CHAPTER ONE
Madden
Taking a moment to catch my breath, I reach for the bottle of water sitting on the stool behind me and pour it over my head to cool off.
My entire body is drenched in sweat from head to toe, and the crowded room full of people is making it hard to breathe.
It always seems so fucking hard to breathe when my name is being yelled out by strangers expecting something great from me. Maybe it’s the pressure of living up to everyone’s expectations that puts this heavy weight on my chest, making me feel as if I’m suffocating.
After tossing the empty bottle into the crowd, I turn back around and drain the glass of whiskey that’s been begging me to drink it since three songs ago. I haven’t had a chance to do anything other than focus on the music and please the crowd. I hate to admit that I need liquor to help me get through the night. Actually, I need it to help me get through most nights. It’s the new norm for me. A bad habit I’m afraid I won’t be able to break or even want to.
Taking my guitar off, I quickly pull my drenched shirt over my head and shake out my hair with my hand. Whistles fill the room and female fans are going crazy at the sight of my abs and chest on display for them.
I have no doubt that hundreds of images of me shirtless will end up on social media in ten seconds or less with the hashtag: #takeitoffmadden.
It’s been trending since the first time I stripped out of my shirt on stage, undid my jeans and poured water down my pants to cool off from the beaming hot lights. There were so many zoomed in shots of my crotch that night I couldn’t go anywhere for over a week without someone glancing down south instead of at my face.
I take a few seconds to hype up the crowd before replacing my electric guitar and nodding to the other band members that I’m ready.
The screaming of hundreds of fans surrounds us as we prepare for our last song of the night. It’s a song they’re familiar with and always end up singing along to until the very end. They always do, no matter what state we’re in or how big or small the venue is. This is the song that made RISK known and put us on the radar two years ago.
I wrote this song after getting my heart stomped on by a girl who I believed would be with me ‘til the end. She made me believe we were perfect together—that nothing or no one could tear us apart. Then one day she decided I wasn’t what she wanted anymore. Suddenly, I wasn’t enough to keep her out of someone else’s bed.
It fucked me up for the longest time, but in the end, it led me to where I am today. In a way, I guess I should be thankful. But honestly, if I had to choose between love and fame, love would win every fucking time.
“All right now. We’re going to end the night with a little something you all know well. Sing along and add it to your social media. Hashtag that shit with RISK and I’ll watch them later.”
The screaming dies down and quickly turns into singing as I get into Without You.
I’m lost in the song and feeling it, just like every time I have to sing these lyrics, when I look out into the front of the crowd and notice some asshole grab a girl’s wrist and yank her back to the point that she loses her footing and falls over.
My voice becomes angrier—deep and intimidating as I watch him yell and point in her face after grabbing her arm and yanking her back up.
But I really lose it when he grabs her face and gets in it, digging his nail into her forehead as he points his finger at it. “Fuck that… hold up a minute. Stop the music.” The room quietens down as I walk to the end of the stage and point directly at the prick less than ten feet from the stage. “Hey, you. Is that your girlfriend there?”
The big guy nods his head and yells. “Yeah, the dumb bitch is drunk.”
I clench my jaw over his choice of phrasing, wanting nothing more than to kick this motherfucker’s ass for being so rough with her. “Come here.”
The dickhead begins walking forward