Chapter 11 Riot
Riot
“That’s a dead bird.” I stare at the gray and white pigeon attached to the front of my Stratocaster. A breeze ruffles the fluffy feathers on its chest, but otherwise the bird is still. Unnaturally so. Its head is bent at an odd angle, the beady eyes staring straight ahead.
“And a hunting knife.” Bronx points out.
The equipment truck is a mess. Our instruments are strewn around. Whoever did this was looking for my guitar. Not Golden’s. Not Neil’s bass. And not Bronx’s snare, which is currently plinking with each drop of blood that plops from the stained plumage onto the drum’s surface.
Bronx crosses his muscular arms across the barrel of his chest. “This isn’t playing anymore, man. You know when they level up from just leaving creepy messages to killing animals, they’re unhinged.”
“Yeah, but you like the unhinged ones,” Golden says to him as he joins us. “Fuck. Jesus. That’s not okay.”
“It couldn’t have happened long ago.” I swallow thickly with the need to hurl as Golden hops into the back of the truck.
“Don’t touch it,” I say before he can wrap his hand around the handle of the knife and yank it out. “Our guys secured the area, called the local cops. They’re enroute. Where’s Coffey?”
Coffey is our road crew manager. He’s in charge of making sure everything gets broken down and packed up properly so our trucks roll out on time.
But there was some mechanical issues with the stage that put them behind tonight and kept the truck here.
Which is how some creep managed to get in and vandalize my guitar.
And kill that poor, defenseless bird. Psychotic motherfucker!
“They’re escalating,” Bronx says.
“We can’t be certain it’s the same person,” Golden says. “There’s no note.”
“Actually, there is,” Coffey says, joining us at the grim scene. “Security has it.”
“Is it the same as the others?” Usually, the notes are poems about how me and the author belong together, interspersed with my lyrics. They’re creepy but harmless—at least I thought so— although the admirer never left me a dead bird before.
Bronx pales. When they couldn’t get hold of me they called him. He got here first and must have seen the message.
I stride toward the group of security guards watching us. “Hey, I want to see the fucking note.”
“Riot.” Bronx grabs my shoulder and drags me to a stop. “You don’t. It’s not good for your state of mind, bro.”
“What does it say?” Obviously, he’s read it. “Paraphrase.”
“They won’t let anyone, or anything, get in the way of you two being together,” he says flatly, the words sounding ridiculous. “There is not a soul in the world who understands you like they do. You’re fated to be one. And soon. You can count on that.”
A chill trickles down my spine. By the expression on Bronx’s face, he’s holding back. “What else?”
“There was a picture too. Of you and Carmine’s daughter in the green room earlier. Sonatina’s head was missing. It’s pretty creepy.” Bronx shivers.
“Holy shit.” I hold my temples with both palms. “They were here tonight, At the party.”
“Fucking hell,” Golden mutters. “That’s crazy.”
“That some unhinged person could get that close without anyone noticing is scary as fuck.” The adrenaline coursing through me explodes with my heart rate.
“It’s not quite that bad,” Bronx reassures. “It wasn’t taken from inside the suite. Or at least not by your stalker.”
“What?” I stop trying to wear a track in the asphalt. “I need to see it.”
“I took a photo.” Bronx brings it up on his phone and hands it to me. “But I can show you the original. You’re tagged in it.”
“What am I looking at?” The photo is of me and Sonatina, but it is unmarked.
“Go to the next one.”
I slide my thumb across and the one with her head cut out appears.
“She, he, whoever they are got the image off social media,” Golden says what we’re all thinking.
“But Sonatina only posted this two hours ago.” The time stamp says so. I would have preferred she didn’t, but it’s not unusual to have our photos posted all over social media by the people we meet.
Everyone I get close to could be in danger.
Kelsey. The hairs on the back of my neck lift. I left her on the bus alone. I grab my phone. “Someone needs to call Carmine to let him know.”
Walking far enough away to get some privacy I wait what feels like a lifetime. I shouldn’t have left her on her own.
Kelsey answers the phone. “What’s going on?”
Her voice eases my worst fears, but there’s still a knot in my throat I can’t swallow around. “Candy head, you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” she says breezily.
That tone... it’s never fine. “Is someone there with you?”
“No.” She sounds confused, but she brings it back to edgy quickly. “It’s just me... and this black, lacy thong.”
I shove my hand in my pocket. The panties Sonatina tucked in there are gone. They must have fallen out... shit, when I took my pants off. Women are always giving me things I don’t want. Panties. Dead fucking birds.
“They’re bedazzled,” she says. “Initialled.”
“It’s a funny story.” I’ll say anything to keep her on the phone until I’m back at the bus. “You’re going to forgive me for this.”
Rook, our head of security steps into my path. “I’m going to need you to stay here until we’ve finished our sweeps and the police have talked to you.”
“Kelsey’s on her own.” I shove past him. “So you can tell the cops where to find me.”
“Riot, what’s going on?” she asks, all attitude dropped from her voice.
“She isn’t,” he says. “I already have a team in the garage. She’s perfectly safe.”
That slows my racing heart. Rook is a professional with fifteen years of military training as well as six years in the private sector. His team knows what they’re doing. If he says Kelsey’s safe, then she’s safe.
But I have PTSD from dealing with Alec Hawthorne. I haven’t forgotten that he and Ivy’s bodyguard were working together. That someone we trusted made it possible for Alec to get into places it shouldn’t have been possible for him to get to.
It would be foolish not to do everything in my power to keep Kelsey safe. I won’t be less panicked until I do. “I want her safer. I want one of them on that bus with her right now.”
“Riot?” She drags my attention back. “What is going on?”
A couple of police cruisers pull in around the truck. Doors open and thud shut as four cops assess the scene.
“One of the guys is going to come sit with you, candy head. There’s been another threat.”
“Another?”
“I got another note. Only this time it’s worse.” A hell of a lot worse if she’s killing poor animals and threatening anyone I come into contact with.
“They’re escalating, aren’t they? I can hear it in your voice.”
“There’s a dead bird stabbed to my guitar.” I tug on my hair. “The police are here, and I need to stay and talk to them. But I won’t get off the phone until the guy Rook sent is with you.”
“Jasper’s here now,” she says, before I hear a man’s voice in the background. “I’m in good hands. Do what you have to do.”
She hangs up, and I cup my phone in both hands. At least she’s okay. I can fix the panty drama later.
The officers are still milling around the truck when I rejoin Bronx and Golden.
“Remember when Neil didn’t need rehab, and you didn’t have a psycho stalker?” Bronx smirks. “Those were the days.”
“Yeah, but we also weren’t famous, rich, and swimming in new pussy every night,” Golden reminds him. “There’s always a downside to balance the scales.”
We didn’t sell our soul to the devil. We’re rock stars because we’re talented.
We pushed ourselves hard and then harder still.
We made connections and poured our blood, sweat, and pain into creating music that we love.
That our fans love. We paid, sure, but in hard fucking work.
We made it impossible to fail. But still, there’s a price to everyone knowing our names. “Anyone get a hold of Carmine?”
“Sorry,” Bronx says. “The man doesn’t answer his phone.”
“It’s all right.” I light up my phone and look for the number Sonatina entered earlier. I’m thankful she gave it to me now even though it was the last thing I wanted a couple hours ago.
A groggy feminine voice answers, “Hello?”
“Sonatina—”
“She left her phone by the piano again.” The person yawns and something heavy echoes. Probably the key lid closing. “Let me see if I can find her.”
“I should have known you stole my phone.” Sonatina’s uppity voice is grating. How can someone who sings as sweetly as she does sound that sharp and bitter? “You’re always going through my things.”
“I wasn’t.” The other woman sounds defeated. “You left your phone on the piano. I was bringing it to you.”
“I don’t know why you think I need to hear your excuses. Nobody is interested in what you have to say, Lennon. Not even Daddy.”
“You have a phone call.” Embarrassment leaks into the other woman’s quiet tone.
A quick squeal follows.
“Riot Maddox. I knew it.” Sonatina switches the call to video. She plays with her hair, trying to direct my attention to the sheer lingerie she’s wearing. “I’ve packed my bags. What time will you be swinging by to pick me up?”
What the hell is she talking about? “I’m not... Listen, I’m actually calling because—”
“You felt the connection tonight as much as I did.” She licks her lips and tugs on the bottom with her teeth.
“That’s not...” I’m going to leave it alone.
After this I won’t need to talk to her or see her until we go to the studio.
Surely by then she’ll have gotten a clue without me having to offend her and piss off Carmine.
“I have a stalker, and they’ve escalated.
The photos you posted… they saw them tonight…
I’m concerned you might have caught some negative attention by being close to me.
Your dad isn’t answering his phone and I wanted to make sure you were aware of the situation. ”
“Well, thank you for warning me. Daddy will be glad you’re worried about his only daughter.”
There’s a weird noise in the background.