Page 4 of The Rogues

“Young Rock Starlet Charged with DUI After a Night on Sunset Boulevard.”

I shake my head to get rid of the intrusive worries, my imagination running wild with possibilities. I feel like we’re all heading for a long fall off a cliff on the fast train we’re all suddenly riding.

Things used to be calm, nice even. All four of us with our shared love of creating music. Even back when we were struggling, new and baby-faced, ready to take on Los Angeles. We were happy despite the lack of funds and scarce opportunities. Just being here meant we were living out our dream, but that feeling started to fade a long time ago.

I turn to Lark, who is as passive as ever. Her bored expression reads as if she isn’t bothered by the sudden news of having to tour again, but I know it’s a facade. Unlike her, I wear my emotions on my sleeve. She, however, hides it all beneath a blank face in hopes that her indifference will make it hurt less when everything falls apart.

I’m already feeling that heartbreak tenfold.

Our last tour went for almost ten months. By the end of it, we were worn down and coming apart at the seams. My fingers bled every night, and Cleo had to be on vocal rest for the final two months. She was only allowed to sing during our shows and not a peep besides that.

It was still better than watching my bandmates crumble into shells of what we once were. Better than seeing Nicola high off her ass after disappearing for days. Better than seeing Cleo angry every time she shows up to something. Better than feeling like I am alone in my observations because Lark thinks acknowledging the truth will make it more real.

I’m tired of all the unspoken things tearing us apart.

The tour made millions, and it set us up for success for our next album. All of that anguish and emotion went into our art. It’s the most proud I’ve been of a record since the beginning of our career when we lived in our first studio apartment, sharing two mattresses in our cramped living room.

“Your contract is over in two years,” Tom reminds us quietly, his tone steady. “They probably want you to break another record while you’re still under contract. They know it’s a possibility that you’ll look for representation somewhere else once it’s up.”

Two more years, I think. I sigh in relief, letting the mantra repeat over and over again. It seems surreal that we might be able to get out of this mess soon, find someone else that will take a shot on us. But I know there’s a lingering fear there among all of us.

What if no one takes that shot? What if losing this connection means giving up on our dreams?

The conditions are less than ideal, but the work itself is fulfilling. I love nothing more than writing music for Vicious Velvet. I love collaborating with my bandmates to create something beautiful and damning and powerful. It’s the best feeling in the entire world.

I’d rather suffer for greatness than settle for scraps.

This eight-month-long hiatus was supposed to be good for us. It was supposed to give us time to rest our bodies and our voices, but the tension grows with each passing day. We still had award shows to attend, talk shows and interviews, photoshoots, writing sessions. We had meetings regarding marketing and public personas. One of our marketing strategists even suggested another fake relationship to drum up more publicity for the album.

We all shut that one down, knowing we didn’t need a repeat of the last false narrative we were forced to follow.

“Do we know who the opening act will be?” Lark cuts in, serious. I hone in on the question, thankful that she had the mindfulness to ask. We had several opening acts on our record-breaking tour, but we had issues with all of them. One band in particular, Scarlet Decay, turned our entire world upside down.

The alpha lead singer flashes through my brain, her hair floating like venomous snakes rather than normal black wisps. The image is a dramatic one—which is on brand for me—but accurate. She’s a black widow, and my best friend got caught in her web.

I look to Cleo now. Her bloodshot eyes are dilated and her skin is dry. She looks at the table, picking at the skin on her lip. This is the superstar that millions of people have fallen in love with. The dark angel with a powerful voice. But right now, seeing her look so powerless and angry makes something protective in me rumble.

Tom shakes his head. “You’ll have to ask Donna when she gets here.”

I stifle the huff of frustration trying to come up my throat. Donna is one of the lead executives for Silver Records, the record label we’re signed with. She is mean, nasty, and to the point. She should be a great fit for us, but Cleo and her have always butted heads.

“But you know, don’t you?” Cleo says, her eyes like lasers shooting right through Tom’s skull.

“I don’t,” he responds, exasperated. “I don’t have that kind of clearance. I knew about the last act at the same time as you!”

Cleo huffs as Nicola lets out a taunting whisper, “Convenient.”

Then, the door bursts open, and Donna walks in with her intern and a few other execs at her back. Her chocolate-brown hair is pulled into a tight bun, and her features are pinched as she takes her seat at the head of the table. “Alright, I’m guessing Tom told you girls the news.”

“Unfortunately,” Cleo says. “But why so soon?”

“I thought we had a few more months to enjoy the release of the album,” I add diplomatically.

Donna looks between us, her lips pursed. “Your album didn’t fulfill our expectations. And your new single just didn’t hit the numbers that we wanted.”

Cleo scoffs at that. “Our album is doing great. That sounds like you guys set your expectations too high. Expectations that we were never going to achieve as an omega rock band.”

She’s right. Omegas aren’t the usual rock stars. Most critics argue that omegas don’t have the edge or dominance to command rock the way its fans demand.