RYKE

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"WAKE up asshole," my brother's harsh tone slices through the silence of my penthouse apartment waking me from my much needed sleep.

A groan flies from my mouth as I roll over in my silk sheets. "What do you want?" I growl out as I throw a pillow over my face preparing for the flip of the lights that's inevitable when he storms into my room. Which is far too often.

"Come on," he pushes as the pillow is ripped from my face and light floods my eyes making me wince at the sudden brightness.

My brother's disapproving blue eyes stare down at me as they trail over my tired form. I can only imagine what I look like through his judgmental gaze, especially after last night. My shoulder length hair is a tangled, knotted mess. I know my eyes are bloodshot, and the cuts on my lip and cheek stand out against my pale skin from the fight I got into last night.

"Do I need to call Shawn?" he asks simply referring to our family lawyer who more than once has gotten me out of the many sticky situations I keep falling into. Like the multitude of assault charges, public intoxication charges, one DUI, and of course the few public urination charges that line my ever-growing record.

"No," I answer gruffly. "He was a dick who deserved what he got, but not stupid enough to come after me," I tell him as I grab a hair tie off my nightstand and throw my dark hair up into a half-assed bun.

I look up at my older brother as he runs his eyes over my disarray of a room. The random bottles of liquor covering every possible surface, the faint dusting of white powder that lines my windowsill, and the joint waiting to be smoked on my nightstand. The mess that is my life constantly surrounds me. It reminds me of who I really am and all that I'll ever be. I scratch the rather new tattoo on my wrist and try to ignore my brother's judging gaze as he runs a hand over his blonde buzzed head.

"What do you want Wren?" I question as irritation cuts through my rough tone. He's always checked up on me randomly, but as of late he's been more consistent with the amount of times he's come barging through my penthouse doors unannounced.

A flash of uncertainty washes over his intense stare and my body immediately sits up straighter. A bolt of something reminiscent of fear strikes my spine in faint realization that something is on the horizon. That my brother's regular pop-ins have all led to this.

"You're going on tour with me," he states his words coming out clear and precise as if he's rehearsed them. As if I don't have an option.

My face scrunches in confusion and a touch of bitter annoyance. "Why does that sound like I don't have a choice?" I question speaking my thoughts aloud as my eyes narrow. I never have done well with authority.

His shoulders drop slightly. "You don't Ryke," he tells me truthfully. His stormy blue eyes that match our father's fill with exhaustion as a heavy sigh hisses through his lips.

"I think I do," I counter. "I'm not going on your stupid ass tour," I tell him as I hop out of bed in only my briefs. I walk towards the pile of clothes on the floor and grab a random T-shirt that doesn't completely smell like sex, vomit, or weed to toss on.

Wren may be my older brother, and a rock star, but he lives the life of a damn old lady these days and being on tour with him watching my every move sounds fucking terrible. This is his third tour, his biggest one, and while the women may be easy, nothing else will be if I have him babysitting me.

My brother has nothing to bargain with at this point. He has no cards and a twisted smile lifts at my lips at the thought that he thinks he has a say in my life. Not after what he did, not anymore.

But then he speaks. "Dad signed over all your accounts so they're now in my name, and you won't get them back until after the tour and I see you're done with this shit," he tells me motioning to the drugs and alcohol that cover my room and apartment in excess. I live to overindulge. In hardcore drugs. In overpriced liquor. In hot as fuck women. In things that might kill me, but at least I'll die a delicious death.

Pure unadulterated anger flashes through me at my brother's words. With a single signature from my father Wren now has complete financial control of my life. "Or what?" I ask him my voice low and grating. I can't believe dad signed over my accounts to him without even telling me. But at the same time it's not surprising because Wren is the golden boy of the family, and I've always been the fuck up. You can't outrun your past and I've never even attempted to step away from the person I've been since birth. A complete and utter disappointment.

"Or you go back to rehab," he replies easily. "Until the end of my tour."

"Fuck you," I spit at him as emotions spin within until they are torpedoing recklessly throughout me. I grab a random bottle by the neck, tipping it towards my lips, and let the contents burn my throat and warm my chest until my veins sizzle from the numbness. "You think you can stonewall me into this?" I ask roughly.

His eyes fill with sadness as he watches me fill my body with alcohol. "You won't talk to anyone about anything Ryke! How else was I supposed to do this?" My brother exclaims dropping his gaze as I take a few more pulls. Almost as if he can't watch me slowly kill myself anymore. But he's the reason I'm like this in the first place. He put me here, and he knows it.

I swipe the back of my hand across my lips. "Not strong arm me into going on tour with you," I state heatedly. Wren knows I won't chose rehab again, I'd choose hell over rehab. Three months is the first leg of his tour alone, and the idea of being stuck in that hole for that long makes my skin crawl. I've been to rehab four times already and every single goddamn time it gets worse. But tour with my brother, and his girlfriend makes me want to punch a hole in the wall and almost choose rehab. Almost.

"You have to change something," he tells me pointedly. "You can't keep living this life and expect to live to see the next ten years."

He thinks I want to see the next ten years. Funny. "I don't have to change shit," I throw at him as my hand grips the dresser in my room. Holding on so I don't throw a punch at my brother. My eyes meet my reflection in the mirror and I see how worn I look, my hollowing cheeks, and sunken eyes. I know the drugs I've been hitting lately are harsh and a dark hole I shouldn't go down. But I can't stop myself. I swipe a hand over the inside of my arm as if the sudden thought of them makes my skin itch for more.

My eyes shift over to my brother's as deep-seated hatred fills me. "When are you going to ask her?" I ask him, switching the topic of conversation as a strong wave of resentment and melancholy stir within me making me need more than the vodka that sloshes in my system.

Wren shifts uncomfortably under my harsh gaze. He knows exactly what I'm talking about without me even specifying. "How did you find out?" he questions gently.

The memory of me sneaking into his house with some groupie hits me hard. I was digging through his drawers for a condom when I stumbled across the huge emerald cut diamond ring. I remember how it felt as if I'd been punched the way air seemed to elude me. I remember how my throat filled with flames and I wanted to scream until my vocal chords shredded and tore apart and tears forced their way out of my eyes.  

"I found the ring by accident," I tell him shrugging off the memory and the emotions I refuse to feel. The idea of him proposing to his girlfriend, Laia, makes me want to reach past the bottle and go for something a little stronger. Okay a hell of a lot stronger and way more illegal.

"Haven't decided yet," he says to me, he lies to me. He knows when he's going to ask, he just doesn't want to tell me. Hurt me. Like he hasn't hurt me by dating the woman I love. The only woman I have ever loved.

"Whatever," I grumble, turning away from the mirror and storming into my living room.

"Ryke," he calls after me, following me. I stop and rotate to face my brother. "You can't keep doing this."

"Watch me," I taunt as I grab a lighter and the pipe from the coffee table and inhale the thick smoke letting the weed fill my lungs before exhaling and enveloping myself in the small hazy cloud.

"We leave on Friday," he asserts before turning on his heel and heading out of my apartment with a slam of the front door that shakes the walls with its force.

Friday. Five days before I'm stuck on a bus with my brother who will watch me like a hawk. Five days before I'm stuck on a bus with his girlfriend; his soon to be fiancé.

But we both know, she was mine first.