Vipers and Virtuosos (Monsters & Muses, #2)(35)

Fuck, the lotion.

Digging into the pocket of my plaid pajama pants, I pull out a handful of individually wrapped peppermint candies, tearing one open with my teeth and dropping it in my palm.

Goddamn, I shouldn’t crave the reminder of the beautiful viper, but even through all of the despair, her disappearance bothers me far more than it should.

It feels like she got off scot-free, and I’m here to suffer in the aftermath, even though I didn’t do anything wrong.

My only sin was taking a fucking chance for once in my life.

Callie’s had several lawsuits opened up against various news outlets, but they find clever ways around the situation, evading exact details and refusing to name specifics.

As if “Rock star plummets to Loserville after allegations ruin his career” could be about anyone but me.

Bringing the candy to my nose, I inhale deeply, and for a moment in time I’m back at Gio’s tattoo shop in New York City, kneeling between her spread thighs and marring her creamy skin.

It should probably be more alarming that I can’t seem to cancel the weekly delivery of peppermints from a candy store in Brooklyn, but I’m choosing not to think too much about it.

If I do, then I have to take note of the emerald dress, the shoes, and every other item of clothing sitting in my closet, staring me down each time I sit and try to write something.

With a sigh, I glance at the instrument in my lap, sending a silent plea to the Muses to strike me with inspiration.

I can feel myself slowly going mad, the inability to create pushing me further into a downward spiral of self-loathing and apathy.

Both the pick and instrument are hand-me-downs; the pick, a shiny piece of purple plastic with a two-headed serpent on the face, and the guitar, a vintage Fender Precision bass that my father got from his father, who swore it was once played by Pino Palladino.

I’ve always considered them good luck charms. My first album, Follow You To Hell, was produced from a single bass line off this very instrument, and after it went platinum, I resigned to start every new project the same way.

There’s a room down the hall where the walls are lined with different guitars, and a baby grand sits in the foyer off from the private elevator, but they don’t spark my inspiration.

Right now, nothing seems to, and I’m starting to wonder if I should just give up entirely.

Sighing, I push the bass off my lap and get to my feet, that hollow feeling expanding inside me, its inky tendrils wrapping around my sternum. They tighten until it feels like the bone might crack under the pressure, and I make my way to the bed, crawling beneath the covers.

The heaviness that’s lived in my body for years now threatens to crush me, and for a moment, I wish it would.

Wish I could erase that night after the charity gala from my mind for good.

But when sleep overtakes me, it’s thoughts of her I drift off to.





Liam manages to drag me out of my bed for the first time in weeks.

He shields me under a Reds baseball cap, oversized sunglasses, and a shapeless puffer jacket that feels a little too obvious for the beginning of summer.

I haven’t seen a ray of sunshine in days, though, so I let him take me out. We hop into a blacked-out GMC Suburban and head to some dive bar on Staten Island.

Part of me expects animosity from the crowd, especially once we settle in at the bar and I shirk off the glasses and coat, but instead we’re flocked by a crowd of sympathizers.

They drone on and on about my plight, how they’ll always believe a man until proven guilty, and for some reason, it rankles me. Unease chinks along my spine, digging into the vertebrae until I’m practically vibrating with annoyance.

After I’ve signed a dozen autographs, Liam slides a beer over and raises an eyebrow at me.

“You good? Because three seconds ago, it looked like you wanted to tear into your own fans.”

“I’m fine. That was just a lot to soak in.” I take the bottle, bringing it to my lips for a quick sip, far past caring that I shouldn’t be drinking. “Guess I’ve got to ease myself back into the socialization part of this gig.”

“See, this is why sitting alone in your apartment day in and day out is a bad thing. Think of all the connections you’re missing out on when you sit up there sulking, forgetting how to interact with people. You could be networking with people who could help you, clear your name once and for all, but you’re too busy hiding.”

“I’m trying to work,” I snap, narrowing my eyes at him. Ever the publicist, always worried about my image and not the fact that I’m drowning in misery. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I don’t exactly have very much else going on right now. Making music is the only thing keeping me fucking occupied, asshole.”

Liam sighs, taking a swig of his own beer. “I get that, man. But you can’t just give up.”

“I haven’t.”

“Really?” He quirks a brow. “Then why the hell haven’t you found that girl yet? The Aiden James I know would never roll over for some cheap pussy.”

My throat burns, hearing him call her that. Then, the fire inside rages even higher, my internal defense of the girl who ruined my life irritating me.

God, I’m pathetic.

I don’t even know her fucking name, and yet I’m stuck on her as though she’s a goddess on earth, and I’ve found religion in her.