Page 10 of Toxic Kiss

“Is there no other band I can help?”

“None that needs it more than Venomous. None that will get you as many kudos and votes for the big chair. I know you can do this. I believe in you, and your mother would be so proud.”

“Low blow bringing Mom into it, Dad.”

“Why? It’s the truth.”

Of course, he had to pull out the big guns of manipulation. I chew my bottom lip as I wrestle with what to do.

“Fine,” I bite out. “But I want you to know I hate this.”

Dad laughs, victorious. Unbelievable.

“You’re doing this while I’m still two days away, so that I’ll have time to cool off before I arrive. I know your tricks.”

He says nothing about my accusation.

“I have all the faith you can salvage their reputation. I love you, Rock Star. It will be great to have you home. See you soon.”

I hang up and scream, pounding my hand against the steering wheel.

“This is a disaster. A fucking disaster.”

“I’m still here,” Dad says, and I close my eyes.

“Oh shit, sorry.”

I hit end again, then groan. Are you kidding me?

Static fills the car, rain pounding as loud as bullets hitting the roof. I whisper a curse into the storm. “Damn you, Cyrus Vale. Damn you all the way to Hell.”

Freedom tastes different when the past is waiting at the finish line, because this road isn’t carrying me home…I’m driving straight back into the firey depths of my worst nightmare.

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.