Page 5 of The Rogues

Still, our album sold hundreds of thousands of copies the first week, both physical and streaming. It was hectic, and it certainly felt successful, so to have it described as disappointing is a shot to the heart.

Especially since it’s an album we are so proud of.

“Regardless,” Donna continues, “we have to do something to dredge up some excitement, and everyone knows you all are at your best while performing.”

I try my best to let the eye roll happen discreetly, but Lark stares right at me, her lips twitching with amusement.

Yes, we are our best while performing, but that’s because we’re an oxymoron. Cleo is magnetic. She could sell any number, perform any song, and have the audience in the palm of her hand, but listeners don’t gravitate toward us just because of our star quality. They like how messy we get on stage.

During the last tour, Cleo was always drunk or high, Nicola too, and people loved seeing that side of us. Behind the personas, the media training, and prodigy songwriting, people love seeing us let loose, and we’re the loosest when we’re on stage.

Well, I try to be, at least. Seeing my friends happy is the driving force for most of my own glee, and they obviously love performing. Therefore, I love performing with them.

But it’s the in-between moments on tour that are difficult. When we’re on a tour bus together for hours on end. When we’re groggy and tired, and we just need a little bit of space, but there isn’t any. When we’re in a new city, and Cleo goes out partying despite not knowing a single thing about the nightlife, and Tom eventually has to go out looking for her in the early morning hours. I was so stressed on our last tour, so worried that any destructive moment could be our last.

The rest of the meeting is about logistics for the upcoming tour. Which cities we’ll be going to, how long we have between each concert (which is apparently the bare minimum time allowed), and any events or interviews we’ll have to appear at along the way. We go over the set list, what songs the label wants performed plus a few of our personal favorites, and then we set up a meeting for choreography later this week. We don’t dance or anything, but we sometimes forget to move around on stage if we don’t have a set routine for it. I’d probably stay in my cozy corner to the right for the majority of our concerts if they let me.

“You four have a photoshoot at Dolly Studios next week,” Donna says as a closing statement. “Take the next few days to get some much-needed rest, because it’s going to be busy for the next year or so.”

I groan, thumping my head on the table. Lucky us.

When we’re dismissed, there’s a solemn feeling that lingers in the air. Nicola throws the stick from her lollipop in the trash can by the door and then pulls another one out of her pocket, in need of something to appease her oral fixation. When she notices she accidentally pulled out two, she hands me the extra. It’s the cream soda flavor that she knows I like, so I grin and take it.

“Thanks, Nic,” I say. She gives me a smile that’s all teeth before skipping forward, her mismatched pink-and-green hair flying behind her. She’s probably ready to get back to her boyfriend and whatever shenanigans they had planned before the emergency meeting came into play.

Lark walks by me, her headphones already on her head so she can tune out the world. “I’ll see you at the shoot,” she says to Cleo and me in a flat tone. To anyone else, it would seem robotic, but I can hear the softness in it. It says more than words ever could.

I’m here for you.

I think this sucks, too.

Call me if you need me.

All of those words float through my head as I watch her dark-red ponytail sway behind her as she exits, walking ahead of us with haste.

The sight reminds me of when I met her back in ninth grade. The new private school my parents forced me to attend didn’t have much diversity. There were a lot of privileged daughters of socialites, their hair dyed blonde and their uniforms accessorized with Chanel. When I saw Lark for the first time, minding her business as she walked down the pristine white hallway where my first class was being held, her natural red hair was cut below her fully pierced ears, and her wrists were wrapped by spikey leather cuffs. Instead of flats or Mary Janes, she wore worn-down black combat boots, with safety pins tearing the leather.

She was cool, hip, the very definition of rebellion, and she inspired me from that very first glance.

Now her hair is long, and it’s dyed darker than her natural shade. Her lips are always painted a deep wine; her eyes are always narrowed.

And her smile is always vacant.

I shake my head, clearing my thoughts before turning to Cleo, who is paused outside of the conference room.

“Hey,” I say, cutting through the silence of the hallway. “Do you want to come over tonight? We can order takeout and have a movie marathon, like we used to.”

“Sorry, babe, but not tonight,” she says, distracted by her phone screen. Her eyes are shifty, hand scratching the back of her neck. “I’ll text you, okay?”

I nod as she walks away, leaving me alone in this hallway. A sadness buries itself in my gut. Knowing I can’t help her makes me feel guilty beyond belief.

I’m the reason we took this chance. I’m the one that pushed this band together.

The last tour left Cleo burned-out and exhausted. I can’t imagine how she feels knowing another bout is just around the corner.

I think that’s how her problem started. A line of cocaine here, a bump there, and suddenly it wasn’t so hard to muster up the energy for another night on stage. I’m pretty sure the habit has halted since we’ve been on break. A part of me wonders if the lack of drugs is what kick-started the wrath that lives in her skin nowadays. That’s what frightens me the most for this upcoming tour. What if she feels the need to start using again? What if she can’t get through the grueling schedule?

What if she goes too far?