Page 1 of The Rogues

PROLOGUE

TEN YEARS AGO (AGE 14)

“He’s so hot,” Cleo muses, her eyes trailing over the magazine cover in front of her. The man on the cover holds a pair of drumsticks; his hair is long and lush, but also rugged and wild. The most perfect illusion of controlled chaos that I’ve ever seen.

As someone who was forced to attend my parents’ long photoshoots growing up, there is nothing more strict than a studio with a set schedule. They have a way of capturing a persona, so I know this celebrity didn’t just crawl out of bed and hop in front of the camera. There was a meticulous set of events leading up to it, and all of those steps were engineered to showcase the public image of the man rather than the man himself.

God, that rock star must have been bored out of his mind.

I turn my attention back to the surprise sitting inside my textbook. I grab it off the end table and slide back onto my silken bed sheets beside my best friend.

“Wolf Alice is supposed to perform at Lollapalooza this summer,” I try to say inconspicuously, opening the textbook to the bookmarked page to see the prize I’ve hidden there.

“I know,” she says with a long whine, her forehead scrunching with frustration. “Don’t remind me. You know I can’t afford tickets, even if they didn’t raise the price from last year.”

I flatten my lips, my fingers hovering over the tickets. The texture is rough, the lettering raised into little bumps that feel good against my skin. I did know she felt this way. I also know she wouldn’t accept help if I had offered to pay for her, but I already did. My parents give me a hefty allowance, hoping that I’ll spend it on designer purses or something else that’ll distinguish me from my peers, but I’ve been saving it for this instead.

Cleo has always wanted to go. She may not say it in those exact terms, but the way she obsesses over the performances online every year, watching them over and over so she can pretend she was in the crowd hearing it live, speaks loudly enough. The way she buzzes with excitement, waiting for the new line-up announcement every year shows what she isn’t saying: that this is a dream of hers, and I want to make that dream come true.

This is truly an “ask for forgiveness” situation.

“Well…” I trail off, holding the tickets in my hand and fanning myself with them. “It’s a shame that it’s all figured out then, huh?”

Cleo’s eyes take in the strips of paper in my hand, not processing until she sees the iconic logo painted on the side. “You did not.”

I try to keep my smile contained but fail. “I did.”

A squeal comes out of Cleo as she practically jumps across the bed to see them up close, the magazine forgotten in the excitement. She grabs the tickets, looking at them like she can’t believe they’re real. “I told you not to do this. I have to pay you back.”

“No, you don’t!” I exclaim, beaming. “It’s going to be so much fun.”

“Who’s coming with us?” she asks. “Where are we going to stay?”

“In a hotel, silly.”

“But… we can’t rent a hotel room. You have to be like twenty or something.”

I shrug. “I dropped the Rosewood name and it was all square.”

“You bitch.” Cleo shakes her head, conflicted. “I can’t believe you did this.”

“You should be used to it by now,” I joke.

Before she can say anything else, a firm knock sounds at the door.

“Josephine, your mother wants to leave in five minutes,” Franny says. She doesn’t wait for an answer, just walks away hoping that I’ll obey.

The staff never linger anymore, especially the nannies. They never look me in the eye or call me Josie like I want. They just listen to whatever my mother wants, and unfortunately she doesn’t want any of them to get to know me.

I miss my old nanny, Maria. She always smiled at me and made me whatever I wanted even if it wasn’t on the day’s dietary schedule. Then again, I think that was the problem. I don’t think any of them want to get the boot the way she did after standing up for me.

“Where is she forcing you to go this time?” Cleo asks.

I heave a sigh. “Carnegie Hall. Some famous pianist is performing, and she thinks it’ll turn me on to ‘real music.’” My finger mindlessly slides over the black warlock guitar on the corner of the magazine, its edges so sharp I swear I can almost feel them.

“You’re a piano prodigy. Maybe you should consider it,” she comments, but I immediately dismiss the idea.

“Never. I’d be bored for the rest of my life. Or it would bore me to death on the spot.” I shudder. Both options sound awful.