Page 39 of Riot

His heat presses against my back as his lips slide across my neck, tasting my pulse. “You feel like heaven, sweetheart. I bet you taste even better. I can’t wait to find out, but first, I want to feel you come.”

I’m always in control. I’m always?—

My eyes cross as he slides a third finger inside me, dragging a moan from my throat as my legs begin to shake, widening of their own accord as he plays my body as easily as he plays his audience.

My head hits the door with a bang as I let him fuck me.

“We can’t have you hurting yourself, sweetheart. The only marks you will wear will be the ones I give you.”

His hand slides between my face and the wood to protect me from it, but I bite his skin to muffle my moans, and he groans behind me. His touch becomes demanding as he drags pleasure from me.

“Come for me. You know you want to. Let me feel it. Give me something to get through tonight. Soak my fucking fingers so whenever I look at them, I’ll think of you.” His dirty words spur me on, and before I know it, I’m tumbling over the edge. I come with a muffled groan, my hips jerking as my cunt clenches around his invading fingers. I shudder as I rock my hips, riding the waves of pleasure until it’s finally over, and I slump.

“Good girl,” he praises, slowly removing his fingers from my greedy channel and straightening my panties and skirt.

Turning me, he kisses my lips softly. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Dream of me. I know I’ll dream of you.” He steps back, but he doesn’t leave. When I turn and slip inside, slamming the door, I finally hear him walk away.

Pressing my back to the door, I stand there, feeling more confused than ever.

SIXTEEN

I’m so confused after everything that’s been happening. Kage is a wild force of nature, and he’s determined to wreck my life, but I keep letting him push his way in then leave. I know why he’s doing it, and shit, I even know he’s right, but it makes me feel confused and fed up.

Maybe that’s why I find myself wandering my house, the usual insomnia and demons chasing me in the dark until I find myself in the living room. I sink onto a couch, looking around at the empty space. For a moment, I imagine it filled with life, with his laughter. Would I still feel so alone? Would I still be so scared all the time?

Would it be enough?

I click the TV remote, letting the leather cushions swallow me until it consumes my body. No one would notice or care if I just let go.

A familiar voice from the TV has me jerking upright as horror and memories assault me.

There, like a ghost conjured from the darkest parts of my soul, is Westie, my father’s best friend and bassist. He’s older, his hair is grayer, and his eyes and mouth are lined with age. For a moment, I remember how beautiful and oh so fucking dangerous he was.

He was one of the worst parts of my past.

I can’t even focus on the words he’s saying in the interview. All I can do is stare. I haven’t seen him in years, since they all took a step out of the spotlight after my father’s death—a decision they didn’t make lightly, but one that was the trigger for me to finally step forward. Once more, though, I feel like the scared teenage girl facing down the bigger, more experienced man. When the sound seems to filter through my ringing head, I grab the remote and increase the volume, scarcely breathing or believing what I’m hearing.

“I think it’s important to keep the memory of Agille alive, but also to do justice to his story and his rise to fame. That’s why this docuseries is so near and dear to our hearts. Everyone has this perception of him as this bad-boy rocker, one of the most talented to ever live, and yes, we want to show that side, but we also want to show the man who was our leader and our friend as well.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I screech as I leap to my feet.

They are making a docuseries about my father?

It’s clear it’s for fame, money, and the spotlight it will bring, but I wonder how they will gloss over his life. How will they portray his home life? Will they make me the villain? The weak child? All that pain, all that shit I survived will become nothing but a carefully crafted footnote in their story to the top. Everything I endured will become meaningless.

Anger fills me at the idea. What I went through was real, what I survived was real, but this will make it nothing but a lie. Everything I have fought to forget, to move away from will all be brought back up.

I’ll never escape him.

I’ve tried so hard to surpass him, to give him one last fuck you, but I never will. I will always be remembered alongside my father, and the bitter truth is, nobody will ever speak out against him, not even those who know the truth. They will sit in the interviews and call him a legend, and I’ll be forced to endure it silently.

Well, fuck that.

I’m not that little girl anymore. I know more now, and I have a voice.

They don’t get to make him the martyr and me the villain in my own life.

They don’t get to pull apart my past and make me relive it without giving truth to everything I went through.

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