Sound and Silence (Amplified Hearts #1)

Chapter 1

Riot

Washed-Up and Crashing Out! Riot Arden’s Latest Weekend Disaster!

My eyes skim over the headline of ZZ Insider, not needing to read any further to know what the tabloid is saying about me.

Bad-tempered alcoholic. Worthless drug addict. Defeated. Loser. Failure.

A shadow of a once-great rock star. A hollow shell of the man I was before I lost everything. Before I went off the deep end. Before I became a gold mine for the tabloid vampires that profit off every one of my life’s tragedies and bad decisions.

“Why are you showing this to me?” I tear my eyes away from the cover, blinking away the red haze of anger as I meet my manager’s narrowed gaze.

Enzo presses the tip of his index finger to the first paragraph, his brow pinched in a deep frown. “That. That is why.”

I lower my eyes to the page, my expression morphing to match his as I read.

Riot Arden is up to his usual CHAOTIC escapades!

An entire evening of drunken partying filled with women, drugs, and debauchery wasn’t enough for our bad-boy Riot… he had to add ASSAULT and BATTERY to his list of misdeeds before going home for the night. (More like *morning*… ahem…)

An anonymous source told ZZ Insider that they were enjoying a quiet, relaxing night at their local bar when the drool-worthy rock star walked up and tapped them on the shoulder. (Cool, right? WRONG!)

As Anonymous turned, they were greeted with a malicious Riot Arden, who pulled back his fist and PUNCHED Anonymous in the FACE!

(If you couldn’t tell by now… it was UNPROVOKED!)

Needless to say… our insider is PRESSING CHARGES. He wants Riot ROTTING behind bars! (And honestly… this journalist can’t disagree with that sentiment. Sue me.)

More details to come as the case unfolds!

Below the article is a picture of Riot Rush from three years ago—specifically of me screaming into a mic on stage.

My long black hair frames my face in a wolf cut style.

Several pieces are slicked to my skin by sweat, others catching on the ornate septum jewelry hanging from the center of my nose.

Someone has taken extreme care to highlight the twin rings at the center of my bottom lip, and they practically jump off the page.

I’m shirtless in the picture, with a pair of low-cut leather pants my stylist shoved me into in order to show off the ink covering my neck, torso, and pelvis.

And there, in the corner of the photo, is Rush.

His face is blurred, half of it hidden by his bright red bangs as he leans over his guitar—but the sight is enough to pull the breath from my lungs.

I shove the magazine off the table, trying to retain my composure even though an elephant-sized fist tightens around my heart. Rush. How long has it been since I thought about my little brother?

The answer comes before I have the chance to blink. Too long. Much too long.

I try to take a deep breath, fail, and dig my thumbnail into the raw skin lining my cuticle, letting the sharp pain drag me down to earth.

Focus. This isn’t about Rush. I shove all thoughts of my brother to the back of my mind, packing them up in a neat little box and locking it up tight.

When my vision clears, I take a deep breath and focus on Enzo.

“That weasel from the bar is pressing charges? Why the fuck haven’t I heard about this?” I demand.

“You’re hearing about it now.” Enzo’s chest heaves with a sigh as he slumps into his office chair.

“Okay,” I mutter, trying to concentrate on anything other than the wild stuttering of my heart. “What’s the damage?”

Enzo frowns, looking anywhere but at me. “Luckily, your lawyers worked out a deal.”

I raise a brow, not liking his tone. “What kind of a deal?”

“Better than you deserve, considering all your priors.” Enzo huffs. “No time served. Just a couple of hundred hours of community service.”

“A couple of hundred?”

Enzo blanches. “You broke his jaw, Riot.”

“He deserved it.” I shrug. “That journalist is lying. It was completely provoked.”

Enzo pinches the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh.

“It doesn’t matter. Just be thankful the prosecutor was a fan of your dad’s music and is willing to cut you a break.

” Enzo’s mouth turns down in a frown at the mention of my father, his dark blue eyes misting with tears that are gone in the next blink.

“I don’t know why it’s so hard to get through to you. ”

Despite being my manager and fifty-two to my thirty-one, I view Enzo as a brother. When Riot Rush signed its first record deal sixteen years ago, Enzo went above and beyond, stepping into the role of protective older sibling and filling the gaping chasm our parents left when they died.

No matter how I’ve fucked up or what the tabloids say, he’s remained loyal. He takes care of me, bails me out, and manages my failed career—and I stop him when he’s about to go off the deep end.

It’s a good system, but I hate how serious he takes his job sometimes. Moments like now… I wish he would just forget about me and leave me to rot, to face the consequences of the disaster I’ve created.

But I know he won’t. He’s too good. So much better than I deserve.

Enzo leans forward, unblinking as he makes eye contact with me. “This is serious, Riot. I don’t think you understand that.”

I shrug, walking over to his bar cart and pouring a finger’s worth of bourbon.

“Is it, really? I had no idea. Must be all the drugs frying my brain.” My voice is seething as I quote the tabloid article.

When Enzo doesn’t respond, I walk to the window, my eyes taking in the sprawling city as I swirl the amber liquid around my glass—trying desperately to take my mind off the emotions warring in my chest.

Enzo’s office is on the fifth floor of one of the high-rises lining the coastline of Neon Valley, and while it’s not the fanciest, it does have a decent view.

To the left, crystalline blue-green waves crash against the finest white sand beaches.

To the right, a bustling city—a jungle of concrete and neon lights that spans for miles and breathes a life of its own.

I drag my eyes down to the sidewalk, taking in the large crowd gathered outside the Neon Valley Concert Hall. It’s a beautiful old building directly across the street from Enzo’s office, and it seems every time I’m here, some prestigious event is taking place.

From my vantage point, I can just make out the smiling, animated faces of the crowd.

Women in ball gowns, draped in fine jewelry and glittering gemstones the size of golf balls.

Men in tuxedos, hair slicked back and chests puffed out as they cast longing looks out of the corner of their eyes toward the concert hall doors.

They’re waiting for something.

I don’t have to wait long to find out what.

A heartbeat later, the doors open, and a woman with hair the color of cherry blossoms steps out onto the platform.

She’s dressed in a pale gold gown, the material flowing to the concrete in shimmering pools of molten liquid, clinging to each dip and curve of her body like a second skin.

As she walks, the slit along the side of her dress parts, revealing a sliver of her silky-smooth thigh.

My throat dries as I drag my gaze down, down, down, admiring the strappy golden heels plastered to her feet, the way they bring out the curves in her pert little ass.

Forgetting about my conversation with Enzo, I step closer to the window as if that will allow me to be nearer to the beautiful creature down below.

Who are you?

The patiently waiting crowd swarms the woman, their mouths moving animatedly and their bodies writhing to get closer to her.

Cameras flash wildly, illuminating the wide-eyed expression on the woman’s face.

My chest clenches, and I’m struck by how incredibly sad she looks.

I’ve seen those eyes before—they’re the ones I’m haunted by every morning when I look in the mirror.

An intense agony living just below the surface, an ocean of pain begging to be released.

I place my hand on the window, struck with a desire to reach out to her. To see what could cause such a beautiful, adored thing to feel such grief.

For a moment, I wish I were down on the pavement right now to see her clearly. But then she’s being shuffled through the crowd and shoved into a long black limo by an angry, balding man. Her manager, I’m guessing.

Without a word of protest, the woman slides inside a second before the door slams shut, cutting her off from her adoring fans. It speeds away, and I’m left watching the empty spot with disappointment simmering in my chest.

Realizing how ridiculous I’m being, I scoff and shake my head, packing all my feelings into a neat little box. I’ll never see her again—whoever she is. I’ll never find out why her eyes look so sad. I’ll never be able to touch her. Hold her. There’s no use in wishing or wondering.

Enzo says something in the background, but I can’t quite make out the words as I down my whiskey, relishing the way it burns all the way to the pit of my stomach.

“Riot!”

I lower the empty glass to my side, unable to tear my eyes away from the street, even as the crowd disperses. “Yes, Enzo?”

He blows out a breath, irritation heating the air around him. “You weren’t listening.”

It’s not a question, but I still shake my head.

I can hear Enzo grinding his teeth from across the room. “Can you at least act like you give a damn about your career? Hell, how about your own life?”

I finally tear my eyes away from the sidewalk, shoving thoughts of the beautiful woman to the back of my mind as I meet my manager’s glare with a mocking smirk. “Nope,” I say, popping the “p.” “Can’t do it. Not for anyone. Not even you, dear Enzo. I just don’t have the heart for it since Pa died.”