Riffs That Ruin (Survival Records #2)

1. Raina

M y voice fades as the deafening cheers of my devoted fans fill the air. I shut my eyes to shield them from the blinding lights and tilt my head back, clutching onto my bedazzled microphone as I hold it above me. My long hair falls behind me as I arch my back and lift one leg, bringing my ankle to rest on my knee in a signature move that drives the audience wild.

One Mississippi… Two Mississippi… Three Mississippi... I count the seconds until I can release the pose, needing to give my fans time to take the iconic picture of how I end every show. It’s as famous as the stupid pucker perfect expression I’m always asked to give in photographs.

The tiny rhinestones bite into my palm as I stand straight and give the millionth fake smile of the night. I grit my teeth and practically black out as I give the introduction for Carmen—the fifteen-year-old, newly debuted singer who my uncle is trying to replace me with—before she takes the stage.

Seriously, I’m not even sure what words cross my lips. All that’s going through my mind is following orders and announcing her. After that, I give a quick wave to the screaming Storm Chasers who came here expecting to see me as the headliner.

My teeth squeak as I grit them in a forced smile and stride off the stage with purposeful steps. It’s a feat that I’ll be proud of in the future, but right now I’m pissed as hell.

Carmen waits in the wings, holding a microphone that’s oddly similar to mine, but hers is covered in black rhinestones compared to my nauseating mix of bubblegum pink and purple. She jumps up and down, clapping her hands before flicking her long brown hair over her shoulder.

If the stones on my microphone were any sharper, I’d cut my hand with how tightly I squeeze it as I notice the streaks of orange dyed through her strands as a rebellious show of edginess paired with her black cat eye liner. It makes me want to fucking scream. Already, her style is something I’ve fought to get for years and have been told no.

I hate myself for being jealous of her when deep down I know her youthful spirit will soon be murdered, much like mine was. It doesn’t stop me in the moment, though. I hate her with a burning passion for the dump truck of steaming shit that was piled on top of me tonight, and she doesn’t help her case when she runs up to Tristan, shoulder checking me on her way, and pushes her body against his front.

“Oh my god! You’re the sexiest guitarist I’ve ever seen. You’re so amazing with your fingers, the way you move them across the strings.” She bites her bottom lip and twirls her hair around a finger. I bet my uncle loves the flirtatious sex appeal dripping from her. Probably why he’s fast-tracking her career. “I’d let you use them on me any day of the week.”

I don’t spare a glance to see how Tristan reacts. I hope I know him well enough that he’s utterly disgusted by her age, but I also thought he’d never use the lyrics from songs we wrote together against me. So who the fuck knows?

Roadies rush past me to turn the stage over for Carmen’s set as I shove my mic into the hands of the same man who gave it to me earlier and continue on to my dressing room. Nash shoves his foot into the space between the door and jamb as I slam it shut behind me, making it bounce open, allowing him to come inside. Blake and Keaton follow behind him, the latter gripping his drumsticks in a tight fist.

My band members wear matching scowls of anger and determination in their eyes. Everyone except for Tristan, he’s absent, but that doesn’t really come as a surprise. Not with how his best friends have iced him out since they found him on top of me.

Fuck. I really need to set the record straight about that. I might enjoy watching them ignore him after everything he’s done to me, but it’s not right to let them think he tried to rape me. That’s not what happened at all.

Right now, I don’t have the capacity to focus on my traitorous ex-best friend, not with the way my career seems to be crumbling right before my eyes. What the fuck is actually happening?

I run my hands through my sweaty hair—dancing on stage isn’t always so glamorous with those hot lights trained on you the entire time—and tug on the roots in frustration. They’re practically blackmailing me now…

No practically about it. That’s exactly what they’re doing. Holding lord only knows what over my head. I can’t even begin to imagine what it is they think they could hand over to the press that would ruin me. Is it some kind of evidence, pictures most likely, that they took when I was drugged out of my mind? Or is it something they fabricated like so many times before? It could even be some kind of proof tying me to a crime I didn’t even commit, something that will damn me even if I walk away from this life.

Hell, it could even be a bullshit lie. One could only hope, but hopes have gotten me nowhere.

There’s no way I can risk calling their bluff, though. Not when they have me in such a shit position. I’m being held hostage, and I fear my promised freedom will never come. My uncle keeps dangling a carrot in front of me, yet no matter how many steps I take toward it, it moves farther away.

They keep adding more tour dates, tacking on requirements I have to meet. One album turns into two. Not to mention the ways they try to make my life as miserable as possible. Forcing me to stay at a rehab facility after attempting to kill myself and keeping me locked there for three months, missing Christmas and New Year. Then making me take my ex-best friend’s band as my only option. I can’t say that hasn’t turned out to be a good thing, but when they forced me to let them live in my house, it was a low fucking blow.

None of that compares to demanding that I open for that na?ve little bitch and introduce her to an audience who bought tickets to see me . My name is what filled the seats. It’s my fans that got bamboozled into a show where Little-Miss-Thinks-She’s-All-That closes. Those monsters manipulating my fans is what pisses me off more than anything else.

My hair tumbles from my grip, and I clench my fists at my sides as anger scorches through me hot as a burning fire. But then a tsunami of despair washes over me, drowning any trace of hope in relentless waves.

There is no end.

That asshole will never stop adding more and more conditions; hoop after hoop that I have to jump through. My hands start to shake, and I fist them even tighter, my nails digging into my palms in an effort to hide it.

“Hey,” a smooth voice says as hands land on either side of my face. The unforgiving press of his drumsticks tells me exactly who it is as I blink back my panic and focus my vision once more. I stare into his deep chocolate eyes, finding reassurance. “You’re angry and afraid.”

He doesn’t ask; he reads me so well in the span of a second that he knows it with certainty.

“Wouldn’t you be?”

One of his hands leaves my cheek, trailing down my arm until he has my wrist in his grip. He rotates my clenched fist to reveal how tightly my nails are digging into the meat of my palm. A nervous butterfly flutters in my stomach as I glance from where he holds me to where he’s staring at my face, studying for anything else it’ll give away.

His other hand drops away, and his fingers work to uncurl mine. I cock my head to the side and lift an eyebrow, a clear question for what he’s doing, but my silent, broody giant stays true to his nature, only uttering two words. “Break it.”

The hard press of wood bites into my palm, and I stare at it in disbelief. Keaton treasures his sticks. He carries them everywhere and won’t let anyone else touch them but me. And now he wants me to break one?

“What?” The question tumbles off the tip of my tongue as I shake my head and push the stick into his chest while he tries to close my hand around it. We’re locked in a battle of wills.

Nash sucks in a sharp breath of disbelief, and I catch Blake’s dropped jaw from the edge of my vision as I stare into Keaton’s eyes. His hand presses against my ribs, fingers splayed over my heart. The pressure seems to hold my frantic heartbeat inside my chest, the pain of it trying to break free reduces as my drummer holds me together.

“Take all this pain,” he says, flexing his fingers. “And channel it into breaking this. You need to release it.” He steps away, giving me space that I suddenly don’t want.

“Do it,” Nash whispers. I glance in his direction and then to Blake, who nods his head in encouragement.

Keaton crosses his arms over his chest and flicks his gaze to the stick in my hand, telling me without words that he hasn’t changed his mind. I don’t look away from him as I move my hands to hold the ends and break the stick… or not. It doesn’t even crack.

I stare at the offending piece of wood. It’s certainly not the same one he used on me in my kitchen. It’s beaten and well used beyond the show tonight. It’s had several hours of use, and I can feel tiny little divots in the grain as I tighten my grip until my knuckles go white. My eyelids flutter closed as I work to gather all the negative energy swirling inside me. Gritting my teeth, I bring my arms up and slam the stick on my knee.

“Oww,” I moan, rubbing on the spot that’s sure to bruise. This is supposed to be an outlet for my anger, but it’s only adding to it. I step toward the dressing table and slam the stick against the corner in frustration. Over and over, I repeat the movement, trying to break the fucking thing, but at best, all I’m doing is weakening it.

Warm arms wrap around me, and Keaton’s hands cover mine.

“Together,” he growls in my ear.

Shivers race down my spine, and goosebumps spring up on my neck. Keaton’s arms flex and I add my strength, though I’m sure it’s not even needed. At first nothing happens, but then, like a snap of the fingers, the wood splinters and snaps in half.

A sudden surge of emotions burst forth from my chest, like a dam breaking after years of holding back. The heavy weight that had been pressing on me disappears, allowing me to finally breathe freely.

I’m still angry and pissed the fuck off, but it’s no longer overwhelming me. Nash steps forward and grabs the broken halves out of my grip, his tongue flicking at the lip ring.

“Better?” Keaton asks, his hands releasing mine now that I’m not holding anything.

“Actually,” I reply, leaning against him so he doesn’t leave me. He might be sweaty from ninety minutes of constant banging on the drums, but his nearness seems to settle me. “I didn’t think it would do anything, but somehow it helped.”

The mirror in front of me at the dressing table reflects his cocksure smile. The man might be my silent, broody giant, a source of safety and comfort, but nobody can accuse him of not being confident in every single thing he does.

Sound suddenly penetrates our bubble as Alyssa opens the door. Her gaze instantly narrows in on Keaton’s arms embracing me and the way I lean into him. Blake winces as he glances from her to the door realizing he didn’t lock it as the last one to come in.

With it being too late to pull apart, I stay where I am, not wanting to appear guilty—like she caught us doing something we shouldn’t. Fuck her and whatever conclusions she jumps to. “What?” I snap. She’s literally one of the last people I want to see right now.

Alyssa smirks, making it clear she knows exactly how unwelcome she is and how she enjoys every spark of pain she inflicts. “Show will be over soon. Mandatory afterparty in the penthouse of the hotel next door. There’s an entrance from the venue to the back hallway to avoid the crowd outside.”

I quickly glance at the clock above the door. There’s no way the show could be ending so soon, Carmen has only been on stage for fifteen minutes tops. My hands clench, the anger I worked so hard to get under control building to a new crescendo.

“Listen, Alyssa,” I spit, having fully met my extent of dealing with the bullshit they throw at me left and right. It’s no wonder I resorted to the blissful numbness of self medication. “Why don’t you take your award for shittiest manager and shove it up your ass along with that afterparty and my uncle’s dickless ballsack. I’m not going to some event where you’ll undoubtedly try to further besmirch my name.”

The bitch isn’t phased at all, her smirk doesn’t wobble or crack. In fact, I think her eyes gain an extra sparkle as she crosses her arms over her chest. “If you miss the party, you owe us another show.”

At this point, it’s better I owe another performance than to risk being at a party. “Fine,” I growl. I don’t even spare a glance as I grab my bag holding my phone and notebook off the table and storm from the room. I don’t even give a fuck that I’ll be leaving in my final costume, someone will have to get it from me later. “Let’s go.”

I’m not sure if my guys are following, but I’d be surprised if they aren’t. The sound of Carmen’s voice reaches me, but what catches my attention is the distinct lack of music backing it up. “Wow, Chicago! You’ve dazzled me tonight, and I hope I’ve done the same for you. Make sure you pre-save my album on your streaming service. I promise to be your next favorite star!”

There’s no way… she doesn’t even have enough content right now to fill a set, and yet they bumped me to give her the headliner?

Hell hath no fury like a songwriter scorned.