THE NEXT DAY IS BETTER. The chanting PopBlu mob has thinned, there’s less security and, overall, things seem to be much calmer around the penthouse. But that could have something to do with the exodus of one Poppy Bell.
“I don’t know. That just seems strange to me,” I say, spearing a chunk of roasted tomato and scrambled eggs.
Riot and I decided to take our breakfast at the kitchen island, considering the vibe is much more chill since Poppy commandeered the camera crew. More like her publicity team thought it was a good move to chronicle her “heartbreaking” journey amidst a storm of cheating rumors. I don’t get it. The documentary was supposed to chronicle Riot’s life and his music. However, it seems as if Poppy is playing the role of both muse and talent. And Riot is all too happy to let her.
“Ever heard the term all publicity is good publicity? It really doesn’t matter what the public says. As long as people are talking, our PR teams are happy,” Riot explains, smearing jam on a slice of wheat toast.
“Yeah, I get that,” I roll my eyes. “I am the publicity. But I don’t understand how any girlfriend—famous or no—would let the man she loves take the fall for a fake news cheating scandal to get a few new followers. She could easily go on record and say it was doctored photo. Every person in that club had a smartphone; I know the real pictures are out there! Why not work that angle? Why not go with the truth and let people see you’re not the selfish, whoring douchebag they all believe you to be?”
Riot shrugs, stabbing at his eggs. “Because that’s boring. No one is talking about the guy who goes to see his ailing mother every chance he gets just so he can serenade her to make her smile. They’re not writing stories about all the money and resources I’ve dedicated to mental health charities and organizations. But let me take a controversial stance for something I believe in, and then I’m plastered on the front page of every publication, being called every name in the book.
“People say they want the good guy, but being the good guy doesn’t get noticed. It doesn’t sell records. And at the end of the day, that’s the objective.”
“But what about art? Why do you have to sacrifice so much of yourself to do what you love? To the point of becoming someone you’re not? The people who know you…the people who love you…they miss the real Riot Blu.”
He works the words around in his mouth. “Are you one of those people?”
“Huh?” The question throws me off guard, and if I’d taken a sip of my coffee, Riot would probably be wearing it.
“Are you one of those people?” he repeats. “Do you… Do you miss me?”
Is he really asking what I think he’s asking? Is he asking if I love him?
“Well, uh.” Shit. Are we still talking about Riot, the multi-platinum selling musician? Or Riot, the man whose kisses could make me forget my own name? “Of course, I miss that sweet, funny, skinny boy that lived next door. But I always knew you were destined to be a star, Riot. You had a spark no one else could dim, and you had a way of drawing people to it, even at the risk of being burned. Yeah, I miss that kid. But I’m also getting to know the man. And he seems pretty cool too.”
Riot nods, so I assume he’s satisfied with my answer. He lays down his napkin and silverware, and slides off the stool.
“Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
My brows raise. “Finally going to give me that interview?”
He gives me a half grin, offers his palm, and I immediately know I’m in trouble. “I guess you’ll have to follow me and find out.”
First up on the agenda is a tour. I can’t believe I’ve been living in this man’s home for close to a week and haven’t even seen all of it. He briefly shows me the game room where I can imagine he and his boys choppin’ it up over a game of pool and a few brews. Then there’s the study that pretty much looks untouched. My guess is that’s where Jonas sets up camp to make calls whenever he’s over. There’s another spare bedroom that’s tastefully decorated, although a little plain compared to mine, and a full bath across from it. When we come to a staircase, I’m a bit confused.
“There’s an upstairs?”
Riot nods. “Master suite.”
“You’re telling me that your room is as large as this entire floor?”
He shrugs and twists his mouth sheepishly. “There’s also a bonus room, but…yeah.”
Like everything I’ve experienced involving Riot as of late, the second floor does not disappoint. The bonus room he mentioned is completely white, from the walls to the furniture. Even the bed is decked out in white linens. An impressive vanity almost takes up an entire wall and even has one of those professional stylists chairs.
“Poppy has to have hair and makeup every time we film…or go out or even take selfies,” Riot explains.
“Wow,” I muse. “Quite the commitment. But I get it—that’s how she makes her money.”
“Yeah.” I don’t miss the eye roll but I don’t comment either.
Even the double doors of Riot’s bedroom scream opulence and style. He opens them then steps aside to let me pass first, and a proud smile creeps onto my face.
“What?” he inquires, his expression both sweet and shy.
“I feel like we’re living out our teenage MTV Cribs fantasy and superstar Riot Blu is about to show me ‘where the magic happens.’ ”
The first thing I notice once I step over the threshold is the breathtaking view, attributed to the floor-to-ceiling windows. They’re tinted, just like the ones downstairs to keep the apartment cool, and on one wall, there’s a cushioned bench built in that’s covered with several comfy looking pillows that match the theme of the room: matte black, brushed silver, and polished gold. It’s an odd combination, but it works, giving the room a sensual, chill vibe and I can see why he chose them. I imagine Riot lounging on that cushioned bench, gazing out over the city, music on, with a notebook and pen in his lap. This is his sanctuary, free of expectations and the flashing lights of cameras. He can be totally himself here.
A partial wall splits the room, with a fireplace on the side facing the plush California king and a built-in entertainment center facing a sitting area that leads to an incredible closet that’s at least three times the size of mine. Beyond that is his ensuite bathroom with massive backlit vanity, double sinks, and a raised bathtub that could seriously be considered a small infinity pool.
It’s everything I imagined a megastar would want, but the part he’s most proud about lies behind the door across from the closet.
“You have your own recording studio?” Normally, I’d try to come across way cooler, but, holy shit…he has his own recording studio in his room.
“It’s not much. A mixing board and a booth. I’d rather go to the studio, but since that’s not always possible, I figured I’d bring it to me. Plus, you never know when inspiration will hit. I don’t want to be limited to someone else’s time.”
That makes sense. Riot has been trying to lay low, and I’ve quickly learned that that’s an impossible task for him.
“Well, this place…all of it…it’s amazing. I can’t believe you’ve only lived here for a couple weeks.”
Riot nods, yet shifts his gaze. I know that look.
“Spit it out.”
He takes a deep breath. “I’ve been here for a little longer.”
“How much longer?” I ask, a hand on my hip.
“Off and on? Two months. But been here full time for only one.”
I blink, shocked and a little hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Riot shrugs. “If I did, would you have seen me?”
I don’t have an answer for him so I turn around and head back towards the sitting area.
“So what’s this work we’ve got to do, huh?” I ask before falling back onto the plush leather sofa.
Riot answers my question by tossing a notebook onto the coffee table. “We’ve got a song to write, Rox.”
“Wait…you were serious about that?”
“Why wouldn’
t I be?” He sits on the couch, kicks his feet up on the table, and folds his hands behind his head.
“Um, well, for starters, I’m not a songwriter.”
“From what I remember, you absolutely are. Rox, I thought we already covered all this. You scared?” he taunts, a challenging grin on his face. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Of who? You? Boy, bye. Don’t make me break out some of those tired ass rhymes of yours when you swore you were going to be the blue-eyed Drake. What was the name of that song you wrote? ‘Redmond’s Most Wanted’?”
Riot laughs, the sound deep and soulful. “Aw, shit I forgot about that. Why you gotta go breakin’ my heart and crushing my dreams like that?”
“Hey, you started it.” I fold a foot under me and turn towards him. “You should be thanking me for telling you back then to stick to singing. Now you have all this. So really, you kinda owe me.”
“I do,” he nods. “And lucky for me, I don’t have to rap. Especially when I got the hottest lyricist in the game on my first single.”
Ok, now I’m listening. And while I’ve put on my journalist hat, I’m truly interested in hearing about his new music.
“Go on…”
Riot takes his phone from his pocket, scrolls a bit, and then the bassline vibrates throughout the entire suite. Now I understand the need for soundproofing. Right off the bat, the beat has me nodding my head. And as it flows into the intro, I’m stunned that there’s another voice woven between Riot’s first adlibs.
“Is that…is that Grip?”
Riot nods, a boyish grin dimpling his cheeks. “It is. Surprised?”
“I am, actually. Unexpected collab, for sure. And this beat is sick. Nick Wilde?”
He nods again. “I wanted to take it back to the days when a song was a story. It was a journey. Not the same drumbeat on a loop with the same bullshit being repeated over and over again. I wanted an intro, a dope hook, verses with substance, and a breakdown to bring it home. Grip was the icing on the cake.”
We listen to the song two more times, and I have to admit, I love it. It’s not the usual pop hit that he usually puts out that gets played on the radio every thirty minutes. He took it back to the days of Joe and Ginuwine and New Edition. He channeled the feeling of new music Tuesdays, when we’d bike straight to the music store after school, just to spend our allowance on the latest releases. He brought back mixed CDs, JNCO jeans, and taping magazine posters of our favorite artists on our bedroom walls.
Riot went back home.
“I gotta say…” I begin, trying to find the words to fully convey my feelings. “I fucking love it.”
“Yeah?” The look on his face…it’s like he just won at the Grammys. I wish I could see him like this every day.
“Yeah. I mean it. I think it’s going to be an instant hit.”
“It means more than you’ll ever know to hear you say that.” He sits up to grab the notebook and flips to the first page. “Now let’s make another one.”
I thought he was insane at first; we couldn’t pull a song out of our asses. But then Riot played a beat he had apparently been holding onto for months. It’s a completely different vibe than his song with Grip—that one would be the year’s party anthem for sure. This one was a ballad. Minimal instrumentation, just a guitar, a few keys, and only a touch of drums at the end. Yet, there’s something so complex and meaningful in its simplicity. It doesn’t need flash and flair to stand out. Just our hearts transcribed into lyrics.
“Another Nick Wilde production?” I ask, jotting down a couple ideas. Nothing makes sense just yet, but we keep coming back to one central theme: love, stripped bare in its purest, most beautiful form.
“Nah. Mine.”
I drop the pen. “You produced this?”
He nods. “There’s not much to it. I was playing around on the guitar one night and it just took form on its own. As if it was already a song that was meant for me, and it had been just waiting for me to find it.”
I look back down at the paper and force myself to pick up the pen. Because if I don’t, I’m going to kiss him.
We work all day and well into the night, stopping only to eat (takeout picked up by a member of Riot’s security since Kaz has the day off) and stretch our legs. By the end of the night, the coffee table is covered with balls of rumpled paper, empty bottles of water, coffee cups, and Chinese takeout boxes. And we have the first draft of our song, which Riot decides calls for celebration.
“What? No bubbly tonight?” I tease when he sets a bottle of Tito’s and two glasses on the table.
“Thought we both needed a break from that. Soda? Lime? Or you trying to go hard tonight?” He wriggles his brows.
“Don’t play yourself, Blufield. You know I used to drink your ass under the table.”
“Ha! Ok, then, Lee. Pour it up then.”
He turns the TV on to reruns of Fresh Prince, which are always a winner. I missed this. It’s crazy how Riot and I can fall into the same familiar pattern without awkwardness and expectations. I’ll always be wildly attracted to him and probably will always love him as well. But we were friends first. Our relationship goes beyond the physical. Far too often, couples think they have to be extra affectionate or sentimental because they’ve let a label define them. That was something we never let happen because we were so much more than a label. We were just Rox and Riot.
We start out pretty strong, going shot for shot while laughing at episodes we’ve seen at least five times each. But the late hour catches up with us and we both begin to sink into the couch.
“I should head downstairs,” I yawn.
“You don’t have to.” He doesn’t say it as if he’s expecting anything. I get it. Things are easy with us, comfortable. He doesn’t have to be on to keep up some facade. And I don’t always have to search for an angle into a story. We’re having fun.
“Ok, but only one more shot.”
I’m stuck in that space between a dream and reality. The feel of my cheek against his warm chest, the weight of his arms holding me to him…all tangible. However, this can’t be real. I can’t be sleeping on top of Riot on the couch while Hilary Banks tricks Uncle Phil into letting her move into the pool house. And there’s no way I should be feeling Riot’s hands slowly, softly running up and down my spine. Nor should there be a very obvious hardness pressing into my pelvis.
I’m dreaming. We had a few shots, we watched a little TV, and then we fell asleep. But we were on opposite ends of the couch, and it’s highly unlikely that I dozed off and fell directly onto Riot’s body. But damn…if this is a dream, I hope I don’t wake up any time soon.
The feel of his fingers coasting down my back feels so real that I’m afraid to move, for fear that it will dissipate. I hold my breath when the hem of my shirt shifts and his hand grazes my bare skin, setting my nerve endings on fire. I think it’s an accident at first, but then it happens again. And that thickening beneath me grows hotter and longer.
The sound of a throat clearing jolts me from my devious dreams, yet that weight is still on my back, burning through my shirt. And Riot’s heart is beating against my chin. And the growing throb is probing my lower abdomen.
“You awake?” Riot rasps, his voice gravelly and sexy as fuck.
I don’t want to answer for fear that it’ll all fall apart, but I say, “Yeah. Want me to get up?”
Riot pauses, and I take it as a yes. He’s just too nice to tell me to go. Or so I think.
“No.” He holds me tighter to his body like he’s afraid to let go.
“Okay.”
His chest moves as he takes a deep breath. “Thank you.”
It’s quiet after that and we both doze off. At least I think we do. I honestly can’t tell if I’ve drifted off to dreamland or if I’m actually grinding against Riot’s dick while he grips my ass and lifts his hips to meet my movements. However, there’s one thing for certain: dream or no, I don’t want to carry on like horny teenagers. I need this to be real,
and I need him inside me.
HIS FINGERTIPS CARESS MY JAW until they reach my chin. Light pressure tips it up, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are still clouded with sleep but a deep hunger shines through the dimness as if he’d been cast into a state of famine for the past twelve years. No words are required. I lean forward and press my lips to his and he welcomes my tongue eagerly. He pulls me closer so we’re chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, yet there’s still too much between us. I sit up and grab the hem of my shirt to whip it off, but he grasps my hands, stopping me before I show even a peek of skin.
“Wait.”
Fuck. Not again. How could I have been so stupid? And with Poppy not here to relieve him, what would he want with me?
I’m humiliated, and it’s my own damn fault. I should have known better than to think Riot’s feelings mirrored mine when he’s shown me that I am nothing more than something to do when he’s bored. And he technically won’t even do me.
Face flaming with embarrassment, I try to climb off him, but he holds me in place.
“Wait, Rox. Listen to me.”
I shake my head. If I speak, I’ll cry.
“Just look at me. Please? I want to explain.”
Reluctantly, I do as he asks, forcing myself not to show even the slightest fissure of emotion.
“I don’t want to do this unless you’re ready. Unless you know in your heart that you’re ready to be with me. Because, honestly…I’m tired of coming in my hand every night while imagining I’m inside you, knowing you’re right downstairs and I can’t have you. It’s driving me crazy. So don’t go any further unless you’re sure you want me too. Because there’s nothing and no one I want more than you.”
I frown, confused. “Wait, so you didn’t…you didn’t come up here and have sex with Poppy the other night?”
His eyes go wide, his expression horrified. “What? Is that what you think I did? You think I would be with you and come up here to let her finish me off? Hell no!” His cock jumps beneath me, the proverbial exclamation point on his statement. “Since before you walked back into my life, no one has been in my bed but me. I wouldn’t do that to you. Hell, I wouldn’t do that to her.”
Rhythm and Blu Page 19