When she stepped out, Kelly looked her up and down with a grin. “Damn, girl. You look like sin on legs.”
She grabbed her perfume, misted it along her neck, and slipped her phone into her purse without a second glance.
“Let’s go rewrite my story,” she said.
Kelly raised a monsoon. “To new beginnings and bad bitches.”
The Uber was downstairs. And tonight, Kylee was no one’s regret. The crowd outside the venue pulsed like a living thing, people pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in a sea of leather, glitter, and anticipation.
Bleeding Halos posters flapped against the building, lit up under a sky slowly turning lavender with dusk. The scent of street food, weed, and spilled beer lingered in the warm air.
Kylee stepped out of the Uber in her black mesh crop top and leather pants, bright red heels clicking against the pavement. Heads turned. A few whistles followed.
Kelly strutted beside her in a blood-red jumpsuit, sunglasses on despite the fading light, sipping the last of her daiquiri from a neon cup shaped like a grenade.
“Front row energy,” Kelly whispered, linking arms. “Let’s cause a little trouble.”
They passed the line of fans wrapped around the building and headed toward the VIP entrance.
A security guard scanned their passes, eyes widening slightly when he saw the names on the list.
“Right this way, ladies. You’ve got backstage access.”
Kylee’s stomach fluttered. Inside, the venue buzzed with anticipation. The main floor was already packed, the lights dim and moody, music thumping through the walls like a second heartbeat.
A handler met them near the velvet ropes and gestured toward a private area backstage. “Rio likes to meet his VIPs after the show, but you’ll have full access before and after.”
Kelly leaned in. “Did she say Rio?”
Kylee’s heart kicked. It had been years since she’d felt this alive, this wanted, this seen. Jake’s texts were a distant memory now, buried under the weight of pounding bass and the glimmer of lights dancing across the floor.
The opening act started. Then another.
And then, finally, the blackout.
The stage went dark, and the crowd exploded.
A single spotlight.
“New Orleans!”a deep, rough voice echoed through the venue like lightning.
Rio Riot walked out in black ripped jeans, a sleeveless shirt clinging to his tattooed chest, his guitar slung low across his hips. His long dark hair was damp, sticking to his jawline. He grinned like a man who knew he could wreck lives with a look.
Kylee leaned forward over the barricade, pulse hammering. His voice ripped through the mic, raw and electric, and for a second just one he looked her way.
She swore their eyes met. And just like that, everything in her shifted. The drums hit like thunder. The bass groaned low and dirty through the smoke. And Rio Riot commanded the stage like he owned the city.
Kylee was breathless, her body moving instinctively to the rhythm, hips swaying, mouth parted. The crowd pushed around her, but it all blurred because his voice cracked through the air like sin and salvation wrapped in barbed wire.
He prowled the stage, sweat gleaming across his tattooed arms, veins in his neck popping with every scream, every seductive growl. The leather wristbands. The silver rings. The raspy edge of his voice. It wasn’t a performance, it was a possession. And Kylee couldn’t look away.
At first, she thought it was coincidence the way his eyes kept sweeping the crowd, landing near where she stood front and center. But by the third song, there was no denying it.
He saw her.
Really saw her.
In the middle of“Crash My Name”, he stepped to the edge of the stage, gripping the mic stand like a lifeline, and stared down at her. He smirked just the corner of his mouth tilting and dragged his tongue slowly across his bottom lip as he sang.“She’s got the kind of mouth you write sins about.”
