Page 3 of The Rogues

“I play it sometimes. I know music theory, yes, but my fingers still struggle a bit. I have to get used to it, build up the muscle memory.”

She snorts out a laugh. “I mean, that sounds amazing, but—” She shakes her head.

“What?” I ask her.

“You’re good at dreaming, Josie,” she responds, her fingers still hovering over the neck of the guitar. “Even if we did start a band, and we got everything we ever wanted, reality is never perfect. It’s only ever that way in theory.”

She’s right. I know she is. Cleo has always been the realist, if only a tiny bit cynical as well, but something feels right about this. As I hold my uncle’s guitar, the beautiful instrument practically glowing in my lap, I know it’s meant to be used for something bigger, something greater, and I know that something is supposed to include Cleo.

“Josephine Danielle Rosewood!” My mother calls out, her pumps clicking on the marbled floor as she marches to my room. Cleo and I look at each other with panic. She puts her stuff in her bookbag at lightning speed before hopping off the bed and heading to the door to dip.

My mother doesn’t like me hanging out with Cleo. I’ve never asked her why directly, but I assume it has to do with Cleo’s family not being as well-off as ours. My parents’ classism isn’t a secret, but it’s also not blatantly flaunted, especially not to me.

If my mother had her way, I would have never befriended Cleo back in middle school. I think a part of her thought enrolling me in an all-girls’ private school when high school came around meant that our friendship would slowly die away, but it had the opposite effect.

Most of the girls at my new school look at me like I’m weird. Cleo has never made me feel bad for being awkward or socially inept.

Cleo turns back to me. “We’ll talk about it,” she says, giving me a soft look that bleeds with some kind of hope. She wants this, likes the idea, but it’ll take more convincing for her to realize she deserves it. “Maybe it doesn’t have to go the distance. Maybe we can just consider it for fun.”

“Maybe,” I agree, and then put my finger up to halt her. “Wait, I forgot something.” I grab the big bag of chips that are by my bed and throw them to her. “If my mom finds junk food in here, she’ll kill me.”

She gives me a solemn look. We both know it’s an excuse, but we don’t speak the truth of it. If we did, she wouldn’t accept them, and it might be the only meal she gets until school tomorrow.

“Thanks,” she says, clutching the bag of chips to her chest as she speeds away.

I quickly put the guitar back in my closet and stuff the magazine under my pillow, my chest beating hard with excitement. When my mom arrives, she’s none the wiser, but my lips curl into a smirk.

Maybe piano isn’t the only thing I can be good at.

ONE

As seen on Punk-Tune TV

“This all-omega rock band is sweeping the nation, proving once again that designation doesn’t define what a human being can handle. Their new album, Technicolor, is dominating the charts and sold over four hundred thousand copies in its first week. Fans and critics alike are excited to finally hear the new songs live. Vicious Velvet’s last tour made history as the longest tour by a rock band from North America, and they have set out to do it again with the American leg of their Whimsical Hearts tour, starting with a sold-out show in San Diego, California…”

“They’re sending you on another tour.”

“What the fuck?” Cleo’s hand comes down hard on the table in front of us, the sound loud enough to make me flinch. “This better be some kind of fucking joke, Tom.”

Tom, our tour manager, sighs. His corporate and professional side seems to wane more and more every time we’re in each other’s presence. He always mentally checks out by the end of these meetings, like dealing with us is his least favorite part of the day. “This is not a joke. It’s what the label wants. Please don’t shoot the messenger.”

“You’re lucky I don’t have my gun or I would,” she sneers.

“No, she wouldn’t,” I quickly say, trying to diffuse the tension. Tom is good at his job, but he has never been able to handle Cleo. I would say it’s because he’s a beta, but honestly, none of us can handle her these days.

I look over at Cleo; her jaw is clenching so hard that I think she might pop a blood vessel. She grits her teeth and lets out an omega growl, her smoky floral scent turning bitter.

“Jesus Christ. Ruby should be the one in here getting threatened, not me,” he mutters, speaking of our artistic manager who just happens to be absent for this little affair.

Nicola cackles like a hyena, a lollipop hanging out of her mouth as she watches the exchange in amusement. There are dark-purple bags under her eyes that, along with her slightly manic mood, lets me know she probably paused a bender with her boyfriend to be here.

I dread these breaks between tours. It feels more and more like our reality only feels normal when we’re on the road. Sitting still leaves us all anxious, especially after the consistency of endless shows.

Whenever we’re on break, my body is always prepared to hear bad news, hypothetical headlines running through my mind daily.

“Vicious Velvet Bassist Caught in Drug Deal Gone Bad.”

“Lead Singer Suffers Overdose, Age 25.”