid sci-fi screen effect.
The band keeps playing, but he’s frozen. Ferocity coiled, watching me like he’s already decided I’m the song he’s been starving to write.
For one insane second, I forget how to breathe.
Then he snarls into the mic, voice raw enough to scorch me from the inside out—
“I’d burn down heaven just to taste your sin,” he growls without taking his eyes off me.
And just like that, I realize I may have just stepped into a story I can’t write my way out of.