Kneel (God of Rock Book 1) by Butler, Eden (24)

T he spread was large, four full pages in the single most exclusive and respected industry magazines in the nation. They’d used a picture of me in silhouette, smoking a cigarette on an empty stage for the cover. Nothing special. Nothing planned. Me in my jeans and boots, a black leather jacket with a thousand patches sewn on the sleeves and along the back. My hair pulled back, my beard scruffy. I looked like a roadie, not a rock star, not the man who donned heavy white paint and hid behind it every night, bringing ten thousand fans to simulated orgasm with lyric and melody .

The light threw shadows across my features, and my eyes and nose were almost visible. Iris had taken it in Atlanta, before the crew set up, before the fog machines were brought in and the sets were placed. The title was simple, but spoke a lot about what she thought and how she’d navigated the mierda storm I’d made. But it had only been six months. No one could keep my florecita down for long .

Not even me .

My apartment was quiet, the snow falling over Willow Heights, making Christmas Eve magical, like a fairytale snapshot of everything opposite of me. Perfect time for that magazine to land on my door. It’s not like I had anything else to do .

I opened the thick pages, coming to the piece I’d heard was honest and biting. Nothing I hadn’t expected. Not a damn thing in it could be refuted .

“We’re sending you the rough draft of Iris Daine’s exclusive on you, per your contract. But, I’d like to verify some claims she made first.” The woman on the other end of the phone had a professional tone, but I’d heard the doubt laced within it. “If I could have a moment of your time .”

“Iris finished her article?” I’d waited three months since the night of my disastrous Indy show to hear something, anything about her. Three long months were no one knew where’d she disappeared to. This fact checker was the first I’d heard anyone say about her .

“She did. We just need to verify the things she wrote. See if there are any discrepancies .”

Iris had gone off the grid. She’d vanished completely despite how hard we looked. And there had been a lot of looking to do. Isaiah, Jose, looked online, and around Indiana. Jose called in favors from his inmate friends and Arizona crew. I even called Clay, the bodyguard she’d been friendly with to see if he’d heard from her. He hadn’t but did have a few lengthy insults and curses to throw my way and a warning to stay clear of her. He wasn’t the only one giving me that warning. No network got the full video of us together, but there had been grainy versions. Ten thousand fans and I’d bet all had smart phones .   

“If Iris says it’s true, then it is. Every fucking word,” I’d told the girl on the phone, hanging up .

I didn’t care what Iris wrote about me. None of it, no matter how true or false, would ever be as bad as what I’d done to her .

They’d made her get head shots, or took a new picture of her to accompany the article. I flipped to the end of the four-page spread to find it. There she was, beautiful, expression blank, but sultry, long hair billowing over her shoulders, waving across her forehead. A pout that could tempt a saint without even the smallest effort. That perfection was natural. The bio was short, likely to prevent anyone from finding her, another reality resulting from my stupidity. Iris Daine is a writer from New York .

But she wasn’t. Not really. She was from here. Her roots ran deep, but her wings flew high. She didn’t want to part of Willow Heights just as much as she didn’t want to be part of my life now that I’d wrecked everything .

I got it .

I’m a pendejo .

Flipping back to the front of the spread, I glance at the other pictures—a show shot; me and Isaiah in full make-up, fogging billowing overhead, clouding the crowd. We both looked like idiots and that was confirmed when I read the first line of the article .

DASH Justice smokes two packs of Marlboro Reds a day, but that’s not his worse vice. There are plenty more .

I wasn’t sure if I could read the entire thing. It would hurt, knowing what she thought of me, knowing that thoughts formed opinions that weren’t likely to change. My cell chimed, and I glanced at it, spotted an Unknown number that was likely just another reporter wanting a quote, wanting an interview or explanation for canceling the second leg of my tour. Blotter had a field day with the video, because its existence confirmed some of the bullshit stories they’d made up about me and Iris. No of that shit was true .

Half a minute later the cell rang again, same Unknown number, and again I ignored it. I didn’t have the patience for talking to anyone about Iris unless they would tell me where she was. I needed her. I was lost, and nothing I did would lead me back on the straight and narrow. Nothing but her .

A third ring sounded, and I threw the magazine on the island, grabbing my phone with every intention of chunking out into the snow. Even gripped it tight, ready to hurl it, opening the door but stopped short, stepping back when I came face to face with my father .

“Jamie,” he said, leaning heavily on a cane, but his eyes were intense, the curl of his mouth making him look older than he was .

I slipped the phone into my pocket, folding my arms over my chest as I glared back at the old man who’d once been the one person I idolized most in the world. “Sorry, gringo , I can’t help you,” I told him, grabbing the door to slam it shut. “I like my kidneys where they are .”

“I’m not here about that, you wee shite.” He stuck his boot against the door, pushing it farther open when I tried to close it. “I’m here to knock some sense into you. Put on the kettle, arsehole .”