Ruin Porn (33 page)

“Maybe you’re the important one, babe,” Finn slurred at the bakla, slinging an arm around her waist and pulling her close. “My answer. The long hair and lashes for the paps and the dick for my bed. Sure as hell would make my life easier than these two do.”

“Finn, what the fuck?” Ritchie breathed out next to him.

Evin stared at him, and it was the first time Evin had really looked at him in hours, but his were eyes brimming with hurt, with tears and Finn knew he’d caused that. That he was a source of pain for Evin, even if he didn’t understand why.

“Are you trying to drive us away like you did Miah?”

Drive you away? I fucking love you! Just like I love Miah but not the same. Not the same at all.
It’s not the same
, he repeated in his head over and over again. Why couldn’t Evin see that?

He’d taken on a beard so that Evin would be protected. He’d challenged Miah even more than usual because Evin didn’t deserve any of Miah’s criticism. He’d let Evin fuck him when no man had ever done that before. For fuck’s sake, he’d kept Ritchie in the mix even when he didn’t want to, all because it was what Evin wanted. And he’d quit this fucking band in a second if Evin asked him to—if Evin didn’t want to hide anymore—because that’s how fucking lost Finn was to him. Yet, Evin couldn’t see any of that. And that made Finn furious.

Finn was drunk and with even less of a filter than he would normally have, but that didn’t change his reaction one bit. He got in Evin’s face. “If you don’t know the answer to that, then I’m not giving it to you.”

Finn stood, kissed the bakla on the cheek, and flipped the rest of them the bird as he walked away.

He stumbled back to the hotel, got the shit that couldn’t be replaced, caught the first flight out to Manila so he would be on his way to Rio within hours. Fuck whatever hidden agenda Sid had by sending them there. Fuck Ritchie for refusing to stand up for him when shit with Miah went down. Fuck Shonda for thinking she knew anything about what was important in his life.

And fuck Evin—most of all—for not knowing Finn despite how much of himself he’d given—

No.

Lost.

Finn tripped, felt hands around his arms pulling him up, righting him, strangers helping, then moving on as if he wasn’t worth anything.

Fuck his damn fool ass for losing himself to Evin Rene.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Brazil

F
OUR
HOURS
until the last show in the international leg of the Made in Americana tour and Miah was lying on his bed in the hotel room instead of being at the venue or with the guys. The view in this hotel was the best of any so far, the hills of Sao Paolo lush and the Christ the Redeemer statue serenely staring down at him. But neither the bed nor the view could ease the ache in his stomach. The vibe of the band had been off since the break, maybe since before then. There had been a sweet spot somewhere halfway through the European leg where they’d been on the same measure, same fucking note. Somewhere along the line the four of them had run off sheet—each of them playing off a tune they could only hear in their own heads—and it was only now, looking back, that Miah could see that division had happened much earlier than he thought.

Sometimes he was just as self-centered as his father.

It was the last date in the tour, though, and their second album would be released this week. Despite the discord,
Two Way
was the best thing Resonator had ever produced. Imagine what they could do if they were unified.

They would get through this show, fly home, and sleep for a day, then begin promo for the album. After that, Miah would set up a place for them all to get away and work through whatever was going on before they started to talk about another tour or another album.

That didn’t mean that Miah wanted to be around any of them right then, though. The untalked-about stress between all of them was making him a mess, and he refused to be anything but Zen before their last show. He texted Sid that he would meet them at the venue, did some yoga and meditation, but he still had hours to kill.

He should have picked up a book or turned on the TV, but both seemed like too much of an effort. He scrolled through his Twitter feed, answering a couple fans and sending out a message about how much he would miss being on the road as the Detroit 3 + E.

His notifications poured in: @ mentions, directs, and RTs. He couldn’t keep up with the flow. There were names and icons he recognized at this point, fans that had followed them, stuck with them since almost the beginning. Rezors he’d had private conversations with over direct messaging. He was more likely to check messages from any of those fans than the new ones. So when he got overwhelmed with the notifications, he switched over to his DMs.

He was itching, like his skin was crawling. Maybe getting off would help him relax. There were plenty of women in Brazil that were gorgeous and wouldn’t expect more than an hour of Miah’s time in trade for being able to say they’d fucked a rock star.

He counted on nothing in these threads remaining private unless the fan decided not to publicize it. Screenshots had become too common for him to expect anything else. So he treated every interaction as something that could go public without his say. Hookups never happened through DM or any of his accounts that could be definitively tied back to him. If he saw any offers here he liked, he would use Sid or Mark to set it up as usual.

Miah eyed the icons. He could read just the first few words of each message, but it was usually enough to get the gist. There were a litany of good lucks and greetings from fans, a smattering of messages that started with “Could you…?” that he slipped past. He stopped scrolling when he saw a tiny pic of a brunette bent at the waist, ass half exposed in the tiny pic and the beginning of a message that started “I’m in Brazil if you’re interested….” Perfect.

He was about to click on the DM to open it when he saw the message below. It was from a fan he’d followed back while they were in Australia because he’d run into her at the hotel and didn’t want to say no when she asked. There was her icon on the left-hand side, then the text “Claire sent a photo” and a tiny-ass pic in the right-hand corner that looked pretty damn pornographic, but it was too small for him to really tell. This he had to see.

He opened the message, his blood turning to ice when the full photo popped up.

Ritchie’s and Evin’s faces were unobscured, eyes locked to each other, and the head in Ritchie’s crotch—with his lips wrapped around Ritchie’s dick and Ritchie’s hand fisted in that jet black hair with Evin’s dick sliding between those white ass cheeks—had to be Finn. Maybe he could have pretended, maybe he could have denied it was real, but there was the D3+E tat on Finn’s hip. Skin that had been otherwise uninked until that country. The same damning D3+E tattoo was over Ritchie’s heart and between Evin’s shoulder blades. The same fucking tattoo Miah hadn’t wanted because he was done with ink, but that was etched into the deepest layers on the back of his right hand. A tat that only the four of them knew about. Then he remembered Finn complaining that he’d lost a baseball cap and he swore Ritchie and Evin’s room had been broken into….

In a rush of anger, the division, that tension, made perfect fucking sense.

He was barreling out of his room, his cell gripped in his hand as he pounded on Sid’s door. The entitled asshole wouldn’t be at the theater yet. Sid opened the door and Miah pushed inside, thrusting the phone into Sid’s face.

“What the fuck is this? Tell me it’s a fan thing, one of those fucked-up Photoshop jobs.”

Sid blanched.
Not a good fucking sign.
“Where did you get that?”

“Does it matter? It looks like our hotel rooms in Australia. Like someone took it from those patios. It looks real.”

Sid swallowed. “That’s because it probably is.”

“What the fuck do you mean it ‘probably’ is?” he bellowed.

“That photo probably isn’t fake.” He didn’t even realize he had Sid backed up against the wall until Sid put his hands up.

Miah took a step back, trying to rein his anger in.

Sid reached out to him and Miah slammed his hand back, then stalked farther into the room.
What the fuck is going on?

“Sorry, Miah.” Sid’s voice was quiet. “Looks like we’ve either got some major damage control or a major cover-up to do.”

Sid wasn’t as thrown by the picture as Miah was, which meant he’d known about this. Miah gritted his teeth. Everyone had known except him. “How long has this been going on, Sid?”

“Since about a month into the Made in Americana tour.”

“This leg?”

“The European part.”

Miah turned on him. “A year.”

“Technically—”

“I don’t give a fuck about technicalities. How long have you known?”

“Since Prague. Ritchie got a different hotel room there. I looked into it. As long as it didn’t affect anything, I told them—”

Miah had to hold himself back from swinging at Sid. “They knew you knew?”

“Because I told them this was how you’d react.”

Miah pointed at him. “Fuck you. Don’t bother fixing this. I’ll clean up everyone’s fucking mess.”

S
OMETHING
WASN
’
T
right.

It was the last show of the tour, and Miah had begged out of going to the venue with all of them, so Sid had stayed behind to make sure Miah didn’t have any issues and got there okay. Ritchie had spent most of the ride on his cell and disappeared as soon as they got to the theater. Finn was ignoring both of them in favor of doing the preshow press run, which was pretty much normal by then.

Evin was alone in the green room, and he couldn’t shake the idea that something was happening around him that he had no knowledge of. Maybe it was ingrained paranoia. Fueled by childhood memories of when he was about to get
too much
attention from his parents because they were in a fighting mood. Maybe it was how far apart they all seemed to be now. None of them were talking to each other, really talking to each other, except for what was needed to play together and tease the new album.

Two Way
: how fucking ironic. Real conversation went two ways and all their convos lately were going nowhere.

The door to the green room slammed open, and Miah entered like a fireball on speed. He banged the door shut and flipped the lock. Only then did he look at Evin with hatred contorting his features. There was only one reason why Miah would be this pissed. Or rather three reasons—Finn, Ritchie, and him.

He held up his hands. “Finn and Ritchie aren’t here. We shouldn’t talk about this without them.”

“Fuck them. I need to hear it from you.” Miah sat on the couch, spreading his right arm out over the back of the couch. He was much too relaxed in his posture and much too furious in his face for this to go well. He waved his hand, indicating Evin should proceed.

“Look, Miah. I know you’re pissed. You have every right to be. But we were just having fun, letting out some steam. Ask Ritchie, he’ll tell you.”

Miah nodded his head as if he was a reasonable adult considering this, when Evin knew there was no way that was the truth. “I just came from Ritchie,” Miah said with deathly calm. “You know that you were just a way for them to get off? That’s your only part in this faggot fuckfest. The two of them have always been tight, tighter than even I knew. There were promises between them that didn’t include you. Don’t delude yourself. Neither of them really give a shit about you, but especially Finn. You realize Finn was fucking Alessandra just last night? That he’s been fucking her all along?”

“She was just a beard…,” Evin tried, but couldn’t even believe it when he said it.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Finn is a whore, more of one than I am. Difference between Finn and me? He
lies
about it. Women know they’re only in for one night when I fuck them. Finn just fucks you, then fucks you over. And maybe I could get past this if it was Finn’s usual shit, but all of you lied to me.
All of you
!” Miah took a breath, tears gathering in his eyes as his shoulders sunk forward. “You all fucking lied to me, Ev. That can’t be fixed.”

Evin couldn’t breathe. “What the hell does that mean?”

“We’re done. Rez. Me and the Detroit 3. I’ve spent the last year pushing you all ahead and you were fucking around, literally, behind my back. It’s so far past unacceptable….”

Evin’s stomach sank. “It’s a betrayal.”

“Don’t put fucking words in my mouth,” he spit back. “Betrayal isn’t strong enough either.”

“What about the show tonight?”

“None of those fans deserve to be fucked over too.” Miah sat forward on the couch, nostrils flaring and his voice dangerously under control. “We play tonight and we’re done.”

F
INN
STOOD
at the edge of the stage just as he had for dozens of concerts at this point. But there was no Ritchie twirling his sticks, his foot tapping with an anticipatory beat that matched the chants of the audience. No Miah jumping up and down like a kid given free rein in an arcade. No Evin looking like he was going to be sick, despite his talent and the sheer number of shows they’d performed together now. Not even Sid lurking in the corner hoping no one would ask him to do something.

When the lights dimmed and the fans roared, for a moment Finn thought he was going to have to go on by himself. Then Ritchie was at his side.

“What the hell—?” he started to say, but Ritchie cut him off.

“Miah and Evin are on the other side. We’ll talk after.” Ritchie put out his fist, a pain in his eyes that Finn couldn’t decipher and didn’t have time to ask about.

Finn bumped his fist.

“Make it a good one, man” was the last thing Ritchie said, and then he took to the stage.

The vibe between them was off from the first beat, but the audience was hopped up and by the third song, the four of them had found their footing. The whole thing reminded Finn of Dublin and the first time it had felt like they were playing as the new Rez.