She didn’t even blink as we locked eyes, her voice a level, even tone as she said, “It’s Silas Madigan’s music video.”
The room started spinning a little.
“Hold up for juuuuust a second,” I whispered, trying not to freak out. “Repeat that.”
Slowly, a blinding, wicked, sexy as fuck smile grew on my best friend’s face. “Silas motherfucking Madigan is filming a music video at his house tonight. And we—you and fucking me—just got invited.”
I kept staring as her words bounced from my brain, down my throat, and into my chest, as lyrics flew through my mind and the sound of his raspy, deep voice played clearly in my mind.
Silas Madigan?
Acid bubbled in my stomach, instantly making me dizzy, nauseous, nervous. “Oh my god.”
“Uh, yeah!” She nodded with a little squeak before cooling her features into sassy determination. “We have to go.”
“Go to a party at Silas Madigan’s house,” I repeated, just to clarify.
“Yup.” She wiggled her brows with a grin. “This is what we’ve been talking about for months now, P! We need something fresh and new to get us out there. No idea where exactly ‘out there’ leads, but I don’t know, P. Something about this feels good.”
Good? It felt crazy as fuck is what it felt like. Silas was on the come up—a rap artist that came out the gate swinging about a year before. His rise to fame was fast tracked somehow, and now he was everywhere. Getting to go to a party for him—with him—it was almost too terrifying to think about.
Silas was one of those musicians—the ones who rapped facts, truths about living with a broken wire in your brain. Whether you were born with it clipped, or someone took scissors and clipped it for you, the damage looked the same, and Silas wasn’t afraid to talk about it.
I couldn’t let her go alone, and I was doing what I planned—following her lead, experiencing life through her adventures. Half of me wanted to say fuck all this, hop in my car, and never return, but the other half was giddy, excited, fucking terrified. “I’m in.”
Frankie’s perfectly shaped eyebrows hit her hairline. “You’re serious?”
I shouldn’t be. The drugs, the drinks, the sex. Parties were an infestation of unhealthy coping mechanisms that I couldn’t afford to get lost in again.
But still…
“No way in hell you’re going to see him without me.” I winked, feeling sick to my stomach. Just to put it out in the universe, I repeated, “You’re right, this will be good.”
Frankie jumped a little and ran at me full force, grabbed the sides of my face, and kissed me right on the lips. Soft as hell, sexy enough to make my knees weak. She pulled back, her eyes latching to mine. “You, my little darling Nixxy baby, are going to have fun tonight. You’re going to thank me, and it’s going to be a damn good time.”
“I only believe it because you do.” I laughed, unable to deny her charm, wanting to please her, learn from her. “How long do we have to get ready?”
It was almost dinner time, so it was starting to look like we’d be scarfing down something fast before an evening full of primping, priming, and pre-gaming.
Franks checked her phone again, confirming, “We should leave here around eleven, because the invite just said that the party itself would be filmed for the video. We can show up whenever. It’s an ongoing thing.”
A full-blown Hollywood party? No wonder they were inviting influencers. Silas would get viewers from all over to get a glimpse of the various famous faces in the video.
“Well, I guess we better get to work then.” I tried to smile, I swear I did, but as the reality started to sink in, so did the feeling that I was pushing this too fast, too soon.
Sliding into the driver’s seat of Pharaoh’s Mercedes G-Class SUV, I tried to shake off the weight on my shoulders but fucking failed. Another show, another meet and greet, another pissed off, entitled asshole sitting pretty in the VIP lounge, talking shit with his punk ass buddies. They always tried to rile me up, and they won every goddamn time.
“I don’t get why they have to show up at my shit,” I spat, slamming the door behind me as the blue light illuminated the interior. “They buy a motherfucking ticket just so they can tell me they hate me in person?”
“Yeah, man.” Pharaoh sighed, pulling his seatbelt on and leaning the seat back. “That’s exactly what the fuck they do. It’s their only chance. You can pretend you didn’t see their comments on Instagram, but you can’t pretend you didn’t hear them when they’re standing right next to you.”
“Mhm,” was all I said, too angry to talk further.
Instead, I got my shit sorted while scrolling through the notifications I missed on the walk from the venue to the car as quickly as I could, making sure there was nothing important while I waited for the Bluetooth to connect. Except, it connected to Pharaoh’s phone instead of mine, and one of my songs came blaring through the speakers instead of the song I had queued up. I was immediately grateful that we weren’t already on the highway, because I was overcome with an intense urge to say “fuck it all” and drive us both into oncoming traffic. All from the sound of my own voice.
It was like nails on a chalkboard nowadays. Had been ever since I took a risk and it bit me so hard in the ass that it’s almost like I had scars in the shape of teeth.
“You did good tonight,” Pharaoh said, getting comfortable in the passenger seat. He pulled out a cigarette and his lighter, lighting up quickly before rolling down the window to blow the smoke out.
“Yeah,” was all I said as I pulled out my own cig and stuck it in my mouth, ready to unwind from the gig I just left while getting ready to do it all over again in less than an hour.
Walking off stage after a show was equally the best and worst thing about being an entertainer.
The best consisted of the roar of the crowd at my back, the adrenaline rush from performing still buzzing like a hornet in my ear. It never failed. I descended the stairs on the side of the stage feeling like King of the Underworld every. Fucking. Time.
The worst part though, came as soon as my custom pink and black Converse hit the bottom step. Suddenly, everything I hated about this life showed up to slap me in the face. The snakes were always ready and waiting, slithering in the grass with their cameras on, their ears open. All to try and find the story, the picture, the lie that would turn my career into a nightmare, simply because my nightmare paid cash.
Then there were the girls.
Sure, every man with a nine-inch dick loved his life—he fucked whenever, wherever, and however he wanted. But somewhere in the process of meeting them, fucking them, and letting them go, the claws came out, and the hot as fuck piece of ass you were about to bury your worries in showed her real self.
That’s when you found yourself looking a rotten whore in the face.
Only to find out later, that whore stole cash from your nightstand and took pictures of you when you slept. I’ve had girls sell my cell phone number to tabloids, they’ve read my text messages and bragged about it to see if I’d start a fight.
Why would anyone want to fight with TheColt?
To get me angry enough to resort to physical violence, that’s why. Because violence meant a lawsuit, and a lawsuit meant a TMZ article, a nice vacation to Bora Bora, and a few thousand new Instagram followers.