They got dressed in casual-but-cute-fits Kelly in a mini jean skirt and a cropped tank, Kylee in a flowy sundress and headed straight to Café du Monde. The scent of powdered sugar and strong chicory coffee wrapped around them like a welcome home hug.
“I swear to God,” Kelly mumbled with a full mouth, “this shit could fix any bad mood.”
Kylee nodded, her cheeks dusted in sugar as she sipped her coffee. “If I die tonight, bury me in beignets.”
After breakfast, they strolled through the Flea Market, weaving through stalls filled with handmade jewelry, voodoo curios, and band tees that screamed NOLA attitude.Kylee picked up a black lace choker and a vintage leather cuff. Kelly found a vendor selling shot-glass necklaces and insisted they each wear one for “pre-gaming like the legends they are.”
By noon, they were tipsy from oversized daiquiris from their walk on Bourbon Street. Kylee had a hand grenade and Kelly had a monsoon. The sisters danced along the cobblestones to a street performer on the corner, swaying with the crowd and soaking in the chaos and charm of New Orleans.
“You look hot,” Kelly said, eyeing Kylee from head to toe. “Like, shut-up-and-take-me-to-the-tour-bus hot.”
Kylee laughed, a real one that echoed from her chest. “I feel hot. That’s the weird part.”
“Not weird. Deserved.” Kelly clinked their shot glasses together. “Now let’s go get ready to blow Rio Riot’s damn mind.”
As the sun dipped lower behind the wrought-iron balconies, a slow hum started in Kylee’s stomach, the kind of hum that comes when something big is about to happen. Tonight wasn’t just about a concert. It was about stepping into something entirely new.
Kelly had music blasting old Bleeding Halos tracks mixed with a few guilty-pleasure dance bangers as she flitted around the room curling her hair and touching up her eyeliner.
Kylee stood in front of the floor-length mirror wearing nothing but a black lace thong, one hip cocked as she held her phone in her hand.
Her skin glowed in the hotel light, curves soft and dangerous in equal measure. Her lips curled into a smirk as she angled the camera just right, capturing her silhouette, the dip of her spine, the lace hugging every inch of her in all the ways he used to worship.
She typed out a single message:
Does Rachel look this good?
Sent.
No emoji. No filter. No second-guessing.
She tossed the phone onto the bed and turned back to the mirror. Two outfit choices lay on the bench: a crimson dress and a leather jacket that clung to her like a second skin, and a black mesh crop top with leather pants and heels that said touch me and burn.
“You going sexy or lethal?” Kelly called from the bathroom.
Kylee smirked. “Both.”
“Then the leather pants and crop top is the move. It’s giving rockstar’s revenge fantasy.”
She slipped into the outfit, zipped up the pants, and layered gold chains at her collarbone. A bold smoky eye, matte berry lips, and soft wild curls completed the look. Her reflection stared back at her like a woman reborn, dangerous, confident, and untouchable.
Her phone buzzed.
She lifted it slowly and read:
Jake:
“Kylee you look sexy as hell…
Please don’t do this.
You know you look better than anyone. I messed up.”
It was hesitant. Weak. Laced with shame.
She didn’t reply.
She smiled just a little and locked the screen.
