Page 6 of Edge

Like a mothto a flame Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Like a mothto a flame Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Like a mothto a flame.

My wings aregetting scorched, have I got something to fear?

The feelinggets much stronger every time you’re near.

The lyrics to the secondhalf had him beat and while he had a vague idea of where he wasgoing, they simply wouldn’t come. The words Satan, and black andblue, kept up a refrain in his brain, but Jory had no fucking cluewhat to write next.

He played a few quickriffs and made his fingers supple and fly. They, along with everypart of his body, had been tense after his altercation with Roger.After playing until he felt like himself again, he laid theinstrument down and heaved a heavy sigh.

Gazing out of the windowoverlooking the vibrant city below, he wondered for the millionthtime whether he should take his chances and break away. He’d managethe fallout somehow, get the best publicist he could find, and finda way to protect the people who’d be shattered if events written inhis stolen journals got out.

He’d researched hisoptions, and the laws on blackmail and publishing stuff aboutpeople without their permission. The legal firm he’d talked to whenhe’d discovered the theft had all but laughed him out of theiroffices. They’d said there was no guarantee they could controlsomeone from spreading stories about public figures, and while theymay be lawyers, they didn’t want to take his money for no result.At the time, it was going to cost him a small fortune to retainthem, and Jory hadn’t had the assets he had now.

SinceMeghan Markle won her invasion ofprivacy lawsuit against TheDaily Mail, Jory wasreconsidering his legal options. And though the law firm had intimated the whole miserable affair wasnothing more than a lover’s tiff, they’d told him to keepdiscussing the matter with Roger to come to a mutual agreement.Nothing good had come of the effort, and he knew it neverwould.

Jory didn’t care what thejournals said about him; it was the risk of destroying otherpeople’s lives that was a price too high.

He was trapped in anever-ending circle of blackmail and unhappiness until Rogerdecided he’d had enough of his sadistic torment, and had bilkedenough money from Jory.

Which would be fuckingnever.

Time to re-evaluate hisoptions.

CHAPTER THREE

Jory

I had no ideagood ole’ Raymond T was so bendy. Fuck, the man could do anythingwith those long legs. I bet all his country fans would love to knowhow he sounds in the bedroom too. He’s quite a screamer. He alsogives a new meaning to his song “The Devil Goes Down.” Heh. I loveChristmas. 25 December 2018

Jory shovedaside the paper he’d been writing on. Thissong has turned from something meant to be positive to a heapingpile of self-indulgent crap. I’m singing about death and suicide,for fucks sake. My fans won’t like it. Hewent up to the side counter and asked the pretty dark-hairedStarbucks barista for another coffee. He was here so often, he gotprivileges. It was also a place he could come by himself, hiddenunder a baseball cap and a large hoodie to get a littleprivacy.

He loved what he did, buthe’d never get used to having to be careful about where he went andwhat he did simply to get time alone without being disturbed inplaces most people don’t think twice about going to.

His stomachgrowled, and he realised he still hadn’t had breakfast.Huh. I don’t even think I had dinner lastnight.

Stretching, he grunted,leaned over the table, and read his new lyrics, trying to find amore positive spin. He scowled. They still sounded fucking awful.Too depressing even for him. His bandmates and their fans deservedhis best, and he sure as fuck wasn’t meeting his goal right now. Healso couldn’t turn up at the recording sesh tonight without havingsomething.

His phone pinged and thebile always seeming to lurk in the back of his throat threatened tomake a physical appearance. He picked it up.

You leftwithout saying good-bye. What time will you be home?

The name on the screenwas innocuous enough but the mere sight of “Roger” set Jory’s pulseracing, and his chest tightened. God. Would the man not even givehim a moment’s fucking peace? He shoved the phone away to the otherside of the table.

To an outsider, the wordswould appear loving and concerned, but Jory knew better. He heardevery hint of grasping control in the simple phrases echoing in hisbrain, a litany of commands from the man who owned Jory. Who usedhis rock name of Edge in a litany of constant affection, which madeJory hate he had the moniker.

“Please may Isit here with you? All the other tables are packed.”

Jory sighedheavily. Shit, someone foundme. He looked up into the greenest eyeshe’d ever seen. They belonged to the smiling, tanned face of a mana little older than him. The guy’s cheeks were framed by softauburn curls, a colour with hints of autumn. The man’s glasses wereperched halfway down his nose. He held a tray in his left hand withsomething hot steaming on it. On his back he wore a rucksack,stuffed to the gills by the way it was bulging.

“It depends,”Jory said warily. “Are you trying to get an autograph? Because I’menjoying some solitude and I’m not in the mood for company.”Usually, he’d have no problem with fans interrupting his coffee,but after yesterday’s equipment fiasco, all he wanted today wasspace to himself.

“Autograph?Why, are you famous?” The man pulled out the chair and sat down.“I’m only looking to sit and enjoy my chai tea and my croissant.”He reached into his backpack and pulled out a brown paper bagspotted with grease. “I promise I won’t disturb you.”

Jory stared at him.“Well, seeing as how you’re already sitting, it’s not easy for meto say no, is it?” he huffed. “As long as you don’t expectconversation, feel free to sit.” He went back to fiddling with hislyrics as his new table companion fussed about, setting out hiscroissant and cup of tea on the tabletop. He set his bag on thefloor and rooted through it, knocking the table inintervals.