Chapter 9 Riot
Riot
Saturday…
I stand at the edge of the sidewalk, pulling long drags from my cigarette as I watch hundreds of suits and ladies in elaborate ball gowns clamor to be the first through the glass-paned doors of the Neon Valley Music Hall.
I’ve been here for the past half hour, frozen to this corner.
Torn between the desire to watch Eloise play and the knowledge that this is a terrible, awful idea.
I’m just curious. That’s it. I simply want to see what all the hype is about.
I tell myself it’s harmless, that nothing will come of this. Even though I know it’s a lie, it makes me feel a little better about what I’m going to do.
Before I can change my mind, I stub my cigarette under the heel of my boot and walk up to the ticketing booth, giving the surly-looking man seated behind the glass a friendly smile.
I go to speak, but the man simply holds up a hand, his eyes narrowed in disgust as he takes in my many facial piercings and shadow-lined eyes. “I’m sorry, but no.”
“No, what?”
“No, you cannot purchase a ticket. We’re sold out.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” he says with a sneer. “You should try purchasing your tickets in advance next time.” He rakes his eyes down my person, lip curling at the sight of my leather jacket and ripped black denim. “And I suggest you arrive with a more appropriate outfit. We have standards here.”
Ooh. Snooty Magoo alert. “Right. Well, I’ll let you get back to… Whatever it is you’re doing.”
I turn on my heel and walk back into the crowd, deciding what to do next. I could come back next week, but I’m already here and anxious to see Eloise play. The longer I think about it, the more I realize giving up just isn’t an option tonight.
Then I spot a couple standing at the edge of the crowd, their heads lowered in what appears to be a heated debate. Trouble in paradise? Perfect time to swoop in and try to snag a ticket.
I stride up to the pair with a wide grin, trying to appear more welcoming than I seem at first glance. “Hey there! Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering—”
“Oh. My. God! Are you Riot Arden? You are, aren’t you?” The woman claps her hands together excitedly, her scowl giving way to a look of awe. “Randy, it’s Riot Arden!”
“I see that, Sonia dear.” The man—Randy—gives his wife a disgruntled look before turning his attention back to me. “Sorry about that. She’s a big fan of your music.”
“Always nice to meet a fan.” The way Randy’s wife is eye-fucking me right in front of him is making me a little nervous. I’m a scrappy guy, but Randy looks like he used to be a linebacker, and my odds of winning that fight are slim to none.
I clear my throat. “Listen, I hate to ask, but I just found out the show was sold out, and I really, really need a ticket. Is there any way I could buy one from you guys?” It’s a long shot, but fuck, it’s worth a try. “I’ll give you a thousand dollars for it.”
To my surprise, Randy lets out a bark of laughter. “I’m afraid that wouldn't even buy you a seat in the parking lot.” He tilts his head, amusement shining in his eyes. “For six? That, I’d think about.”
“How about ten?”
Randy considers my offer for a moment. I think he’s about to tell me no, but then Sonia pinches the back of his arm, not-so-quietly whispering something in his ear that sounds like, “It’s Riot freaking Arden! Don’t you dare ruin this for me!”
With a frown, Randy shrugs. “I didn't want to sit through this thing anyway. Enjoy yourself.”
I wire the money to him, and he passes me his ticket—sixth row back from the stage—which is the perfect distance to watch Eloise while staying out of her direct view.
I’m so lucky, I don’t even care that I’ll have to sit next to Sonia and endure her hungry stares. It’ll be worth it to watch Eloise play.
Sonia and Randy return to their hushed conversation while I head into the concert hall, ignoring the curious stares and occasional looks of disgust from the Neon Valley elite as I make my way to my seat.
My eyes scan the stage, taking in the many faces of the orchestral group sitting in a half-circle around the grand Steinway.
Each person is dressed in tailored black suits, blending into the background of the vast wood-paneled stage, their faces gaunt beneath the heavy stage lights.
Eloise is absent, but the excited buzz of the packed auditorium tells me she’ll make her appearance soon.
As soon as I sit, the theater lights dim, flashing twice to signal the rest of the audience to do the same, and the chatter dies down, replaced by a collective shuffling of bodies, hushed whispers, and the occasional cough.
As the last of the attendees settles down, the oboe emits a single note, followed by the moans of various instruments coming to life.
The sound fills the hall with a discordant yet familiar swell as they find the perfect pitch, and I sit up straighter in anticipation, watching the wings hungrily for any sign of Eloise.
Sonia takes her seat next to mine, her eyes hungrily scouring my profile as her mouth moves around soundless words. I hardly register her presence, then forget her entirely as the audience breaks into roaring applause.
Eloise emerges from the wings, her six-inch heels clicking melodically against the stage as she slowly makes her way to the piano bench, utterly vibrant against the neutral background and sea of white tuxes.
Her dress mimics the orange hues of a beautiful sunset, clinging to every curve of her body like a second skin and pairing beautifully with the blue of her eyes.
With each practiced step, the gown shifts, revealing a slit that exposes the entirety of her left thigh, and the sight makes my mouth water.
The crowd is utterly silent as she takes her seat at the bench, each of us waiting with bated breath as she positions her foot at the pedals.
Me? I’d happily sit here and watch her play chopsticks, but that’s not what this crowd expects.
They want a show, a spectacle—something they can either brag about or pick apart at their fancy dinner parties and social gatherings.
Eloise looks toward the orchestra, then turns to the conductor, giving the woman a slight nod before tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear.
Slowly, like she’s moving through water, Eloise raises her hands from her lap and lowers them to the keys with such reverence that you might think she's touching something holy.
And then, without a word, without any warning, she begins to play.
I have no idea what song fills the space of the auditorium, but from the very first note she plays, I know I’m a goner. The moment her fingers touch the keys, I realize how well and truly fucked I am.
I’ve never seen anything more beautiful, never heard anything that made my heart sing the way it does now.
It’s sad and it’s sweet, her performance controlled and then suddenly explosive with raw emotion.
The way she moves—Mac wasn’t exaggerating when he described it.
Her passion is infectious, and the sounds she’s able to draw from the instrument have goose bumps rising along my forearms.
The longer I watch her, the more I understand that this isn’t some casual crush—not something that will go away in a few months, or even years.
Eloise Marquette is under my skin, and she’s here to stay.
There’s not a single thing in this world that could change that, and I wouldn’t even want it to.
Not now. Not when I finally realized what I’ve been missing.
I am so stupidly fucked.
I sit through the rest of her performance with my teeth gritted, trying to think of anything other than the red-hot desire flooding my veins. I tell myself it’s wrong, that I have no right to feel this way, but none of it helps. In fact, the knowledge I can’t have her only makes things worse.
During intermission, I’m the first out of my seat, and the only one racing to the exit like the building is on fire.
I notice a few people with their phones out, recording my mad dash, but I can’t find it in me to be bothered.
There’s only one thing in this world I care about right now. Only one thing I want.
But since I can’t have her, I’ll have to find something else to numb the ache.
The opening chord of “fleabag” by YUNGBLUD vibrates along the driftwood-covered walls, and a few drunken cheers ring out as I step up to the microphone at the front of the stage.
It’s karaoke night at The Midnight Pearl Lounge and Bar, and at some point, someone at the bar recognized me and decided it would be a good idea to shove me on stage for a solo.
Unfortunately, this all happened when I was thoroughly zooted, so I readily agreed.
Now I’m standing center stage, belting the lyrics to “fleabag” into a mic that reeks of stale beer while the ancient speakers struggle to rise above the roar of the crowd.
My skin is unbearably hot beneath the neon stage lights, sweat beading along my hairline and smudging my eyeliner—such a familiar part of performing, yet it feels foreign to me. Uncomfortable. Wrong.
“I love you, Riot!”
More cheers break out from the small crowd of people gathered at the front of the stage—fans who still remember Riot Rush and love the music.
Phone cameras flash, obtaining evidence of my drunken performance that will no doubt end up slapped on the front page of the tabloids.
But my blood is mostly whiskey, and I find I don’t care in the slightest.
As soon as the last chord rings out, I grab the fifth of whiskey I've been nursing during the night and take the final swig. This earns me a few more cheers—or horrified gasps, I can’t quite tell—and a smirk spreads across my face as I give my adoring fans a bow.
There are calls for one of Riot Rush’s original songs, their pleas rising above the buzzing in my ears.
And then, from somewhere in the back of the bar, a voice calls out, “It should have been you instead of Rush! You suck!”
“Who said that?” I snap upright, teetering slightly on my feet as I raise a hand to my brow and search the crowd, struggling to keep my composure despite the pain his words bring. The microphone makes a screeching sound, and a couple of groans replace the fading cheers.
I see the man in the back, his square head and tuft of gleaming blond hair jutting out a few inches above the others in the crowd. His scowl only deepens as I make eye contact.
“What if… what if that was my last straw? My thirteenth reason?” I hold the mic for balance as the room spins viciously. “What then, Scotty Squarehead?”
He stands abruptly, his face purpling in fury. “What the fuck did you call me?”
Ah. Seems I’ve hit a nerve. Toaster-head Tommy is pushing two fifty and reeks of steroids and repressed pre-pubescent rage, so it’s probably best not to provoke him any further. But then, he brought up Rush.
“Easy there, Billy Block-head,” I slur, holding my hands up in defense. “I mean no offense. I simply feel horrible for your poor mother.”
The man lunges, teeth bared in an animalistic snarl, screaming something about “Don’t talk about my mother.” But security steps forward and hauls him away. A part of me is disappointed. I was looking forward to a good fight, even if the consequences outweighed the high I’d feel in the moment.
I let go of the mic and stumble off the stage, nearly face-planting in my drunken state. The room is spinning, the lights are beaming, my stomach is twisting, and I know if I don’t sit down soon, gravity and biology are going to team up and make something horrible occur.
I take a seat on one of the greasy stools near the bar, my eyes pleading with the man behind the counter for water. While I wait, I pull out my phone, tapping Eloise’s name into the search bar for the umpteenth time tonight.
Lost to my mindless scrolling, I fail to notice as someone breaks away from the crowd and walks over to me. They tap me on the shoulder, and anger flares in my veins as my attention is drawn away from my pink-haired obsession.
“What now?” I slur, turning my head as fast as I dare to meet the eyes of the stranger standing behind me.
Only, it’s not a stranger.
It’s my brother’s ex, Rebekah.
I take one look at the woman who helped kill my brother and vomit all over her sequined dress.