Prologue
The crowd chants an abbreviation of our name, over and over again. VeeP…VeeP…VeeP…echoes throughout the venue as Brayden, Carson, and I stand side by side with our arms raised high in the air. We exit stage left with me bringing up the rear of the three-man train, and I stumble into Carson when he pulls up short.
“Let’s go back out there,” he says with a shit-eating grin on his face. I shake my head and bypass him, heading right for my assistant, Aspen.
“Come on, man. One last time,” Carson pleads. I roll my eyes, but Aspen is the only one who can see my face. “Listen to that audience. We sold the fuck out. Let’s give them one more song.”
Aspen has what I need. I can see the little brown bottle filled with white powder resting in the palm of her hand. It beckons me. Calls my name, ready to invade my system. The nose candy that keeps me awake and able to perform is within arm’s reach, and I have to have it.
I extend my arm to Aspen, who drops the vial into my waiting hand. Even holding it gives me a thrill, although the feeling is short-lived when I’m instructed to turn around and get in line.
I turn, ready to give Carson a piece of my mind, but our manager, Rebel Van Zandt, is standing right there, eyeing me. Rebel’s the baddest bitch in show business and you’re risking your life if you dare to disobey her. Given the opportunity, she’d rip me from limb to limb and watch me bleed out slowly just to get her fucking kicks.
Virtuous Paradox was an unlikely group at the beginning, but we’ve taken the world by storm. What started out as a test quickly turned into a phenomenon. Rebel chose me, along with Brayden and Carson, to form this band. One hurdle back then was I’d never performed in public aside from the yearly Christmas party my Hollywood director father and movie star mother threw. Rebel had seen me sing and apparently was sold. I thought it was a joke until she put the three of us up onstage, took our photo, and asked us all what we saw.
To me, it looked like two dudes with amazing talent, plus me. Yeah, I have charisma, sex appeal, and striking blue bedroom eyes. But that’s not talent. When I saw myself standing next to them, I felt like I didn’t belong. Rebel vowed to prove me wrong.
And she has.
She made promises that I thought could never be reached: number one hits, music videos, the female population lining up to have their picture taken with us, fathers lining up to buy our concert tickets and posters of our ugly mugs soon to be plastered on every teenage girl’s bedroom wall.
We’re household names. Everyone has heard of us. They may not like us, but when our songs come on the radio and they’re alone in their cars, they’re singing along. I know they are. They move their shoulders to the beat, hold their hands up in the air, and shake their ass like they’re the ones performing our songs. When it’s over, they go back to hating us, and that’s okay, because for every one person who doesn’t buy our music, there are ten others buying every copy.
I owe it to the fans to go back out there one more time. There are thirty thousand screaming, horny women all begging for a piece of the action, and we’re going to give it to them.
“What the fuck ever,” I say as I stand in formation. We’ve been touring for a year, nonstop, and this is our last show. I’m exhausted, sore, and ready for this to be all over. We’ll have a month off before we start recording our next album. We get thirty fucking days to rest and get back to work. What’s the point of being the best if you can’t take time off to enjoy it? How about a trip to Cancun, where I can entertain some co-eds? Anything?
The lights dim and the band starts up, causing a level of screaming that I’ve never heard before. Carson looks back at me as if he’s telling me that he was right. He’s excited. I get that, but I’m also ready to be done. I’m fucking ready to go home and sleep in my own bed. As soon as he turns I bend down and pop the lid off the vial, insert it into my nostril, and breathe in deeply. I pinch my nose shut, letting the coke work its way into my system, while looking around to see if anyone noticed me. The last thing I want is for someone to see me snorting coke and get all righteous on my ass. I’m not addicted. I can quit anytime I want. I just don’t want to. Being high and performing under the lights is a fucking trip. Why would I give that up?
Everything about my performance is robotic. I’m going through the moves, singing the lyrics, and doing what I need to do so I can get the fuck out of here. If Carson, Brayden, or even Rebel wants yet another encore, they’re on their own. I’m ready to party and put this tour behind me. And with Aspen waiting in the wings, a night of getting fucked up is inevitable.
Soon we’re once again standing in the center of the stage with our arms raised. We take a bow, wave, and take another bow. I’m waiting for Brayden to move toward the exit, but he’s not going. He’s standing there, waving like a fucking fool.
“Yo, Bray,” I say, trying to get his attention, but he’s lost in the moment. I get it, I do. But this isn’t our first show. The high of performing has worn off; it’s time to drop the curtain and get fucked up.
Chapter 1
Bodhi
As I crack open my bedroom door and look around the room, I barely see the people standing there. They’re mingling, thinking they’re at a celebrity’s house to party. When Aspen has people over I tend to stay in my bedroom, away from prying eyes and cellphone cameras. The last thing I need is for people to see me doing a line, because they’d put that shit all over social media in a blink of an eye, and that’s a headache I don’t need.
&
nbsp; These past thirty days have been bliss. No cameras, no staged locations, no fucking smiling for grabby-ass people who are trying to cop a feel. All that shit changes when Virtuous Paradox goes back to work. A few days from now my mug will be plastered all over every fan site, blog, and Twitter account because Rebel can’t seem to keep our recording locations under wraps.
When the noise dies down and the last guest leaves, Aspen yells that it’s all clear. I open my bedroom door, only to find her standing there in her panties and bra with a bottle of tequila in her hand.
“Where’re your clothes?”
She shrugs and sashays into my bedroom. Of course I watch her; her ass is practically bare and I’m horny. Although sleeping with her would be a major mistake on my part. Thanks to Aspen and her endless supply of drugs, I’m on the tail end of a month-long bender. I haven’t eaten, showered, or slept in days. Tomorrow my life changes. It’s back to work, back to long hours in the recording studio and learning ridiculous dance moves that have been choreographed for the sole purpose of entertaining women. Considering the way they make us mimic sex, the record label ought to just give us a pole to dance around.
Sex sells.
That’s all we hear, over and over again. Sexier lyrics. Sexier moves. Make love to the camera. As far as I’m concerned, that camera gets around.
Aspen lies on the bed next to me, and my eyes betray me as I take her all in. Like any red-blooded man, I’m aroused, but I know better. I wish I’d find her attractive, but I don’t. She’s too skinny and does way too many drugs. The pot calling the kettle black, I know, but I can stop anytime I want. She can’t. And when she comes down from her high, it’s a scary fucking scene around here. Curtains, dishes, and mirrors have been replaced in the past month because she turns into a deranged lunatic.
Aspen sits up, grabs the bottle of tequila from my bedside table, and dribbles some down my chest. The shit is cold, and before I can protest, her mouth is covering my nipple.
“Why don’t you like me?” she asks before she starts licking my torso.
“I do. I let you live here, remember?” That’s the only answer I want to give her. Letting her move in was a mistake, but one I’ve dealt with. When I’m home and needing a fix, she always comes through for me.
“But you never want to fuck.”
My head starts to pound as I try to focus on her. I should be chilling right now, letting my high wear off so that I can focus tomorrow. If I show up like this, Rebel is going to fucking kill me.
“We’re friends,” I remind her. It’s not the answer she wants.
She straddles me and removes her bra. Aspen grabs her tits, pulling at her puckered nipples as she grinds into me.
“Fuck, Aspen, why do you do this shit?”
“I’m horny,” she whines.
I’m horny too, but I don’t tell her that. I can easily call one of the chicks whose numbers are in my phone and ask them to come over, but I don’t. I don’t push her off me either. Instead my hand reaches out to stroke her bare leg, and she moves back slightly, allowing my fingers to roam until they’re grazing her pussy.