Page 12 of Toxic Kiss

My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out with a sigh, expecting another groupie selfie or a reminder about tomorrow’s television appearance.

It’s worse. A text from Auguste Gaillard.

A: PR files are in your inbox. Try not to make your new social media rep quit in the first 24 hours.

I open the file to see which poor bastard they’ve thrown at us this time and freeze as the picture loads.

Of course, it’s her. Of all the people in the world, it has to be her. I don’t click on the link to the rest of the information. Don’t need to. I just stare at her photo and let the past scrape its claws down my spine.

Haven fucking Gaillard. What sick joke is this? Auguste has an evil streak in him a mile long. I laugh once and shove the phone back in my pocket.

“Fuck my life,” I growl, twisting the faucet and letting the cold water run while I stare at myself again. “What the fuck are you doing, man? What the fuck have you become? And what the hell are you going to do now?”

The mirror doesn’t answer. But I know. I scrub the lipstick off my throat, my jaw, my lips. My hands shake, but I don’t stop. I want it gone. All of it. Gone.

A soft knock reverberates through the bathroom door.

“Cyrus?” The blonde’s grating voice breaks through the silence. She didn’t listen. Why would she? They never do.

“Give me a fucking minute,” I call, my voice hollow. But my fingers grip the edge of the sink so hard my knuckles turn white.

I don’t want her. I don’t want this. Not the pain. Not the booze. Not the music. Not the fame. Not the cameras, the crowds, or the noise. None of it. Not anymore. Yet, I still place one boot in front of the other.

I lost my love for it somewhere along the way, and no matter what I try, there is no spark. And I definitely don’t want to feel what I feel when I see Haven’s picture. Haven. Fuck. Me.

I drop my hands, roll my shoulders, and practice my smile in the mirror one last time. Then, I walk back into the party like I still remember how to be a god.

Blondie waits just outside the door, breathless, thinking she’s won something tonight. I don’t care enough to ask her name. I just grab her hand and start walking. The decision is made. I’m staying here rather than going to the tour bus. But I knew this was coming. There really isn’t a choice. Choice is as much of an illusion as the name Cyrus Vale.

She follows eagerly, practically bouncing. I’m no prize, but they all think I am because I have money. Lots and lots of money. But what they say is true, you can’t buy happiness.

I guide her down the hall, past the kitchen, past the balcony where Vex gives me that look. Really? I ignore him. My fingers curl tighter around her wrist.

There are too many bedrooms in this place, most already claimed. The last one on the left looks open. I poke my head inside. Empty. I drag Blondie in and shut the door behind us.

She comes at me fast, lips crashing against mine, hands in my hair, grinding her hips into me like she’s desperate. I kiss her back. Touch her. Play the part. My hands slide up her dress and grab her ass. She moans loudly, dry humping against me.

I don’t groan. Don’t moan. Don’t really even feel, but my body knows how to do the dance.

The biggest problem, aside from all the other fucked up things in my head, is that Blondie isn’t her. Isn’t the face that haunts my dreams.

My stomach twists as I move through the motions. Her nails scrape down my back. I whisper things I don’t mean just to hear her beg. No fire. No connection. Just noise to drown out the screaming in my chest and head.

Self-hatred burns hotter than the liquor I’ve been slamming back. I close my eyes and try to disappear into the moment. The last thing I see before we reach the bed is my own reflection in the mirror across the room—faking it all over again. Even my reflection looks disgusted. I turn away.

The door may already be closed, but the one in my mind is still wide open, and all the ghosts are waiting.

What no one understands is that applause is just noise until it fades, and then you’re left with only your thoughts and a silence that kills.

chapter

six

“They want the music, but not the mess. The wreckage gets edited out unless it bleeds on camera.” - Cyrus

CYRUS

The day of the Jack Malone Show arrives like a fist to my face.