Rhythm and Blu

by Jennings, S. L.

  “Sure,” Riot replies flatly.

  “Besides, he needs me to keep him from working too hard. He would spend all day and night in the studio if I let him. All work and no play makes my Ri-Ri a very dull boy. I’m sure you know exactly what I’m talking about, Rox.”

  Stunned, and a little annoyed, I completely bypass the Ri-Ri bit and reply, “No, I don’t, actually.”

  I know I should have just gone along, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t let her downplay what he does, what so many people believe in, and what I would have killed to be able to witness. Riot is who he is because he was born to be a star. I knew it the moment he laid beside me on the floor of my bedroom, a pair of cheap earbuds between us, and sang along to the Usher tune blaring from my Discman. I remember staring at him with tears in my eyes like he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Because I knew then…I knew he was too big for my childhood fantasies. Too talented for our town. Too good for me. And eventually, he would figure that out too.

  Poppy blinks her long, expertly applied lashes, and for a second, the mask slips. Her eyes narrow and her mouth opens and closes repeatedly as if she’s searching for the words that won’t make her come off as anything less than poised and confident. Finally, she finds them.

  “Oh, of course, I’m his biggest cheerleader, which is all I’m really good for when it comes to the music stuff. Riot will tell you—I’m completely tone deaf. I leave the singing to him. He croons, I swoon.”

  She smiles, I smile. We’re all smiling. But I know deep down, my presence will soon become a problem, if it hasn’t already. And part of me is okay with that.

  “Here you go,” Kaz announces, cutting the tension. I have to say, I’ve never been happier to see him or alcohol. He holds up two glasses: champagne and what looks to be a vodka soda with lime. “I didn’t know what you would want, so you’re double fisting.”

  Grateful, I accept both drinks and take a sip of each. Yup. It’s a vodka night. “Thanks, Kaz. Once again, you’re my hero.”

  “Aw, Rox. Bet you say that to all the boys.”

  He grins at me, and for a second, I get lost in his boyish good looks. Kaz really is easy on the eyes, and he’s a genuinely sweet guy. Under different circumstances, I wouldn’t be opposed to being more than just a drunken hookup. Hell, I wouldn’t be opposed to being an us with Kaz.

  “I’m glad to see you’re taking care of my girl,” Riot comments, eyeing our short exchange. “Good looking out.” He extends a fist for Kaz to meet with his own. But there’s an edge to his tone, as if Riot’s words are sheathed in razor blades.

  “Hey, Kaz, did you see Yasmin?” Poppy asks. “She’s been asking about you since New York. You two must’ve had a good time.”

  Kaz drags his gaze to Poppy and plasters on a polite face. “Oh, yeah? She’s cool.”

  “You should go say hi. I know she’s dying to see you.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “You sure? She’s only here for a couple days. She has a shoot in London.”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  It was bait to lure him away. I know that, and so does he. And while Poppy is obviously disappointed that he didn’t take it, I’m surprised by Riot’s reaction, which is…indifferent. It’s not a bad thing, and it translates as someone who doesn’t really give a fuck who his boy is banging. But I know him and guys like him. He would have encouraged Kaz to pursue the eager young model. Or he would have told Poppy to give it a rest and let his very capable friend handle his own business. Either way, saying nothing isn’t like him. That, or I don’t know Riot as well as I thought I did.

  I down my drink, then instantly regret it as the liquor burns a hole through my empty stomach. An uneasy silence falls over our foursome, and with my tongue now loosened, I attempt to diffuse whatever ill feelings seem to be simmering just beneath the surface.

  “I never pegged you for a Cromwell Dean fan, Riot.”

  His brows raise with surprise. “I didn’t realize you’d even heard of Cromwell Dean.”

  “Of course I have. It’s kinda my job to know who’s who in the industry. He’s crazy talented.”

  “Yeah, the kid is dope as fuck. I like what he’s doing.”

  “So, can we expect to hear some collabs on your new album?”

  He snorts a laugh. “Is this you asking, or The Seattle Tea?”

  I think about my answer for only a second before landing on the truth. “Me. Maybe a little of both. But I’m definitely curious. This would be a different direction for you musically, and that’s admirable. The artists with longevity are the ones that can continuously reinvent themselves, yet also remain true to their sound.”

  He narrows his gaze. “And you think I fall into that category?”

  I shrug. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Yes. You are.” He drags his teeth over his bottom lip, but this time, it doesn’t appear to be out of nerves. Something else is bothering him.

  “Hey, babe, Jonas has been staring over here for the last ten minutes. He’s standing with some big wig exec. You need to go say hello,” Poppy whispers.

  Riot tears his eyes from me and glances across the room to find a very antsy Jonas wearing a particularly shiny suit, chatting it up with some guy dressed like he just stepped out of a Cash Money video. Quite the colorful crew Riot has invited to his shindig.

  “Yeah,” Riot agrees. He turns to me and nods. “Enjoy the party. And make sure you eat something.”

  I roll my eyes as he and Poppy walk away. Who does he think he is, telling me to eat as if he’s my man? So what if my stomach is currently trying to eat itself? I’m not about to do what he tells me and give him the satisfaction of being right.

  “Want to grab something to eat?” Kaz asks.

  “No.”

  “Want a refill?”

  I know I shouldn’t, but I answer, “Yes.”

  After three drinks and enough schmoozing to make me even more nauseous, I bid Kaz goodnight, even after his offer to “show me his apartment” that he shares with Dane, who I learn is an aspiring rapper. Hard pass, especially while I’m technically on the job and there are cameras everywhere. There will be no apartment tours, dinners, and especially no booty calls.

  I want to write, but the room is spinning, so I lay back on the bed, which is ridiculously comfortable and plush. I don’t want to sleep—at least not yet. And my mind is so heavy with the events of the day, I don’t think I can. Luckily, the party had all but died when I said my goodbyes for the evening, so soon enough, my foggy brain slows and the replaying conversations become muffled white noise.

  I jerk awake when there’s a knock at my door, prompting me to sit straight up. Which is a bad idea since I’m not nearly sober yet. Squinting against the light glowing from the nightstand lamp, I open my mouth to ask who it is. But before I can utter the words, the door opens and Riot comes strolling in. He stops at the foot of the bed, looming over me with an indecipherable look. In his hand, he holds a plate of cheese, a few slices of salami, olives, grapes, and crackers…stuff he probably picked off a charcuterie board. He holds it out to me.

  “Eat.”

  I frown. “I’m not hungry.”

  “I didn’t ask you that. You need to eat.”

  “Don’t pretend to know what I need. I’m fine, Riot. Or should I call you Ri-Ri?” Now I’m being petty.

  He heaves a frustrated breath and drags a hand through his hair, brushing his golden hair from his forehead. “Really, Rox?”

  “What? I’m sorry, is that just Poppy’s thing? I wouldn’t know, seeing as you disappeared for twelve fucking years without a word.”

  Yup. Definitely still drunk.

  “You’re trippin’,” Riot spits out.

  “Yeah? Well, I think I’ve earned the right. You have no idea…” I shake my head. I’m not doing this with him. He doesn’t get to see me fall apart. “Just leave.”

  He opens his mouth, then closes it, as if the words he wants to say are right ther
e on the tip of his tongue but he knows they won’t do any good. Nothing he can say will undo what’s happened.

  He stalks to the side of the bed and all but tosses the plate of food onto the nightstand, sending a few grapes flying.

  “Just eat the fucking food, Rox.”

  Then he leaves the way he’s always left me: without a word. And without looking back.

  The door slams, and I launch a pillow at it just for the sake of being a brat. Then I hurriedly run to the beautiful, pristine bathroom and throw up.

  TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW I went to bed inebriated, which is so not like me. And two nights in a row, the face that haunted my dreams belonged to none other than Riot Blu. I was humiliated enough after hooking up with Kaz in my drunken haze, but confronting Riot about shit in the past that he probably doesn’t even remember, let alone care about? Good one, Rox. He’ll totally take you seriously as a journalist now.

  I want to be the ultimate ice queen and stay in my room all day just to avoid seeing Riot. But I desperately need coffee, water, and real food. I will say, those crackers he forced on me did come in handy. But I’ll be damned if I tell him that.

  Fighting a headache and dehydration, I step into the kitchen wearing only lounge pants and a tee and find myself face to face with a woman I’ve never seen before. Mid-30s, olive skin, attractive, fresh-faced. Her brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail and her clothes are modest and nondescript. She doesn’t seem like Riot’s type, but I can’t say I really know what that is.

  “Good morning!” the woman smiles softly. “Coffee?” Without waiting for an answer, she takes a clean mug and fills it with fresh brew from the French press.

  “Yes, please,” I reply, sliding onto a stool and accepting the cup gratefully. I take a sip, not even bothering with cream or sugar.

  “I’m Chef Daniela Garza. But please, call me Dani.”

  I return her friendly smile with one of my own. “I’m Rox. Nice to meet you.”

  “Mr. Blu told me you’d be waking soon and to make you whatever you want. He said you love breakfast burritos, which happen to be my specialty,” she says with a wink.

  Despite my churning belly, I’m reluctant to jump up and down for joy. Hell yes, I love breakfast burritos; that’s one-hundred percent true. A giant flour tortilla, eggs, cheese, bacon or chorizo or steak, topped with salsa verde? What’s not to love? But that doesn’t explain Riot’s weird obsession with my nutrition. I’m not the ninety-six-pound model. And how did he remember my breakfast burrito phase in high school, and how I would eat them no matter what time of day it was?

  I’m kinda annoyed that he remembers that about me. Annoyed and some other emotion I can’t quite put into words. But definitely mostly annoyed.

  “And where is Riot—I mean—Mr. Blu now?”

  “Working out with his trainer. He told me to tell you to make yourself at home.”

  Chef Dani jumps into making me one of her famous breakfast burritos before insisting I enjoy my coffee on the terrace. Totally a good call, because the view of the waterfront from the this high up is unreal. It’s a bit chilly, but it’s always cool in the morning, especially at this level. Not much furniture other than a round table and a few chairs, along with some cushioned loungers, yet it’s perfect. Armed with coffee and my laptop, writing out here would be a dream. I take in the crisp, salty scent of the breeze, the veil of gray clouds with sporadic bursts of sunlight struggling to break through, the serene rhythm of the water, the hum of shuffling pedestrians down below. Seattle is art and culture and romance. Seattle is music to me.

  “Gorgeous.”

  Startled, I spin to face the source of the voice, sending hot coffee sloshing over the lip of the mug and onto my fingers. Riot is leaning against the frame of the door leading to the terrace, staring past me. He wears black basketball shorts, a fitted white tank that showcases ripples of muscle still tense from a workout, and Nike trainers. His hair is damp with sweat and while the just-worked-out look has never appealed to me, I have to admit that it’s definitely working for him. I hate how fucking sexy he looks, even with his cheeks flush and a sheen of perspiration clinging to his tan skin. Hell, it wasn’t too long ago that I would’ve been glad to lick the beads of sweat sliding down his temples.

  “Remember we used to dream about moving here after high school, right on the water, just a few steps from Pike Place? You said you wanted to be so close you could wave at the tourists on the Great Wheel.”

  I shake my head and glimpse out over the Sound. “I was a little naive about the cost of living back then.”

  “But you made it. You’re here.”

  “Not without struggle,” I mutter. I refuse to tell him that I moved here not only despite how he left me, but in spite of it. He’s right—this was our dream. But he decided that it wasn’t enough for him, which isn’t that big of a deal, honestly. I just wish he had told me before I planned for a future that would turn out to be a silly, childhood fantasy.

  “If anyone could make it, it’s you. You’ve always been the smartest, most determined person I know. Never one to give up on what you want once you put your mind to it.”

  Once upon a time, that was true. I had big dreams. Actually, I thought we had big dreams. Attend University of Washington School of Music together. Get a place in the city together after graduation. Then do whatever it took for us to make it big. We’d be a team—he’d be the voice, I’d be the lyrics. Hell yeah, it’d be hard, but it would be worth it as long as we were together.

  How foolish of me to believe any of that was attainable. Riot couldn’t even wait for the hard shit. He dipped out long before then.

  What seems like several minutes pass with only the whistle of the breeze and the squawk of seagulls overhead to fill the empty silence. When Chef Dani arrives with breakfast, I’m grateful for the distraction. However, I don’t expect her to set the table for two.

  “Hope you don’t mind if I join you,” Riot says as we sit down to plates of burritos almost as big as his forearm.

  I shrug. “Your table, your home.”

  The aroma wafting from our plates is enough to make me momentarily forget what I was pissed about. Something to do with shattered dreams and broken promises, yada, yada, yada. All thoughts are completely singular was I cut into the fresh, flaky tortilla and see that it’s wrapped around mounds of tender steak, fluffy eggs, and gooey cheese. I don’t even notice that Chef Dani has also brought out a platter of fresh fruit and a carafe of coffee.

  The first bite is scorching hot but it’s still absolute heaven in my mouth. The second and I’m certain I’m making X-rated noises, and I don’t give a damn. Riot watches me with an amused look.

  “What?” I unceremoniously ask, my mouth full. I add a heaping spoonful of fresh guacamole to my plate, bypassing the fruit. Avocado is healthy, right?

  He shakes his head and cuts into his own burrito. “Nothing. I’m just glad you like it. Beats the ones from back home, for sure.”

  “Really? Wouldn’t imagine Beverly Hills would have a shortage of Mexican food.”

  “Nah. Redmond.”

  I snort, spearing a slice of steak with my fork. Redmond hasn’t been his home since he left and didn’t look back. And it’s not like he was coming home for the holidays. I would know—my parents probably would have called the cops if he set foot on our street again. That or try to murder him. And believe me…it wouldn’t be my dad he’d have to worry about.

  “What’s that for?”

  I glance up from my plate. “What’s what for?”

  “That look. Like you have something to say.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I know you, Rox. And don’t give me that bullshit about not knowing you, because I do. You think I don’t see the way you cut your eyes at me?”

  Startled by his candor, my silverware clatters to my plate. “What do you mean? I don’t look at you.”

  Riot leans back in his chair, and
I can’t help but notice the way his muscles flex under his tank. I swallow.

  “Nah, I’m not buying that shit. You think I sold out, don’t you? You can keep it real with me. I know that’s what you’ve been thinking all this time.”

  His words are terse yet, in true Riot fashion, he isn’t short of swagger. But there’s an underlying rawness in his tone as if this is nothing new. As if everything he’s accusing me of thinking about him is how he actually views himself. Which frankly, is preposterous. He’s never cared what I or anyone else thought. And he’s certainly not ashamed of the decisions he’s made in the name of notoriety. If music is his first love, fame is his dirty mistress.

  I take a bite and chew slowly, considering his challenge, before answering. “I’m not here to share my opinion of you. I’m just here to write a story.”

  “Bullshit.” His eyes narrowed, the corner of his mouth curls darkly as if he’s inwardly calling me a pussy.

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s bullshit. You’re really here just for a damn story? I expected more resistance from you, Rox. Maybe there’s some other motive for your presence in my home.”

  “What?” I scoff, nearly choking on a bite of scrambled egg. “You told me I had to or no exclusive. What the hell are you talking about?”

  He shrugs a single shoulder, and it takes every ounce of my strength not to reach over a slap the taste out of his mouth.

  “The girl I used to know would have told me to go fuck myself then explain, in great detail, how much of a privilege it is to even have the opportunity to waste her time.”

  “That girl you knew grew up. But you missed that, remember?”

  “Fuck, Rox,” he spits, tossing his linen napkin onto the table before leaning forward, his elbows on the edge. “You gonna hold this shit over my head forever?”

  “Forever? Dude, I’ve barely spent half an hour total with you. And not once did you even try to explain yourself. But it’s cool…no need. You really wanna know what I think about you?”