Page 3 of Paint the Town, Dove
Because then, life will throw a fuck your way, then another, and more and more until you’re painted unfit, irresponsible, and too promiscuous to uphold an honorary rock star legacy.
And a legacy,myvoice,myimprint… well, fuck, that was my only purpose.
Morty, the head of security and my bodyguard of four years now, approached me hastily, throwing a black coat over my shoulders, and rushed me out the back exit.
“My glasses, Morty. I want my glasses.”
As he rummaged through the contents of his satchel, I pulled out a small vile of white powder hooked onto my neck chain.
One bump.
Just one fuckin’ bump.
It’ll make it all better.
The silver-rimmed aviators were lodged in his blazer pocket, so I took the liberty of snagging them myself. See, don’t you see? I’m capable of doing something.
Of course you’re capable, my sweet boy.Mom’s distant voice replayed in my head, soft, kind, threaded with the dignity she once possessed until Corban broke her to pieces.
Shake it off, Ry. He doesn’t exist, remember?Scarlett’s voice. Oh she was a funny, funny dove. Coached me through my guilt, my anger, my lust for wanting to eviscerate the past.
I propped the aviators over my eyes and sucked in the only breath that wouldn’t be photographed.
An orchestra of lights penetrated the dimmed windows of my shades; screams and shouts of people who knew nothing, yet everything all at once, trumpeted through the air.
“Headphones, Morty. Headphones.”
His grip was secure around my bicep as the other security detail, none of which I recognized, formed a square around me.
“Mr. Spectre, have you spoken to Yasmine Ryvetts?”
“Mr. Spectre, Yasmine was spotted out with Pierce Spindley of Avenue Records. Thoughts?”
Thoughts. Thoughts. So many thoughts.None of which I wanted to concern myself with. Especially thoughts of my recentpartner.
“Mr. Spectre, up and coming rock legend Otis Hardwell and Yasmine Ryvetts are rumored to be working on –”
“Headphones, Morty!Fuck!” I slid my palm down his blazer, pressing into his hardened shell as I felt him for earbuds, earmuffs, Christ, a fucking Walkman –something! Something to drown out the noise.
The black Suburban doors opened and I was being rushed inside, pushed –shoved. “It’s not a fucking football field!” I don’t know who I was talking to, who was even listening – but someone… someone was –
Someone –someonesaid something, paralyzing me.
“Mr. Spectre, is it true that your old daddy beat your mum?”
My blood ran cold.
Beat your mum.
Beatbeatbeatbeatbeatbeat –
Beat –
“Ryden, Ryden baby,” her face was bruised, “Ryden honey, it was an accident…”
BEATBEATBEATBEATBEAT –
“He’s paying the bills, he’s helping us, it’s okay, baby, it’s okay…”
