Page 24 of The Rogues

NINE

SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

Our first concert goes off without a hitch.

I always forget how much I love this job until we’re actually in the throes of it. Sound checks, rehearsals, dress fittings, and then performing to thousands of people. It’s a wonderful schedule. Busy, yes, but it’s fulfilling, and there are so many amazing people hired to work with us that I get reminded of all the good our music does, rather than focusing on the not-so-good parts.

We’re living a dream. Someone out there looks up to us, aspires to live this same dream someday, and despite the factors that bring more negativity, I would never dissuade them from pursuing that ambition.

Cleo seems happy once more. It’s a relief to see a sincere smile on her face as we prepare to leave the venue. It’s toothy and wide and reminds me of that fourteen-year-old who went along with my plan and discovered this was something she’d die for. I’m sprung back to that time, when songs were hard to string together, and we would first get those nervous stomach whirlies before performing at our local parks or retirement homes just to get experience. It still feels that way, just on a much grander scale, and with more expensive equipment.

I place my uncle’s guitar in its case, delicate like always. It’s probably a bit too old, too worn, for someone in my position to be using, but it’s special to me. I can’t picture using another guitar, ever. The strings can be replaced, but the base will always stay the same. And besides, the scratches add character. I have a feeling that my uncle would want it this way.

I hand it off to the crew member who handles our instruments, giving him a stern look as I hand it over.

“Don’t lose this,” I tell him.

“I will try my best, Miss Rosewood,” he answers, rosy-cheeked and kind. But the formality doesn’t ease my anxiety, so an involuntary growl murmurs from my chest.

The roadie actually squeaks, and his arms wrap around the guitar case so it’s secure against his chest. “I will personally make sure it gets to the right place,” he reassures me, nodding like a bobblehead. “I promise.”

I nod, still uneasy about letting the crew hold onto it, but it’s protocol. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

He scurries off, and then we head out to the van taking us back to the hotel. It’s flashy, with windows so tinted that I’m pretty sure it’s driving illegally. The seats are a comfy suede, and the sunroof is open to let in the nice autumn breeze.

“We fucking kicked ass,” Cleo says once we’re closed up in the vehicle and the chauffeur is working his way out onto the busy San Diego streets.

“It went really well,” I agree, not being able to contain my smile. “And the new songs sound amazing. I think everyone else liked them too.”

“Playing new material was refreshing,” Lark agrees, producing a random caramel from her pocket like it’s an old lady’s purse.

“And tomorrow we get to do it all over again,” Nicola exclaims excitedly, bouncing slightly as she balances on her knees in her seat, completely ignoring her seatbelt.

Cleo’s phone pings and she smiles at whatever she sees there before looking at us. “We should go out to celebrate!”

“Anything but karaoke,” Lark grumbles around the candy in her mouth.

“Yes, we have to experience the San Diego nightlife!” Nicola exclaims.

I purse my lips, disappointed, but I’m not about to rain on their parade, so I simply nod. Maybe one night out won’t go too bad.

Cleo is glued to her phone the rest of the way to the hotel, so I listen to Nicola and Lark talk about their new favorite songs to perform. Lark, of course, loved “Jezebel,” which she and I wrote together last spring, and Nicola chooses “Garden Party,” which isn’t surprising because we sampled a famous anime theme song for one of the background layers and Nicola is obsessed with anime.

We stroll into the hotel, and suddenly I’m on alert, peering over my shoulder. My omega starts to panic, but it leaves me confused. There’s no reason for me to feel this much dread. We had a wonderful concert; there were no run-ins between my scent matches and Cleo, and my bandmates are all in high spirits. Still, the feeling persists, and my mind can’t quite grasp why.

“Cleo!” Someone yells over from across the lobby, the voice eerily familiar. The monotone a low, feminine alto that holds danger in its wake…

My entire body freezes.

No. No, no, no, this can’t be happening.

Across the way, Raven Romano stands tall and intimidating, her alpha aura pulsing with dominance. The same long, sleek black hair from my nightmares, and body covered in silver body jewelry and leather bands.

Her band members surround her, all smiles as they wave at us. The members of Scarlet Decay are sweet, but their leader is a demoness. Her energy makes me recoil even in memory, her sarcasm dripping with passive aggression, and she wields control with an iron grip. She is everything I hate, all fake smiles and snarling alpha barks at her band members that make me want to snap.

And then there’s the final nail in the coffin, the fact that she’s the reason why Cleo started doing drugs to begin with.

They were amazing openers for our last tour, their music an incredible mix of rock and punk. I won’t even be biased and say Raven’s vocals ruin it—even though I wish I could be that petty—because she’s an enchantress behind a microphone, and the rest of her band is incredibly talented at what they do. They were with us the last three months of the tour, and tainted every second of it. That was the darkest time of my life, because I had to watch my best friend be exposed to toxic partying, the side of rock ’n’ roll that we’d never been a part of before. Raven was always taking her out to sketchy places, always making remarks that hit her self-esteem.