Page 108 of Paint the Town, Dove
After his outstanding performance at Radio City, closing off his second tour nationwide, fans revved his name from the hills. Well, that was before his wild interaction with a fan… or a familiar?
Sources say he coined this fan ‘Mom,’ followed by a cast of fury-filled insults and backlash for weeks to come.
Where does that leave ryden spectre?
Clearly, it leaves him at the bottom of the bottle.
Mr. Spectre has been photographed numerous times completely inebriated at the House of Kings alongside his bodyguards, though his manager Scarlett Blake has always remained off distance.
TROUBLE IN PARADISE?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Scarlett
“Scrap that, this is fucked.”
Ithrew the goddamn paper across the brunch table, yanking my beanie down over my eyes.
I wouldn’t,couldn’t, let the fucking vultures see what they’d done to me.
What they’d done to us.
A month.
A whole month since the disaster of Radio City imploded in all of our faces – mine, Tav’s, Mallory’s, Morty’s –Ryden’s.
I couldn’t even think about it without puffing a cigarette – without confining myself to isolation.
I couldn’t handle the brunt of the suffering.
I was numb to it.
Ryden was a fucking mess. Arc & Sheild Records held numerous press conferences a week, trying to fix –fix– whatever the hell happened.
As if they could fix a broken heart.
Hate to break it to you guys, that pain’s eternal.
And Ryden’s publicity was so damaging. That. Helped. Fuck. All.
He cried, the paps had a bucket waiting, selling his tears on eBay. He laughed, they’d find the stash of pills crushed up into the drinks leftover on his tab.
He couldn’t move without being spotted.
It made everything so, so much worse.
“I should’ve busted that bitch the second I got the chance,” I spat, picking up the post once more. Gladis Roberts. I’d get her fired. I’d chase down skeletons. I’d do anything to save face,hisface,anything.
“Trouble in paradise,” Polly scoffed, swatting at the paper. “As if you’re on fucking Love Island.”
“Feels like it some days,” Zayla added. “And fan or familiar… what the hell’s that about? Seriously? These scum snails.”
Polly’s brow quirked. “Scum snails?”
“It’sEmory-Blake,how many times!?” I slapped the paper again. “How many times?”
“Do you think they know that?” Polly asked.
