Page 121 of Paint the Town, Dove
“At the rate he’s going, he’s going to forget how to sing his fucking songs.” I hung up the phone in a fit of rage. Was I the only one who saw the crash? The only one who cared about his downfall?
It was all press with these people, all tabloids. How did he look in that one photo? Are his vocals off? They want interviews, they want a rock star, they want a reincarnated Jimi Hendrix up on every stage, wasted or not – as long as he looked good, and acted better.
It didn’t matter that he was a volcano ready to erupt.
It didn’t matter that he already had.
Fire can always be contained.
Not fucking mine.
Morty sat in the front seat, Barnett driving in silence as usual.
“He’s not himself,” Morty supplied. At least someone had the good sense to realize.
“No shit Sherlock,” I tapped Barnett, “faster, please. I’ll pay for the speeding ticket.”
“We charge that to the label,” Barnett said.
“Good man,” I leaned back. “Penance for what they did to Ryden.”
“Ms. Emory-Blake,” Morty began, “I don’t believe I’ve seen him sober once this past month.”
I don’t think he’s seen me at all.“We’ll get him there,” I promised. “Tav called this in?”
Morty sighed. “He’s inconsolable. You’ll see.”
We pulled up to House of Kings, a line formed in zig zags around the back. A host of paparazzi swarmed between security guards and fans, most likely pining for the opportunity to paint him with shame.
No one at this club was famous like he was.
Ryden was the king of New York City right now. Everybody knew it. Everybody loved it.
‘The Rock star Comes Undone.’The Wall Street Journal read yesterday. ‘A Christmas Special.’
We worship the wrong gods to rave about the destruction of a person. The making of madness.
I’ve had fucking enough of it.
“Scarlett Blake! Care to comment on Ryden’s mental state?”
“Scarlett! Turn for the camera here!”
“Scarlett, just a few questions about Mr. Spectre!”
Snaps flashed like lightning as I exited the Suburban, covering my face with Morty’s blazer. I tasted blood on my lips as I entered the club, a mosaicof beats animating the building walls.
I hated it here.
Ryden’s first contract was signed at a booth in the back corner. He tacked it as memorabilia, the origin of his career.
Little did he know that story started way before he came to New York City.
That story started with a little boy and his guitar, Harley.
Dancers twirled on silver poles, cash bouncing through the air like confetti on a string. I spotted Derek at the bar and rolled my eyes, making my way towards him.
“Derek!” I yelled, digging my nails into his shoulder. “Where’s Ryden?”
