Chapter 2
Riot
The stage vibrates beneath my feet as the final notes play. The lyrics run out and thousands of voices taper into silence as our song reaches its bittersweet finish. Bronx crashes his stick into the high hat one more time.
There’s a split second where everything is quiet. Sweat trickles down my nape and my muscles ache from hours of performing. I can hear my own hard breaths and my heartbeat as I look out over the kingdom we’ve built on our music.
They are our people. We are their gods.
Sound rushes back into the stadium like a wave against the beach. Thousands of New Yorkers shout and clap and stomp their feet. They wave signs with our names on them. They throw panties. There are a couple of marriage proposals too.
I lift my face to the lights. To the legend upstairs who made this life possible. Then I grin at my bandmates while I tip the last of the water from my bottle over my head and let the tepid liquid cool my feverish skin. “Should we do one more?”
One last encore before the band takes a break and I head to Heart Ranch for my brother’s secret wedding.
They grin back, each taking a moment to prepare for the final song of the night. Bronx is drenched from head to toe, his ginger hair dripping with sweat. His drum skins are speckled with puddles.
Golden balances his guitar against his leg, peels his sodden shirt over his head, and tucks it into the back pocket of his pants.
I shake the water and sweat out of my hair and wet my throat with a pull from a fresh bottle of water a stagehand offers me. Another perfect night for L.A. Riot is coming to a close.
The crowd screams for more as I step up to the microphone.
I wave to the sea of faces I can barely distinguish from each other below the stage. Salt and beer and body odor from thousands of people fills my nostrils as I inhale.
It smells like what dreams are fucking made of.
“Thanks for showing up tonight. You’re the reason we get to make music. The reason we get to do what we love. Without you we wouldn’t be L.A. Riot.” The last few months wouldn’t have been spent on a sold-out tour. We wouldn’t have left my brother’s basement.
Nepotism at its finest, our haters say, considering my brothers Rebel and Rogue are both famous movie stars.
But those people weren’t there for the blood, sweat, and tears we put into our music before we made a name for ourselves.
They didn’t show up to the hours of practice, the tiny bar venues we begged to give us stage time, or the open mic nights.
They don’t know what it took for my brothers and I to climb out of the gutter we were tossed into. Not like our real fans do.
A woman riding the shoulders of a man in the pit screams my name before she whips her L.A. Riot T-shirt up over her face and flashes us her tits.
Ignoring the tits, I seek out the woman I’m looking for. Kelsey Peterson. Our band manager and my ride or die bestie since before L.A. Riot was more than a few scribbles in my notepad.
I watch her bouncing around in her tight miniskirt, L.A. Riot crop top, and sky-high boots until she notices my eyes on her. The lanyard around her neck sways as she lifts an arm above her head to wave back at me from where she waits off to one side of the stage.
Her makeup is dark. Her hair freshly shaved at the sides and the top curled and pinned. I’m going to enjoy digging my fingers into those strands and yanking those pins out while she’s riding me later tonight.
I draw a circle in the air with one finger as the crowd chants for an encore. Time to wind this up. I’ve got a long night ahead of me. A woman to make mine. A flight to catch in the wee hours of the morning. “You want one last song? How about the one that started all this?”
The crowd screams.
I hum against the microphone. “That’s right. It’s time we remind you that you have us in a chokehold.”
The crowd falls silent. Thousands of people fill the stadium, and you could hear a pin drop.
I pour my heart into the first quiet line of the song. “You’ve got me in your chokehold, baby.”
A woman close to the stage screams and faints, collapsing into the arms of the people surrounding her.
“Help her.” I point her out to the medic team we always have waiting for situations like this.
Neil and Golden riff-off softly while we make sure she’s okay.
“She’s okay, folks,” I reassure the crowd as Neil and Golden prepare to start the song over.
“You’ve got me in your chokehold, baby.” I sing the words that changed my future trajectory. “Your name’s inked beneath my skin.”
Kelsey clasps a hand to her throat, her pillowy lips forming the words right along with me.
“I can’t breathe without you.” I’m a pussy, which means she has no clue she inspired this song.
Before my brothers became famous, before I became Rebel and Rogue Maddox’s famous little brother, before L.A. Riot became a worldwide phenomenon, there was a sarcastic rock chick—with an affection for all things candy skull—who believed in me. It’s hard not to have a crush on someone like that.
“I’m on my knees.”
We used to ride our skateboards in high school and dream about the day we’d end up here. In a packed stadium. My music shaking the walls. Her singing along.
“Your hand wrapped around my throat.”
She always had faith in the band. In me. Our fans think this song is about my obsession with music. And it is. In part. But our music wouldn’t be the same without her.
“Let me worship at your altar.”
We’d lay on my bedroom floor and listen to albums, read Rolling Stone magazines I’d steal from the newsstand, and I’d tell her my fears and doubts. She’d tell me I had things to say, lyrics to sing, and that the world would want to listen. She told me she would find a way to make it happen.
“Whisper in my ear everything I am.”
I forgot about that when we made it. I pushed her away because I didn’t want complications. There were other girls to fill the space I made. Then there was Rochelle Kitt.
“Chokehold! I’m in too deep.” I hit the chorus and the crowd doesn’t disappoint. They belt it out, their voices lifted up alongside mine. “I’m all yours and you don’t see.”
My situationship with Ro was over months ago. It was never more than the need to protect the starlet while she fought back against Alec Hawthorne after he violently assaulted her. And her need to prove she wouldn’t let him destroy her life.
All these months Kelsey and I have been running around pretending like it doesn’t mean anything. But tonight, I finally make things complicated.
Perhaps by complicating it everything will finally be simple.
We finish the song, and the crowd immediately shouts for more. The stadium rumbles as we run off stage. The thunderous noise drums on as I grab Kelsey and we all load up on the cart to go back to the green room.
The doors close, dampening the sound of the crowd’s excitement. I down another bottle of water while Kelsey hurries off to talk to a crew member. Then I bide my time by checking in with my brothers.
With the wedding this week Rogue’s been driving us all crazy with his constant messages.
Rogue: Is everyone ready for the best weekend of my life?
Rebel: I’m sitting right next to you. What do you think?
West: I asked Dizzy if we could cancel, but I’ve already disappointed her enough.
Rebel: Bro! What did you do?
I snort under my breath. None of this conversation comes as a surprise. West isn’t like us. If it weren’t for Dizzy being Ivy’s sister, I doubt he would have outed himself as our brother.
Rogue: If this is sexual
Rebel: Do you have a premature ejaculation problem, bro?
West: Fuck off.
Rebel: Is it because you’re in love with your sister?
West: Fuck you! We’re not related.
Rogue: Then what? What could possibly make you abandon me, your only brother, in my time of need?
Great. Here we go.
Rebel: He’s a triplet, you dick wank.
Rogue: I prefer to think of us as twins with a spare.
West: Guess who the spare is. We’re both older than you.
Rogue: That’s it. Neither of you can be my best man.
As if we aren’t all aware that Rebel would be his best man before he even popped the question. Which, when Ivy said yes, was followed by him making a big production of popping the best man question. On his knee.
Rebel had gotten into the spirit of things, responding with an emotional Oscar winning acceptance speech that Ivy recorded on her phone and consequently sent to all of us.
I don’t touch that sacrosanct ground, instead settling on a lower blow that will still be effective.
Riot: How do you get into this argument every single time? You’re triplets. You’re all basically the same.
I can practically see their horrified expressions as each of their avatars pops onto my screen.
West: You know that’s inaccurate. I’m barely related to the two of them.
Rebel: If it isn’t baby bro chiming in finally. How did it go tonight?
Riot: It was packed. We slayed.
Rogue: He’s giving egotistical jerk wad vibes. Rebel, do that dad thing you always did.
That stopped working when I was seventeen. They were twenty-two, and that was a long time ago. I’d like to see him try and dad me these days.
Rebel: Proud of you kid. When do you get here?
Riot: In the morning. There are a few things I need to get done before Kelsey and I fly out, but we’ll leave as soon as possible.
He did dad me after all. That proud of me shtick makes my chest swell. Can’t wait to see his face when I tell them all about Kelsey and me.
Another message comes through.
Rogue: Did the package arrive yet?
Riot: I’ll let you know as soon as I get eyes on it.
Rogue: I can’t get married without it.
Sometimes he is so dramatic. I pocket my phone.
Neil, Bronx, and Golden are already checking out the line of women outside. They tell our security team who to let into our dressing rooms, gesturing at the women they want to wind down and fuck around with.
“Do they need mothering tonight? Or can I leave them to look after themselves?” Kelsey whispers in my ear from behind me as I snag a bottle of scotch from the rows of alcohol.
I wrap my arm around her waist where she stands behind me, holding her close without pulling her in front of me.
“If we’re quiet and you’re still we can probably back out of here before anyone notices I’m about ten seconds away from ripping that tiny skirt up, tugging your panties to the side, and sinking my cock into you. ”
“Charming.” She slips away from my touch, popping out from behind me and perusing the spread of pizza, Twizzlers, and copious amounts of alcohol on the long table.
Snagging a red rope, she pops the tip between her teeth and bites into it with a grin.
“Your best line yet. No wonder I keep having sex with you.”
“You’re into me.” Putting the booze down, I grab her before she can get any further away.
I drag her out the door and down the hall until I find a darkened room.
I’ve been waiting all night. I’m not going to let any of my jackass bandmates distract her.
“Because we’re damn good together, Kelsey Peterson.
You, the sexy as hell rock chick with a brain for business and a body for fucking. ”
“You, the sexy rock star with a voice that turns women to mush.” Hers grows husky as I grip her ass and bring her closer.
“Sure.” There’s more to L.A. Riot’s fame and fortune than the talents I bring.
Neil’s a phenomenal bassist. Bronx plays so hard and fast he loses ten pounds in sweat a night.
The way Golden plays his guitar... it’s no surprise women want to know what else those digits can strum.
“But I haven’t heard you sing yet tonight. You’re going to put me to shame.”
“Well, you’re going to have to wait a bit longer.
” She captures my face between both hands and licks inside my mouth.
She’s aggressive sometimes. Takes what she wants and takes no prisoners.
It’s an attractive quality. Sexy. “You still have the meet and greet with your pass holders before we can get the hell out of here.”
As she starts to walk off, I wrap an arm around her waist and tug her back. My fingers dig into the band of her skirt and slide inside her panties.
“Riot.” She has that tone—the one she usually has when I’m acting like a tool, but a cute one—but it twists into a whimper when she feels how hard I am against her ass. “Did you stuff tube socks in your leather pants again?”
“You think you’re funny, but you’re adorable, candy head. Giving me compliments that stroke my ego the way I’m going to stroke your—”
“Okay. Okay.” She squeals when I push two fingers inside her to tease her. She’s already wet. She wraps both hands around my forearm, attempting to push me away. Or hold me closer. It’s almost always the latter. “We need to deal with the meet and greet.”
“How long?”
“Thirty minutes. An hour tops.”
“No.” I breathe against her ear. “How long will it take you to cry out my name? Because I’m not doing anything until I hear your pretty voice as I make you come.”
She reaches back and forces our lips together. “Not long. Not long at all.”
“Good.” I need a treat to get me through until I get her all to myself.
Her palms go to the wall, as my body curls around hers and my fingers sink deeper. My thumb finds her clit and presses in small, tight circles. Her breathing picks up with each stroke. Her hips bow like a pendulum to the rhythm, her arousal coating my fingers.
“You smell good.” I lick my way up her neck. Cherry perfume and the scent of her coming apart for me—my favorite aphrodisiac.
Her lips fall open, and a sweet cry spills out of her.
I snag her chin and turn her head, crushing our mouths together and swallowing the cries that follow from the soft recesses when she sinks down into my hand and grinds her clit against my palm.
She quakes and clenches around my fingers as she comes. Giving me exactly what I’m after.
I slowly remove my fingers from inside her and trail them up the bare expanse of her midriff.
“Riot,” she admonishes, swiping my fingers and her wetness from her skin. “Seriously?”
I grin as I lift those same fingers to my mouth, sucking her sweetness off while she makes an exasperated noise. What can I say? She loves it when I’m trouble. It makes her all hot and bothered. By the time we’re alone again she’ll be practically crawling out of her skin to get back at me.
I rub my thumb along my bottom lip. Girls trip all over themselves to get close to us. It works for Neil and Golden. Bronx is a little more complicated. But me... I love a challenge. And tonight, I need Kelsey to be the one to challenge me.