𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐞 | machine gun kelly

69

A/N:
Welcoming the new year with a statuesque chapter?? Happy new years you guys<3 i hope 2024 is so so good to all of us!! even though it came by so quickly, gosh where does the time go. i also hope you guys like this chapter ;) have fun this new year's eve<3



***

one week later,

Colson Baker's pov;

SMOKE WAS A THICK HAZE IN FRONT OF MY EYES pressing in on my senses, weighing me down in a way that was a fucking relief-a hot relief against the skin on my face as I watched the screen, my eyes trained for only one figure.

The show tonight was still raging in my mind, the crowd's screams so raw and roaring, making my eardrums throb still in a pleasurable way. I had done ten songs back to back, and Post Malone had both opened the show for me and closed it for me. The post show rush was still thrumming in my veins, like I was a fucking machine plugged in, electricity still so active it could shock anyone to touched me to death.

"Don't you think you should wash yourself first?"

Pete's observation was thrown at me nonchalantly, as he corked open a vodka bottle with his teeth and started downing it, throwing himself on the bed behind me.

The hotel room we were in was luxurious, and blood was dried and plastered on my face. It wasn't mine. The show tonight had wrapped up by 1:00am-at least for me. I had left the venue with the band, leaving Post Malone to perform-wrap the night up however he liked now that the main act was over and done with. I had had more pressing matters to attend to.

With my eyes still fixed on the TV screen, I raised a hand to touch the blood on my face, it was crusted and dry. But it felt.. rejuvenating. It felt electrifying. The blood on my face-splattered on me when I had slit the the fucker's throat, did as much for as the post show rush did. The blood did all that and more for me.

"You think there are more?" I murmured, my voice thick and blunt. I was exhausted, but I'll be damned if I allowed myself to relax when I knew there was more I could've done tonight.

Pete scoffed as he lit up a spliff, pausing to inhale the smoke and then exhaling as he spoke.

"We broke into one of Whittall's warehouses, killed some men, burned the placed down and then yeeted out of there. Of course I think there are more."

"The men, I mean," Pete uttered, clarifying nonchalantly. "The bastard ain't got no more warehouses in Miami."

"Fuck," I grabbed a new rolled spliff that Pete handed me, lighting it up with my own lighter as I seated myself back onto the couch in front of TV, fixing my eyes back on the screen.

"You can't get every man, Kells," Pete muttered then. "No matter how desperate you are. We got a handful tonight, didn't we? Besides, the others are not as driven as you, they got mad injuries right now. We need to take a break, Rook looks like he got plowed over."

"We don't need to get every man," I let out, watching her on the screen as she passed by Shawn Mendes.

I thought of Hernandez and Woods-6ix9ine and Lil Uzi Vert-and how much I wanted them both dead, not only for Swae Lee and his brother, but for myself and Davina too.

"We just need to get enough."

Mendes sang into his mic, eyeing every model who passed him by, grinning like a fucking idiot. He eyed her for a beat too long, and my grip tightened around the couch arm, my knuckles white. I wanted to wring his neck, then drill gunshot into each eye for extra measure.

Christian Dior's Regale Collection debut, the runway show was shown live from 8:30pm to 11:30pm, but I had my concert tonight so I couldn't watch it live-wasn't able to watch her live. So here I was now, watching the stream hours too late.