Chapter 10 Riot
Riot
Rebekah screams, but I don’t hear it—too busy watching the contents of my stomach run down her calf and into the crevices of her expensive-looking heels. Repulsive, but also satisfying. Very satisfying.
I don’t even realize I’m laughing until the icy splash of her drink hits my face—and even then, it’s not enough to faze me. Without a word, I slide off my stool and stumble toward the exit, ignoring Rebekah’s incessant screeching.
I’m vaguely aware of her calling out to me, but I have no fucks to give and zero desire to speak to her, so I keep going. I step out into the night, letting the door slam closed, cutting me off from the chaos erupting within the bar.
But as soon as that happens, a new kind of hell unfolds.
A small group of paparazzi closes in, cutting off my exit. Camera lights flash, blinding and overwhelming my senses, when paired with their excited chatter. I hold a hand up to shield my eyes as the voices grow increasingly demanding, but I can’t find a clear path out of this mess.
Just then, Rebekah stumbles out of the bar, still wearing my vomit and screaming something that gets lost in the other sounds filling the air.
“Fucking bastard!”
That I am able to make out—though it’s mostly from the movement of her mouth. I turn away from her, desperate to get away and put some distance between us before I do something I’ll regret—like vomit on her twice.
“Go away, Rebekah!” I snarl. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
“No!” She reaches out, gripping my arm so tightly her acrylics pierce my skin. “You can’t just ignore me, Riot!”
I shove her off easily, not wasting another moment of my attention on her.
The crowd of paparazzi has shifted, and I see a perfect path to escape.
I cast a glance toward my motorcycle, and at that moment, the world decides to upend itself, threatening to send me crashing to the wooden porch.
I’m far too drunk to ride away from this madness, so there’s only one other option.
I run.
Down the sidewalk and across streets I run, weaving through crowds of open-mouthed tourists as I race toward the heart of Neon Valley City.
That’s where all the taxis will be—which is what I need, because I don’t have time to wait around, hoping an Uber driver will accept a three-hour drive to Saltbloom at this time of night.
I lose my pursuers on Main Street after ducking into a twenty-four-hour smoke shop.
The owner gives me a suspicious look, but otherwise doesn’t comment on my haggard appearance.
I buy a couple of lighters and make small talk until I’m certain the paparazzi have moved on, then step outside and hail a cab.
I offer the driver five hundred dollars to make the three-hour trip to Saltbloom, and even then, he almost refuses me. It’s only when I promise to give him a signed copy of Riot Rush’s Chaos Prelude album that he agrees. Though he never loses that deep scowl.
As soon as we get to the town limits, the driver pulls off to the side of the road. He gives me his contact information and speeds off into the night, leaving me to walk the last two miles back to my hotel room.
I don’t mind. The fresh air will help sober me up a bit.
The temperature is surprisingly nice, and there’s a slight breeze that makes the humidity slightly less stifling, so it’s not a terrible journey overall. My mind, on the other hand, is a fucked-up jumble of emotion and memories.
Starting to regret the whole “sobering fresh air” thing.
I’m unsettled for the rest of the walk back to the hotel. I can’t stop thinking about how Rebekah so casually touched me and said my name. Like I would be happy to see the woman partially responsible for my brother’s death. Like we were friends.
I had to see that wretched woman today of all days. Like a cosmic “fuck you” from the universe.
The thought of her fills me with rage, and I hasten the rest of the way back to my hotel room, desperate to drink these vile thoughts away.
After stripping my leather jacket, shirt, and shoes, I climb into bed with my comfort bottle of whiskey, so unsettled that even memories of Eloise fail to calm me.
There’s a sour taste in my mouth that the burn of the whiskey doesn’t help, and I fear there’s nothing in this world that could.
Seeing Rebekah reminded me of Rush and how everything had been so good, then so, so wrong.
And she wants to act like she played no part in it.
Wants to weasel her way back into the limelight.
Puking on her was nice of me, considering what she deserves.
I lean back against the headboard, closing my eyes as the ache in my head intensifies. I wish Eloise were here. Just being next to her would make everything better.
The thought barrels to the forefront of my mind, so sudden and violent it makes the room spin—that, or the copious amount of poison pumping through my veins. Time for bed, then.
I place my phone on the nightstand and hit the light, sighing as the room is bathed in comforting darkness. Minutes later, I’m drifting into an alcohol-induced slumber, ready to succumb to the nothingness.
That is, until my phone buzzes.
I tell myself to ignore it—that it can wait until the morning. But a voice in the back of my mind, a nagging sensation in the pit of my gut, tells me to check.
I squint against the light from my screen, my heart leaping to my throat at the message displayed. It’s from Eloise.
Hey.
The room spins, but it’s not from the drink this time. I’m worried my heart will burst from surprise, happiness, or both. My hands are shaking so hard that it takes me three times as long to type out a reply, but eventually, I manage it.
Hi, Eloise. It’s late—is everything okay?
Maybe she’s taking me up on my offer for help. Perhaps she’s in trouble. While I hope it’s not the case, some small part of me is ecstatic at the possibility she would reach out in such a vulnerable moment. Luckily, I don’t have to worry for long.
Everything is fine! I just had a guitar question.
Sorry if I woke you ):
You didn’t. The witching hours are my favorite time to be awake (;
What’s your question, sweet Eloise?
She doesn’t respond for a long while, and I begin to worry I scared her off. But then those dots appear, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Okay, so I didn’t actually have a guitar question… I just couldn’t sleep, and I was bored.
I’ll let you get back to your witching hours!
No. No, she can’t go yet.
You know, forcing two people to be bored is twice as cruel. I could go for some good conversation right now.
So… tell me why you’re still awake?
Are you really not tired?
Wide awake.
Now spill.
…
I will if you do.
I let out a soft chuckle under my breath.
Well, I just got back home from a successful night of irresponsible alcohol consumption. Plus, the night is young. Too early for bed.
Too many thoughts.
I don’t tell her they’re centered around her, or mention how she’s slowly driving me mad. That’s a little too intense for a first-time text convo.
I gotta say, I’m a little jealous. I could have used a drink or two after today.
Rough one? Is that why you can’t sleep?
…You could say that. Basically just a shit day at work.
Wanna talk about it?
I guess… but that would require me telling you what I do.
Is there a problem with that?
I guess not… it just usually changes things when people find out.
Nothing happened when I told you I used to be a rock star. You should give it a try.
…
You should know I’m not a very patient man, Eloise. Spill.
Ugh. Fine.
I’m a concert pianist. A pretty well-known one, for the people who listen to that kind of stuff.
I’m not saying that to brag. I say it because tonight, I had to play for a sold-out concert hall of all the stuffy Neon Valley elite. And I fucked up. Royally. They’ll probably be laughing about it in the tabloids tomorrow.
I pause, unable to process the information she’s giving me. I was there. I heard her play. She was beautifully, utterly flawless in her performance—and though I only saw the first half, I doubt the part I missed was any less spectacular.
You were holding out on me. A concert pianist? It makes sense why you’re progressing so quickly with the guitar.
I’m so sorry you had a bad day, sweet Eloise. But I sincerely doubt your performance was even an ounce as messy as you’re making it seem.
And then, before she has the chance to disagree, I type another message to distract her.
We’re always harder on ourselves than we should be. And I say that as someone who finds it extremely comforting to wallow in my own self-hatred. Try to give yourself a little grace. If not for you, then for the sake of me and my weary bones.
You do not have weary bones. You’re what—36?
Ouch.
Sorry. Was I close at least?
If today is opposite day, yeah.
You were the one talking about ‘weary bones’!
Because I have bad knees!
You are so ridiculous. I think I’m actually ready for bed now.
Aw, don’t go. It was just getting fun.
And there will be fun times to be had another day. I really do need to get going, though.
Thanks for answering. It was really good talking to you tonight, Riot.
I go to type my response, but then she sends one last message. A little emoticon music note, followed by a black heart.
Fucking adorable.
Good night, sweet Eloise.
I hold my phone to my chest, letting out a small breath as memories of Eloise at the piano swirl through my mind. I wish she were here. I wish I didn’t have to look from afar.
All I can do is hope the time between now and our next lesson passes quickly.