Page 6 of The Rogues

My uncle’s face flashes in my mind, his youth paused in my memory. Drugs were his downfall. The entire reason why I play his guitar every night on stage instead of him being able to do so. But it was more than just the addiction, I think. It was because of expectation and greed and abandonment. It was because we grew up in a family where love was conditional, where who you were didn’t matter in comparison to what you could contribute.

But my love isn’t conditional. If one of us ends up in the gutter, I will be there to pull us out, no matter how difficult it is. There is nothing we can’t do. We’re Vicious fucking Velvet. We’re more than our demons. More than our twisted upbringings.

I will not abandon her. I’ll stand tall, prepare the getaway car, and hope like hell that she hops in when shit hits the fan.

TWO

My stance on photoshoots is the same as when I was a teenager. They’re boring and a waste of time.

I think I’m the only one that feels that way, though. My friends seem to revel under the camera. Throughout our career, we’ve worked with a lot of creative teams, and they always say the same thing: that our aesthetic is inspirational. They lean into it, turning our soft punk looks into abstract art before our eyes.

There hasn’t been a single time where they’ve tried to force us to be something we’re not. It makes Cleo’s and my teenage fears now seem a bit silly. Which brings me back to my point. It might be boring, but it does make me feel beautiful.

“Alright, that’s a wrap!” the creative director calls, and everyone starts rushing to finalize the session. The camerawoman carefully puts away her equipment, and the rest of the team scurries around, eager to head home for the day.

Nicola is a bundle of energy, and Lark sighs heavily like she was working overtime to fix her posture. The director heads our way. “Thank you, girls. It’s always a pleasure. My intern will take you back to your dressing room.”

“Of course, and thank you for having us,” Cleo responds, diplomatic in her tone, although I know she’s ready to get out of the black, laced corset pushing around her organs. It’s stunning with the added silver chains and accessories, but I can tell she hasn’t taken a proper breath since she’s had it on.

“We love having Vicious Velvet on our cover. Good luck on the tour. I hope it goes well.”

With that reminder playing in our ears, we head back to the dressing room and collapse on the rough carpet the second we arrive. Zoe, our publicist, looks away from her phone when we enter the room, her stature wired as she types out a quick message. One of the stylists shows up and instantly runs to Cleo so she can undo the back of her corset. “That went on longer than I expected,” Zoe huffs out as the stylist works to unlace Cleo quickly.

“Is anyone else wearing something that’s cutting off their circulation?” the stylist asks.

“No, just her,” Lark says, crawling up onto the couch. She unzips her pants and lets out a breath. “Although, I do think these pants might have shrunk since I put them on.”

“Leather is like that,” Zoe comments as the stylist finally gets the corset undone. Cleo inhales deeply, and I may be exaggerating, but it looks like some color is returning to her face as she takes in deep breaths, her black hair falling around her shoulders in perfect waves.

Gosh, this job is going to kill us.

I walk over to the mini fridge and get some sparkling waters to pass around. Nicola eyes the motion and grins wickedly, her hands messing with her dyed hair to make it rugged once more. “Can you grab me one of those wine coolers?”

“For me, too, Jo,” Cleo says from her spot across the room, still panting.

My teeth dig into my lip as I grab two wine coolers, deciding to keep my mouth shut as I hand the cold bottles to them. Lark happily takes the sparkling water, her eyes trailing over the frustrated look on my face.

Zoe turns on the TV mounted on the wall and throws the remote beside me as a famous morning talk show appears on the screen. Renee and Byron are sucky journalists, following the orders of their executives more than treating their guests with respect, so we don’t attend their show anymore. Somehow, we always end up looking worse for wear, so our team has stopped booking them, even if their show has a large reach.

After the stylist leaves with the custom corset, Lark puts her water down and starts to undress. Nicola drinks her wine cooler fast, gulping it down like it’ll disappear if she doesn’t, and then—much to my disappointment—grabs another from the mini fridge.

The second the two hosts on the screen announce their special quests, Cleo’s eyes dart upward.

“Now, welcome to the show, once again, the members of the rock sensation known as The Rogues: Lennon Bellwether, Remi Ainsworth, Malaki Blakely, Jamie Morrison, and frontman, Cyrus Darlington!”

My body stiffens at those names, my eyes darting to my best friend on the floor. She isn’t giving much away, but her jaw is tense, and the vein in her forehead bulges slightly in annoyance. She stands, watching the screen intently, and my stomach churns.

“Well, shit,” Zoe mutters.

“Let’s just turn it off,” I suggest, reaching for the remote, but Cleo snatches it, causing me to flinch.

“No, we’re leaving it on. If he’s going to say something about me, I need to see it.”

I try my best to keep the disdain off my face. This rivalry with The Rogues has been great for sales, but it’s been going on for way too long.

Our first year of being signed was hectic. We suddenly had all this money and no time to spend it as we were sent in every direction. There were always more obligations to fulfill, more places to be, more contracts to sign. One of those obligations came in the form of a PR relationship, which sent us into a panic.

Thankfully, there weren’t any candidates right off the bat. But the summer before they started planning our world-record-breaking tour, they found someone who would help push our sales through the roof.