Page 7 of The Rogues

Cyrus fucking Darlington.

His band was famous in England, and they were beginning to go worldwide. Add to the fact that Cyrus is attractive, British, and looks like the brilliant late Jeff Buckley, it became obvious that he was the perfect person to help heighten our success.

Our music spoke on its own, but his reputation as a posh son turned bad-boy rock star was too good for our team to turn down.

Cleo—being the star of our group and the one the press loves to focus on—was chosen to fulfill this quest from our label. For our PR team, they had cultivated the perfect stunt. For her, it was a complete disaster. She had no desire to have any kind of public relationship, much less a fake one. Unfortunately for us, this kind of obligation is written under our contracts, so there was no getting out of the phony nonsense she was about to be put through.

It was only supposed to be a few weeks. They were to be pictured out and about on a few dates, shown holding hands, and that would be it. They made the front page in almost every rock magazine from the last century, and even I had to admit—they looked fucking hot together.

Their “brief” romance turned into a six-month affair. It was called off a few weeks before our tour began, and we had no time to process the kind of wave it would send over our fanbase.

To the public, their breakup was amicable and due to their busy schedules, but Cleo and Cyrus made it personal. From the very beginning of their arrangement, they despised each other. I’m not sure why. Cleo never opened up to me about it, but she made remarks about him any chance she got. In public, in private, and on her social media accounts. In the beginning, it gave our publicist a heart attack, but then they let her lean into it. The more attention it got, the less the team cared, and the more animosity started to grow between our fan bases.

So now our bands are rivals. We’re both rock bands with the same demographic, and our lead singers make constant digs at each other in the press. The public loves the rivalry, and it’s actually improved sales, but I could do without The Rogues’ fans sending us misogynistic tweets and DMs every day just because they think we’ll steal the band away.

The feud has gotten tiring; Cleo’s hatred for the band and its leader seems to worsen every time he is mentioned. It confuses me. They are no longer in each other’s lives, yet they continue to antagonize each other, force their anger into each other’s space like there’s room for any of it at all.

Which is proven once more when the hosts bring up Cleo in the middle of The Rogues’ interview.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve heard that Vicious Velvet are going back on tour,” Byron says to Cyrus.

“I don’t know why. Their last tour went on for ages. Is the world really ready to endure that again?” he jeers, his accent making the insult sound charming rather than offensive.

Cleo stomps her foot. “That fucking dick.”

“He’s just baiting you,” Lark comments. “And you fall for it. Every. Single. Time. Are you ready to tell us what actually happened with him?”

She ignores the comment, her jaw clenching as she watches the screen. Her eyes are glossy, and I’m suddenly more curious than ever to discover the truth she’s been hiding from us for over a year now.

“I’m sure their lead singer wasn’t too keen on the idea, either,” Renee adds on the screen.

“Cleo is a firecracker,” Cyrus says. “If she dislikes something, she isn’t going to shy away from saying it.”

I can’t help but watch him as he speaks. He’s definitely hot. The British accent, the dark clothes, the light-blue eyes that hold a sea of charisma. He is definitely the right person to lead his band, always saying or doing the right thing for the press to generate buzz. I never see the rest of them being talked about in tabloids like he is.

Beside Cyrus is Remi Ainsworth, The Rogues’ bassist. His long hair is pulled up, flashing the tiny hoops in his ears and the bar through his cartilage. He watches the interviewers with a subdued expression, neither impressed nor offended. He’s always been the one with a loud media presence but a quiet demeanor, often dubbed the mysterious one of the group.

Then I look at Lennon Bellwether, their drummer, as he smirks at the exchange between Cyrus and the hosts. During their early career, the tabloids were full of stories regarding Lennon’s habits and self-destructive behavior. They used to describe him as unhinged, but from where I’m sitting, he just looks playful. Like a golden retriever in a rock star’s body. His hair is rugged, a beautiful light brown that shines under the stage lights, and his torso is long. My eyes trail over his band tee, but then the next member leans forward in his seat, saying something, and the blue mullet pulls my eyes to him.

Malaki Blakely is always smiling, even though his exterior causes a bit of a disconnect between his two sides. His shirts always have a political statement plastered on the front, and he’s never too far away from the beta of the group, who sits beside him radiating sunshine.

I try not to smile as I look at Jamie Morrison. He’s lean, his clothing choices a vast difference compared to the rest of the band with his crop tops and netted shirts. His hair is dyed, the top dark and the underneath flashing with light blond that accentuates his neck. He looks the most approachable, like a friend you just haven’t met yet.

I swallow, averting my eyes. I definitely find the members of The Rogues attractive, but who fucking wouldn’t?

Cleo doesn’t need to know that, though. I can keep a secret or two when it suits me, and there’s nothing wrong with a little harmless crush. Especially when it’s from afar.

“So, you’re looking for an omega, then?” Renee asks Cyrus, pulling me back into focus.

He chuckles. “Maybe not so soon. If she shows up, I’d do everything in my power to make her feel appreciated, even with my busy schedule, but we’re enjoying our life.” He looks to his band members. “We love being a band; we love performing. That’s all we’re focused on right now.”

“Gag me with a fucking spoon,” Cleo mutters.

“I think it’s sweet,” Nicola says, her eyes sparkling at the screen.

“Sure, if it were anyone else.” Cleo sits up and begins to untie her boots. “I feel bad for the omega that gets stuck with those assholes.”

I tilt my head and look back at the screen, the band long gone as they roll into a commercial break. I’m inclined to agree with her, but I don’t know them. I never met them despite the ruse our label concocted between our two lead singers.