Chapter 5
chapter
five
“Everyone wants a piece of the chaos, until they choke on the blood underneath.” - Cyrus
CYRUS
Laughter ricochets off the glass walls of the penthouse suite, and champagne corks pop like gunshots. I sit in the center with a whiskey glass in one hand and a fake smile plastered on my face.
Cameras. Groupies. Industry parasites. I don’t see them as individuals. They’ve all blurred together.
“Another shot for the king of fucking Venomous!” Someone yells, and another drink is shoved into my hand.
I raise the glass, swallow fire, and feel nothing.
Every afterparty is the same. Bright lights that burn my eyes, expensive perfume that irritates my nose, a pulse that never syncs with the music, and makes my head spin.
This suite is too white, too sterile for the filth painted across its walls.
I can only imagine the bill we’ll get tomorrow.
Glasses clink around me, and I massage my temples, trying to block out the chaos.
I should leave.
A girl screams by the edge of the pool on the terrace, dragging my attention.
For a split second, I imagine someone jumping from the top floor.
It would make headlines, but not the kind I need.
Instead, it’s just drunks launching themselves fully clothed into the aqua water, screaming as they sink and splash those sitting poolside.
This is a circus. A fucking joke. And I’m the headline act, and no one cares how many pills it takes to keep me standing.
I perch on the back of a designer leather couch, boots planted where someone’s ass should be. One elbow on my knee, whiskey glass balanced in my palm like a performer. Second refill in an hour. Loose smile. Eyes down. My truth, locked behind the burn in my throat.
Ledger crosses the room, beer swinging from his fingertips, cheeks flushed from booze and the high of the concert. He grins and slaps my shoulder.
“You were fire tonight,” he says.
“I try,” I mutter, forcing a smirk.
“You staying here or on the bus?”
“Haven’t decided yet.” I should go to the bus and leave all this shit behind, but I never do what I’m supposed to do.
“How late are you staying?”
I shrug, noncommittal.
“Hit me up if you’re leaving, I’d rather sleep on the bus.”
“Will do,” I say.
He drifts off.
I scan the crowd. Eren leans into an influencer with teeth too white to be real, smiling so wide she’s Joker-level creepy. Ash disappeared with a tattooed girl in fishnets about ten minutes ago. Vex is outside on the balcony, chain-smoking and glaring at the city like he wants to punch it.
The DJ drops a remix of one of our old songs. A track we used to scream in Patrick’s garage before the money, the labels, and the contracts that read like death threats. I barely recognize the song now. The crowd loses its mind anyway.
I down my drink. Let the numbness settle deeper. I really shouldn’t be drinking with my meds. I know it, but the shaking is worse tonight, and so is the pain that no one can name. It’s the only combo that stills both for a time.
“Hey, rock god.”
I turn my head and find the source of the voice.
A blonde in a tight black dress and legs for days.
Familiar, probably from the meet-and-greet earlier.
Her pupils are large from either alcohol or party drugs.
Her skin is shimmering with too much bronzer, and the way she is leaning over to talk gives me a view straight down her dress—on purpose, of course.
She bites her lip and steps between my knees as close as the couch allows, hands sliding onto my thighs.
“You look like you could use a distraction,” she purrs.
I smile at her…the Cyrus Vale—frontman of Venomous—smile. Menace and promise braided into sex.
“Yeah. You offering?” I trace my finger down her arm.
She wiggles until she squeals and falls onto her knees.
Her mouth is now in perfect alignment with my cock.
I know it’s on purpose. She isn’t the first and won’t be the last to use this maneuver.
She moves closer until her tits are practically in my lap.
“Only if you’re not too tired from the rigorous workout on stage.” Her fingers inch higher and are now almost touching my zipper.
I’m exhausted. All I want is to sleep for an entire day. But that’s not a Cyrus Vale answer. That isn’t what the world expects. I laugh, and it comes out dry and emotionless.
“Sweetheart, I’ve been tired since the day I was born.”
She giggles as if I told the best joke. Of course, she doesn’t get it. No one does. Her fingers slide higher, over my abs.
I let my head fall back, and I stare at the chandelier overhead. It’s sparkling with tiny shards of broken promises. I blink and take a breath that doesn’t reach my lungs.
Someone lights a blunt. The scent wraps around me and making it harder to breathe. I need out. Swinging my leg over her head, I stand and brush her hands away with a soft pat on her head.
“Where are you going?”
“Need ten minutes,” I say. “Take a load off.”
I move through the room, nodding at Eren as I pass. He raises his glass in silent salute. The bass thumps beneath my boots as I cut through the crowd, heading for the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind me.
Hands braced on the marble sink, I stare into the mirror. My reflection looks like someone I no longer know. Makeup is smeared along my collarbone. There is lipstick on my jaw. Smudged eyeliner frames eyes that haven’t known real sleep in days.
It’s as if I’ve been ravaged by vampires in a goth bar. And I fucking hate it.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out with a sigh, expecting another groupie selfie or a reminder about tomorrow’s television appearance.
It’s worse. A text from Auguste Gaillard.
A: PR files are in your inbox. Try not to make your new social media rep quit in the first 24 hours.
I open the file to see which poor bastard they’ve thrown at us this time and freeze as the picture loads.
Of course, it’s her. Of all the people in the world, it has to be her. I don’t click on the link to the rest of the information. Don’t need to. I just stare at her photo and let the past scrape its claws down my spine.
Haven fucking Gaillard. What sick joke is this? Auguste has an evil streak in him a mile long. I laugh once and shove the phone back in my pocket.
“Fuck my life,” I growl, twisting the faucet and letting the cold water run while I stare at myself again. “What the fuck are you doing, man? What the fuck have you become? And what the hell are you going to do now?”
The mirror doesn’t answer. But I know. I scrub the lipstick off my throat, my jaw, my lips. My hands shake, but I don’t stop. I want it gone. All of it. Gone.
A soft knock reverberates through the bathroom door.
“Cyrus?” The blonde’s grating voice breaks through the silence. She didn’t listen. Why would she? They never do.
“Give me a fucking minute,” I call, my voice hollow. But my fingers grip the edge of the sink so hard my knuckles turn white.
I don’t want her. I don’t want this. Not the pain. Not the booze. Not the music. Not the fame. Not the cameras, the crowds, or the noise. None of it. Not anymore. Yet, I still place one boot in front of the other.
I lost my love for it somewhere along the way, and no matter what I try, there is no spark. And I definitely don’t want to feel what I feel when I see Haven’s picture. Haven. Fuck. Me.
I drop my hands, roll my shoulders, and practice my smile in the mirror one last time. Then, I walk back into the party like I still remember how to be a god.
Blondie waits just outside the door, breathless, thinking she’s won something tonight.
I don’t care enough to ask her name. I just grab her hand and start walking.
The decision is made. I’m staying here rather than going to the tour bus.
But I knew this was coming. There really isn’t a choice.
Choice is as much of an illusion as the name Cyrus Vale.
She follows eagerly, practically bouncing. I’m no prize, but they all think I am because I have money. Lots and lots of money. But what they say is true, you can’t buy happiness.
I guide her down the hall, past the kitchen, past the balcony where Vex gives me that look. Really? I ignore him. My fingers curl tighter around her wrist.
There are too many bedrooms in this place, most already claimed. The last one on the left looks open. I poke my head inside. Empty. I drag Blondie in and shut the door behind us.
She comes at me fast, lips crashing against mine, hands in my hair, grinding her hips into me like she’s desperate. I kiss her back. Touch her. Play the part. My hands slide up her dress and grab her ass. She moans loudly, dry humping against me.
I don’t groan. Don’t moan. Don’t really even feel, but my body knows how to do the dance.
The biggest problem, aside from all the other fucked up things in my head, is that Blondie isn’t her. Isn’t the face that haunts my dreams.
My stomach twists as I move through the motions. Her nails scrape down my back. I whisper things I don’t mean just to hear her beg. No fire. No connection. Just noise to drown out the screaming in my chest and head.
Self-hatred burns hotter than the liquor I’ve been slamming back. I close my eyes and try to disappear into the moment. The last thing I see before we reach the bed is my own reflection in the mirror across the room—faking it all over again. Even my reflection looks disgusted. I turn away.
The door may already be closed, but the one in my mind is still wide open, and all the ghosts are waiting.
What no one understands is that applause is just noise until it fades, and then you’re left with only your thoughts and a silence that kills.