Chapter 3 Raina
Yelling from the hallway nudges me from the fitful nap I fell into. If only I wouldn’t feel judged for taking the stronger painkillers, but that’s all I need—for the next big headline splashed across every news outlet in the world to say Attack On Raina Sends Her Spiraling Into Drugs Once More.
HIPAA laws don’t apply to celebrities. There’s always someone with access willing to sell the information if the price is right. And the price is always right.
I swallow and wince at the pain. It’s like shards of glass ripping into the delicate tissue, creating new wounds each and every time. Over and over. All. Day. Long.
“Don’t tell me what the laws are; I want to speak to her doctor,” Dickless yells from the hallway. I flinch, my hand tightening around another, jarring them from their sleep.
Keaton’s head lifts from my bed, his fohawk with ice gray tips sticking out in all directions. He’s barely taken any time to shower since I’ve been awake, much less fix his hair. I almost wonder if any of them even took the time to get clean in the six days I was sedated.
His deep chocolate brown eyes desperately search me from head to toe, making sure I’m still here, still safe, still alive. They’ve all been doing it every time they haven’t seen me in a couple of minutes.
Doze off, desperately search me top to bottom.
Go to the bathroom, desperately search me top to bottom.
Step into the hall, desperately search me top to bottom.
Grab something to eat, desperately search me top to bottom.
Glance at their phone too long, desperately search me top to bottom.
It would feel greedy, like they were trying to eat me with their eyes, if only I didn’t know why they did it.
I arrested more than once before they got me stabilized, then I was forced into a medically induced sleep to give my body and throat time to heal from the damage.
Even once they removed the tube from my throat and I woke up, I was in and out of consciousness for what felt like an eternity.
I can’t even keep up with how many days it’s been since my attack.
Whether I want to admit it or not, I was dancing on the razor thin line between life and death. It wasn’t my first flirtation with an untimely end, only this time it wasn’t on my terms. In fact, I’m the farthest from wanting to die than I’ve ever been before.
Keaton’s grip on my hand tightens, and I force a weak smile onto my face, trying to reassure him. It’s a futile gesture though—he knows me too well. He sees through the bravado, the painted-on courage used as a shield to protect those around me from the full extent of my pain.
Dickless’ voice cuts through again, jarring me from my thoughts, his pompous tone grating on my nerves.
The man has no respect for hospital decorum.
“I am her family, her uncle, don’t try to deny me access to her records.
I need to know how soon she can perform again!
” His self-absorbed agenda makes my blood boil, but it also makes my stomach churn with fear.
I can’t afford another media circus right now, not while I’m lying half-broken in this sterile bed. But it’s not just me. I worry about my bandmates too. What will happen to them and the contract they signed when he finds out I might never be able to sing again?
Dickless, with his power plays and manipulations, poses a real threat to everything we’ve worked so hard for.
“Raina,” Keaton murmurs, bringing me back from the imminent brink of panic. He’s got that look in his eyes again, that steadfast gaze that silently promises he’d battle a hundred vipers like Dickless if he had to.
Still, my shaky smile doesn’t quite reach my eyes as I squeeze his hand back.
Suddenly, the door swings open as Dickless barges into the room, dismissing any protest with a swipe of his hand before he fists the end of my bed, his knuckles white as he pins me with his stare.
Fury flashes in his eyes, and the pitch of his voice hardens with each syllable. “What is your prognosis?”
Frustration is palpable on his face as he scowls. It grows more threatening the longer I don’t respond, but it’s because I can’t. I’ve been instructed to speak as little as possible to help my vocal cords heal if I have any hope of singing again.
I tighten my hold on Keaton, drawing his attention to me. He leans in, and it takes everything in me to resist giving in to the temptation to seek his comforting touch. I want to escape. Leave the pain of glass shards scraping down my throat with every swallow—no, every breath.
“Do you want me to tell him?” he whispers in my ear.
I know this is a big offer for him. Keaton hates speaking unless utterly necessary.
The only time he seems comfortable with it is when he’s alone with me.
But if I’m going to speak, I don’t want to waste the effort or pain on my tormentor, I’d rather save it for what matters most. My men.
The single nod of my head has him leaning back in his chair and pinning the overbearing man with his menacing glare.
“The doctor told her that she needs to take her time for her vocal cords to heal properly. Given the severity of her injuries, they can’t give an exact time frame yet.
” He frowns at the scowl crossing the asshole’s face.
“Even then, they suspect she’ll need physiotherapy and voice coaching to handle the strain of singing.
They even warned her voice might be permanently changed. ”
The label owner, the man who calls himself family but doesn’t know the meaning of the word, the man who’s held my life in his firmly grasped fist, jerks back in shock.
His face barely manages to conceal his growing anger.
“That’s ridiculous. We have contracts and commitments!
” he spits out, obviously more concerned with his profits than my well-being.
Shocker.
Ignoring Dickless’ protests, Keaton continues, his deep voice steady. “You heard me right. And I’d suggest you keep the pressure off her if you want those vocal cords to ever work again.”
The asshole’s face tinges red, a vein throbbing dangerously at his temple. The silence that ensues is thick with tension, only broken by the soft beep from the machines keeping track of my vitals.
Truth be told, I’m enjoying watching him break.
It’s like something is being ripped away from him, a toddler on the precipice of a mental breakdown.
He schools his face, but the anger is still there behind his mask, shining through his eyes as they narrow.
His nostrils twitch, his piercing gaze holding Keaton’s stare before he snarls, “That’s unacceptable.
She has a recording contract to fulfill! ”
He’s repeating himself, unable to move past his own desires, ready to badger and bully and threaten until he gets exactly what he wants.
The pressure of the past presses in on me, memories of his fingers pinning me to his desk as he forced my pants down when I dared to defy him flash to mind.
My breath hitches and my throat screams in pain as I shove the whine back down that wants to escape.
Keaton doesn’t flinch or show any reaction, but I know he senses my panic. Instead, he leans over and runs his fingers gently through my hair, anchoring me against the storm crashing around us. “Raina’s health is our priority now. The contract can wait.”
“If she can’t sing, there won’t be any band left to protect!” Dickless snaps back aggressively. His words drip with venom, harboring the threat that comes from his current control over us. If I don’t sing, he’ll decimate any chances they have at a career.
“As I said, Raina’s health comes first. If you have concerns with her contract, that’s something you need to discuss with her lawyers and her manager.” Keaton’s body is rigid, braced for a fight.
“I can speak with my niece about anything I fucking please, you don’t get to dictate what I do or don’t—“
“You’re speaking as the owner of the label, not as a concerned family member. Don’t throw your familial relationship into the discussion like you give a single shit about her outside of how much she contributes to your bank account,” Keaton spits out, cutting him off from his tirade.
Nobody has ever stuck up for me like this, never stood in the line of fire and faced off with the monster that is Mr. Lexington.
I can’t help but feel overwhelmed, consumed by gratitude and a burgeoning light of hope.
But that doesn’t mean we’re free from the chains he has bound us with; we stand as bait in front of a shark circling his prey.
Dickless’ eyes narrow menacingly at Keaton, his jaw muscle ticking with barely suppressed irritation.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sneers back defiantly.
Despite his words, surprise flickers underneath his usual arrogance.
He’s not used to being challenged by anyone, least of all by a member of the band he views as mere assets.
I can tell he’s wondering what I might’ve shared with Keaton, if he knows the darkest secrets he’s kept hidden from the world.
A stark silence fills the room, sliced only by the raw energy radiating off the two men; Keaton composed and protective, Dickless domineering and manipulative.
“What I do know,” Keaton begins after an unnerving pause, his voice low and steady, “is that if Raina doesn’t recover, you’ll lose your biggest star. And if that happens... well, your label will suffer too.”
The words hang in the air between them, charged like an invisible barrier cutting deep into the power dynamics.
It’s not a threat—Keaton would never stoop to that bastard’s level—but it’s a damning truth.
I might be close to finishing my contract binding me to the devil, but that doesn’t mean he won’t do everything in his power to try and stop me from escaping his clutches.
Before anyone can break the silence, the door swings open once more, and Izzy struts in.
Her heels strike the floor with a fierce rhythm, each click echoing through the room like gunshots.
It’s as if her arrival is a declaration of war, her staccato steps demanding attention and instilling fear in those around her.
She casts a dismissive glance at Dickless before her focus shifts to me. “Raina,” she greets in her usual, polished tone as she strides across the room. She keeps it professional, but there’s no missing the softness of affection and worry in her eyes.
The large purse she carries with her that’s really more like a briefcase lands on one of the extra chairs with a thump and she turns to face off with the enemy in the room. Her hands smooth down her perfectly tailored blazer.
“What the hell...” Dickless starts to object but stops abruptly when Izzy simply holds up her hand. My manager is a shield against the world. She’s tough as steel and doesn’t tolerate nonsense, especially from people like him.
Without missing a beat, she pulls a packet of documents from her designer bag and slams it on the bedside table.
“Some light reading for you, Mr. Lexington,” she suggests with a pointed, sardonic smile.
“Might educate you on what ‘force majeure’ means.” She doesn’t wait for his response, instead turning her gaze squarely back on me.
Izzy is one of the few people who can make Dickless quiver; I’m learning that she has that effect on most people who think they can control me. I won’t make light of the tension that fills every corner of this sterile room, the silence is heavy enough to stifle even the harshest echoes.
Keaton continues to stroke my hair, calming me as the stress seems to drain every ounce of energy I found from my latest nap—if you can even call it that, more like passing the fuck out.
“Raina, dear, how are you doing?” The care she shows me is like a slap in the face to the man who pretends to be family.
His head jerks back, and he sneers at her, disdain clear in the twist of his lips like he’s disgusted.
He’s been careful about surrounding me with people who don’t give a shit about me. He has to absolutely hate her.
“The cops want to speak with you,” he snaps, the intensity of his focus on me once more. The weight of it lands over me, trying to smother my every breath. “I suggest you tell them the truth about that new guitarist attacking you.”
He pins me with a stare I’m all too familiar with, the one warning me that I need to do exactly as he’s suggesting or else. Past me would fold in an instant—follow his warning above and beyond to avoid being punished—but I made myself a promise.
I might be battered… I might be bruised… but I’ll never be that broken version of myself again.