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 asses 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.