Rhythm and Blu

by Jennings, S. L.

  “Where the fuck were you?” he demands.

  “Excuse me?” I take a step back, tip my head to the side, and look him up and down to make sure this is the same man Kaz just described in the elevator. Because I know he didn’t just have the nerve to speak to me like that.

  “You heard me.” Yup. He must have lost his damn mind.

  “Yo, RB…” The second Riot registers the sound of Kaz’s voice cutting in, his murderous gaze falls to him. But before Riot can lay into his friend, Kaz signals over Riot’s shoulder, silently reminding him that the cameras are capturing everything.

  It takes only a moment for Riot to recover his cool exterior and plaster on a fake, crooked grin. “Looking for you two to let you know we’re having a party tonight.”

  “Again?” I ask.

  “Nah. Last night was an industry thing. Tonight is different.” Then in a move that sucks the breath from my lungs, Riot steps so close I can feel the heat of his still simmering rage.

  “You want to see the real me?” he utters so quietly, I’m not sure even the boom mic picks it up.

  Breathless, I whisper, “Yes.”

  Riot smirks, his eyes low. “You’re going to regret you just said that.”

  I REGRET IT.

  I regretted it the moment Riot stalked away from me, taking my nerve with him.

  Kaz offered his apartment as a place of refuge, and even asked if he could take me out as an alternative, but I declined. I was hired to capture the most authentic form of Riot, so here, where he has supposedly dropped the act, is where I need to be. Even if I’d rather be getting a pap smear on top of the Space Needle right about now.

  Remember how I wondered where are the thirsty, half naked groupies and blunt-smoking entourage were?

  Well… be careful what you wish for, and all that jazz.

  The music pulses through the once pristine space, vibrating dozens of empty bottles of everything from fine champagne to cognac to malt liquor. Kardashian clones are thot-bopping and twerking on every surface and free lap. Guys wearing more jewelry than the late, great Elizabeth Taylor are drinking, smoking, and straight West Coastin’ like they just got out of jail, even though half of these guys would shit their pants if they ever made a wrong turn into the wrong neighborhood at night. Catered food from the most expensive steakhouse in town, cases and cases of alcohol that must’ve cost more than I make in a year, and a permanent cloud of weed smoke, ensuring that the entire block gets a contact high.

  I’m perplexed at what’s happening here. Riot has managed to check all the boxes with every cliché one could think of when imagining a party thrown by a celeb. I’ve even spied a few white powdered noses exiting the bathroom. And while this may have been my expectation at first, I’m disappointed. This is how the public paints him—the arrogant playboy who blows through money faster than he can make it. And I’m even more disappointed that instead of protecting his image and his brand, Poppy is encouraging him as she sits on his lap and nibbles his ear between sips of expensive bubbly.

  The only positive is that there are no cameras shoved in my face. Seems like Riot gave them a night off so he could enjoy his debauchery in peace without fearing another public stoning. That or his PR made the call in an attempt to improve his image.

  I rub my temples, feeling a migraine coming on. It’s been hours, and I know the neighbors in this building can’t be thrilled. He must’ve promised to give backstage passes to all their kids and grandkids. Or maybe he really doesn’t mind playing the role of prick musician.

  “You need anything?” Kaz asks for the fourth time within the hour.

  “No, I’m good,” I insist.

  “You sure?”

  I nod. Kaz is sweet. I know he feels bad about the way Riot went off on me earlier, but he shouldn’t feel responsible. He did nothing wrong. We’ve done nothing wrong. Yet, somehow, this party feels like a punishment. Like a fuck you to me for telling Riot that he wasn’t being real. I get that the rockstar lifestyle is what people expect from artists, but Riot is better than this. I’ve seen glimpses of the boy I used to know in the short time I’ve been here. Why is he trying to bury him for good?

  A popular club banger pumps through the speakers, and at a decibel that makes my ears bleed, Poppy screeches and jumps to her feet, struggling to pull her tiny skirt down to cover her small backside.

  “I love this song!” she exclaims, swaying her slender hips to the beat. She summons a couple of her model friends who are cozied up with some of Riot’s “friends.” Truthfully, I don’t think Riot has met most of these people before today.

  “Why don’t you show me what you got,” Riot suggests to Poppy, leaning back on the couch. He licks his lips and his gaze roams her long, bare legs.

  In a horrific act that makes me gasp and clutch my imaginary pearls, Poppy stabs her sparkly stiletto heeled foot onto the sleek wood and glass coffee table that looks more like a piece of art than accent furniture. When she digs her other heel into the once smooth surface and stands atop it, towering over the room, I feel dizzy. A second later, her girlfriends join her, and I think I may faint.

  It’s not the sheer stupidity of their actions and the fact that at any moment, their dumb asses could go crashing through the glass and shred their perfectly faux tanned legs. It’s just the audacity of these women… of all these people. They literally have the world at their feet and care very little about destroying such valuable items to front and floss for a few likes on social media. In their world, popularity equates value. If you’re not making a scene, then you’re simply not seen.

  The room cheers with hoots and hollers as the group of models put on an awkward striptease. Cell phones capture the cringeworthy moment as the documentary crew pan in to get every angle. It all feels very predatory and I can’t help but feel uncomfortable on their behalf. These women are young—some of them barely in their twenties. What may seem cool and sexy now could very well come back to bite them in their perky little asses. I don’t believe Riot would exploit his girlfriend and her friends in a dangerous way, but shit… he must know this isn’t right. But then again, as I look around the room, the women seem like little more than pretty accessories for the egos of rich and influential men.

  I look to Riot, wishing that at any moment he would shut it down. But it seems as if he’s less than interested in the scene playing out before him. Hell, he’s not even paying attention, more engulfed in scrolling through his phone than objectifying his young girlfriend.

  “Looks like someone is gonna get it on tonight. I just hope they manage to make it to the bedroom this time,” Kaz mutters, his gaze fixed on the train wreck ahead.

  I grimace and set down my still full glass of champagne on the kitchen island. “I need to get some air.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Kaz insists. I shake my head.

  “No. You stay. Enjoy the party. I just need a quiet moment to myself. I feel a migraine coming on.”

  The second the crisp, cool night air hits me, I take a gulp to fill my lungs. There are a few stragglers out here lazing on the sofas, including Haze’s boo from the other night, Dane, who shifts his gaze from mine and scoots away from the girl pawing at his crotch. I don’t say a word and turn towards the other direction. Haze knows the game, and she could not have expected him to be loyal to her. But I make a mental reminder to tell her to lose his number.

  The terrace spans the length of the apartment, so I easily find a darkened corner to steal a few minutes of quiet and perspective. How did I expect anything different? Did I really believe I’d come here, pick Riot’s brain, write a kick ass piece, then continue with my life like nothing happened? Or maybe I secretly hoped that seeing him would help me put our past to rest and help him to see what a mistake he made in leaving the way he did.

  I shake my head. I’m playing myself. Why would he have any regrets when he’s achieved so much? Leaving me was probably the best decision he ever made, because if he had stayed, he would feel obligated to
…

  “You do know there’s a party going on inside.”

  I spin, my breath clipped to a gasp and my heart in my throat. Riot stands just a foot away, hands in pockets of his designer destroyed denim. He looks so boyish, so normal, even with platinum and diamonds draped around his neck and studded in his ears.

  I swallow, conjuring my voice. “Not really my thing.”

  He steps forward to take the space beside me and leans forward, his elbows on the railing. The faint scent of marijuana lingers on his clothes, but it’s mixed with something else. Cologne and him. Like soap and light musk and… home. With only inches between our arms, he feels too close, yet something within in me reaches out to him, wanting him even nearer.

  The sounds of the city below barely drown out the drumming of my heart, so I’m more than grateful when Riot says, “Yeah, mine either.”

  I fail at concealing a sardonic snort. “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “How so?”

  “I thought this was the real you, like you promised. All sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll.”

  He doesn’t answer at first, and I turn towards him just in time to see him grimace, as if he’s battling a hidden pain. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  I can’t help it. I know I should just let it go and head back in with what’s left of my resolve, but I ask, “Is everything ok?”

  He isn’t facing me but even his profile smirks. “Yeah, Roxy. All good.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Sure. What could possibly be wrong in my world?” he replies, his tone bordering on mocking.

  “You’re right,” I say, rolling my eyes and turning back towards the view. “Explains why you’re out here with me and not inside with your friends. What? Your assistant get the wrong vintage of Dom Perignon?”

  Riot laughs, and it actually sounds genuine. “Nah. And I drink Ace of Spades. I saw you leave. Wanted to make sure you were cool.”

  “You did? Funny. I didn’t think you could see through the thick cloud of weed smoke. No one told me Snoop was at this party. You could’ve had Martha cater.” When Riot laughs again, I keep going. I’m sorta addicted to the sound. “And I’m sorry, Riot. Your friends are tacky as hell. I swear I saw one dude wearing pearls while making out with some chick with enough silicone in her ass to fill an Olympic sized pool. I lowkey wanted to walk by and poke her with a needle to see if liquid would squirt out like a leaky waterbed.”

  “Like your parents’ waterbed back in eighth grade when we tried to give each other those bootleg tattoos?” he chimes in through chuckles. “That shit was crazy. I thought your dad was going to kill me.”

  “Shit, I thought my mom was going to kill me!”

  “You’re right about that. Mrs. Lee don’t play.”

  “For real. Her death stare is the sole reason I never got below a B- in high school. And I still feel two feet tall whenever she calls to ‘check in.’ Now its endless inquiries about my career and if I’ve met a nice man to marry me and give her lots of pretty grandbabies. I can hear the Saint Lucian disappointment in her voice when I tell her that her only daughter will probably die childless with only her twelve cats and crippling debt to honor her memory. Can you believe she actually asked me if Haze and I were more than friends?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  I shake my head. “Serious as a heart attack. She said that women our age don’t live together unless they’re together. I told her that’s not the case, but I don’t think she believes me.”

  “Damn. So what did she say when you told her about moving in with me?”

  “I, uh. Well…” I stammer, my words steeped in uncertainty. I haven’t spoken to my parents in days. And if they knew I had moved in with Riot, the boy who sent me into a depression so dark that I almost didn’t graduate? Shit, they’d probably drag me back to Redmond so fast my ass would get road rash.

  “You didn’t tell them,” Riot deduces, saving me the trouble.

  “Well, no. You have to realize that they aren’t your biggest fans.”

  Riot shrugs and nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, probably not. Hell, I thought they’d be happy I was gone. Probably sick of seeing my skinny ass all the time.”

  “Not true. They really liked you.”

  “But not anymore.”

  I don’t answer. Not because I don’t want to hurt his feelings, though I truly don’t. But because I’d have to explain why they despise him now. Why they banned me from ever mentioning Riot again. And why they were so adamant about me never pursuing anything even remotely related to music.

  “Remember Hazel’s sweet sixteen?”

  I suck in a sharp breath that I pray he doesn’t hear. How could I forget? It was the night we lost our virginity. He’d already owned my whole heart. That night, I gave him my body, as he gave me his.

  Of course, I remember. Question is, why does he?

  “Yeah,” is all I can muster.

  “Remember how Hazel’s mom got drunk and crashed the party? Then forced the DJ to play all her old sad love songs.”

  I look up at the night sky, conjuring the memory. “I do. That was right before her parents split. Mrs. Figaro was on one that night. Poor Haze.”

  “Remember that song we danced to? The slow one?”

  I nod slowly and close my eyes, soaking in the ghost of his hands around my waist and my arms looped around his neck. The feel of his warm breath on my ear as he sang softly to me, luring me closer into his body. I knew then I would give him every part of me. I had been nervous before, but with him holding me tight while singing me a sweet lullaby, I knew with my whole heart that he was the one.

  “Do you, Roxy?” Riot asks, shaking me from my nostalgic reverie. It makes sense that that’s what he remembers. He was my first love, but music was always his.

  “Um, the one by Xscape, right? Understa-”

  I swallow what’s left of the word in a soundless gasp and spin to face him, my eyes wide. Riot smiles in a way that brightens his eyes, even through the veil of night.

  “It was you? The text?”

  He nods and leans his back to the rail, keeping his gaze on me.

  “But why… why did you send that to me? I don’t get it.”

  “To jog your memory without cameras shoved in our faces. And to make you understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “Me.” He waves a hand towards the glass door that leads to the terrace and the party still going strong inside. “This. I never expected any of it. Don’t get me wrong—I love my career. But all this other shit? I never realized you could be surrounded by so many people that proclaim to love and support you yet feel so utterly alone.”

  Stunned by his words, I ask, “You really feel that way?”

  His gaze falls to the ground, and he replies, “I wake up every morning and wonder if I can keep doing it for another day, another hour, another minute.”

  “Keep doing what?”

  “Keep running from who I am.”

  I don’t know what to say at first, so I step forward, close enough for our proximity to be deemed inappropriate. Close enough that the temptation to touch him is overwhelming my grand plan to avoid him. I would tell myself I was just comforting him as an old friend. He doesn’t see me that way anymore; maybe he never did. But as a decent human being, it’s my responsibility to console him.

  “Riot…”

  He lifts his head and turns to face me, bringing us that much closer together. I swear, I don’t even breathe.

  “Yeah, Rox?”

  I don’t even know what I was going to say. And with his eyes roaming my face expectantly before landing on my lips, I can’t be sure that words are even sufficient. At least not the words that I really need to say.

  “Riot, I have to-”

  “There you are! Oh my God, you’ll never guess who just showed up. You’re missing everything!”

  I never noticed how shrill and aggravating Poppy’s voice was. Even after this morning when she cut into our conv
ersation, I chalked it up to being hungover. But now that I’m stone cold sober and my bullshit meter has hit peak range, all I want to do is put a muzzle on her.

  I expect Riot to turn and give his girlfriend his attention, yet his for several long moments, even after the annoying click-clack of her heels stops in front of him, his gaze remains on me.

  “Yeah,” he finally says, blinking away whatever connection we had. He drags his teeth over his bottom lip and smiles lazily. “Just needed to take a breather, babe. I’ll be right in.”

  “Hurry! They’ve already cracked open the Don Julio 1942 and they’re doing shots! I miss you, baby.”

  She speaks only to him. She doesn’t even acknowledge me. Her glassy eyes tell me she’s drunk, and most likely has made a coke run to the bathroom, but her refusal to even look at me is intentional.

  Riot sighs, as if he sees it too. It’s going to be a long night. “Miss you too. Go have fun. I’m right behind you.”

  As Riot watches Poppy stagger away, he says, “This isn’t over.”

  “What isn’t?”

  He looks back at me, and without saying a word, tells me everything I need to know within the curl of his seductive smile.

  This isn’t over.

  Translation:

  We aren’t over.

  At least until he finds out the truth.

  HAVE YOU EVER BEEN THE sober person at a party full of drunk and high people? Yeah, it sucks. But it sucks even more when those drunk, high assholes are all packed into the apartment where you currently reside.

  When I return to the party, I find Kaz has joined the mix and is slamming shots right along with the group. Good for him. I feel guilty as hell that he felt he needed to keep me company. He deserves to let loose. I make my way over to wish him goodnight but stop dead in my tracks as I pass the sofa. Poppy has taken up her favorite place to sit—Riot’s lap. And the two of them are going at it as if they’re behind the doors of his bedroom and not in a crowded living room. His hand slips higher and higher up her thigh as the other twists in her hair, pressing her modest breasts into his chest. They kiss deeply, with so much overwhelming passion that for a fleeting second, I worry about suffocation.