Ronnie Radke's Arc

Chapter 2 of 7

The texts kept coming. The young reporter wanted a follow-up piece. Ronnie read the newest one in his dark penthouse, the city lit up below the glass. She had thanked him for the viral story, then asked to see where he lived, how he worked, who he really was. Ronnie set the phone down. If he kept ignoring her, she would start digging on her own. And buried under his old life were bodies she must never find. His parrot shrieked from her perch. Tina flapped her green wings as the door swung open. Bruno strolled in without knocking. His manager wore a pink shirt under a purple jacket, gold rings on every finger, a diamond glinting at his throat. He read Ronnie's face in one glance. "Oh, honey. You've got that look. The dead-reporter look." He dropped onto the couch and smiled, fangs showing. "Put it away. Dead reporters get other reporters curious." "She won't stop," Ronnie said. "She wants more." "Then drown her in more." Bruno crossed his legs. "Reporters chase what hides from them. So don't hide. Give her the biggest story in the city." He spread his ringed hands. "You're booking the stadium. Fifty thousand screaming fans. Full access, backstage, the band, the whole circus. She writes about the show. Not your past." Ronnie thought it through. A stadium meant the arc he wanted. Fifty thousand throats in one room. And a reporter watching lights and smoke, not graves. He texted her back. He offered her the exclusive on his first stadium concert. She answered in seconds. Yes. Two weeks later he stood in the vast concert stadium. Sweeping tiers climbed into the dark. The stage front loomed, grand and bright. His bandmates tuned behind him, chains swinging, guitars slung low, eyes hidden behind colored lenses. The reporter stood in the wings, recorder blinking red, filming everything. Ronnie walked out. Fifty thousand people roared his name. He gripped the mic and screamed the first line, and the sound rolled back over him like a wave. His tattoos burned. The hunger rose, huge now, feeding on the crowd. He wanted all of them. He could not take them here. But he could take them later, one true believer at a time. The band crashed in behind him. He saw the reporter in the wings, mouthing the words, tears on her face. She was his now. Not a threat. A fan with a byline. After the last song, she ran to him backstage. "This," she said, shaking. "This is the story. I'm doing a whole series. Everything. I want to follow you for months." Ronnie smiled. The follow-up problem was solved. He had bought her loyalty with a stadium. But he had also chained himself to her camera. She would be beside him for months now, filming every move, every face he fed on. The eyes he wanted had moved in close.