The Rogues (Rock ‘N’ Roll Omegaverse #1)

Prologue

“He’s so hot,” Cleo muses, her eyes trailing over the magazine cover in front of her. The man on the cover holds a pair of drumsticks; his hair is long and lush, but also rugged and wild. The most perfect illusion of controlled chaos that I’ve ever seen.

As someone who was forced to attend my parents’ long photoshoots growing up, there is nothing more strict than a studio with a set schedule.

They have a way of capturing a persona, so I know this celebrity didn’t just crawl out of bed and hop in front of the camera.

There was a meticulous set of events leading up to it, and all of those steps were engineered to showcase the public image of the man rather than the man himself.

God, that rock star must have been bored out of his mind.

I turn my attention back to the surprise sitting inside my textbook. I grab it off the end table and slide back onto my silken bed sheets beside my best friend.

“Wolf Alice is supposed to perform at Lollapalooza this summer,” I try to say inconspicuously, opening the textbook to the bookmarked page to see the prize I’ve hidden there.

“I know,” she says with a long whine, her forehead scrunching with frustration. “Don’t remind me. You know I can’t afford tickets, even if they didn’t raise the price from last year.”

I flatten my lips, my fingers hovering over the tickets.

The texture is rough, the lettering raised into little bumps that feel good against my skin.

I did know she felt this way. I also know she wouldn’t accept help if I had offered to pay for her, but I already did.

My parents give me a hefty allowance, hoping that I’ll spend it on designer purses or something else that’ll distinguish me from my peers, but I’ve been saving it for this instead.

Cleo has always wanted to go. She may not say it in those exact terms, but the way she obsesses over the performances online every year, watching them over and over so she can pretend she was in the crowd hearing it live, speaks loudly enough.

The way she buzzes with excitement, waiting for the new line-up announcement every year shows what she isn’t saying: that this is a dream of hers, and I want to make that dream come true.

This is truly an “ask for forgiveness” situation.

“Well…” I trail off, holding the tickets in my hand and fanning myself with them. “It’s a shame that it’s all figured out then, huh?”

Cleo’s eyes take in the strips of paper in my hand, not processing until she sees the iconic logo painted on the side. “You did not.”

I try to keep my smile contained but fail. “I did.”

A squeal comes out of Cleo as she practically jumps across the bed to see them up close, the magazine forgotten in the excitement. She grabs the tickets, looking at them like she can’t believe they’re real. “I told you not to do this. I have to pay you back.”

“No, you don’t!” I exclaim, beaming. “It’s going to be so much fun.”

“Who’s coming with us?” she asks. “Where are we going to stay?”

“In a hotel, silly.”

“But… we can’t rent a hotel room. You have to be like twenty or something.”

I shrug. “I dropped the Rosewood name and it was all square.”

“You bitch.” Cleo shakes her head, conflicted. “I can’t believe you did this.”

“You should be used to it by now,” I joke.

Before she can say anything else, a firm knock sounds at the door.

“Josephine, your mother wants to leave in five minutes,” Franny says. She doesn’t wait for an answer, just walks away hoping that I’ll obey.

The staff never linger anymore, especially the nannies. They never look me in the eye or call me Josie like I want. They just listen to whatever my mother wants, and unfortunately she doesn’t want any of them to get to know me.

I miss my old nanny, Maria. She always smiled at me and made me whatever I wanted even if it wasn’t on the day’s dietary schedule. Then again, I think that was the problem. I don’t think any of them want to get the boot the way she did after standing up for me.

“Where is she forcing you to go this time?” Cleo asks.

I heave a sigh. “Carnegie Hall. Some famous pianist is performing, and she thinks it’ll turn me on to ‘real music.’” My finger mindlessly slides over the black warlock guitar on the corner of the magazine, its edges so sharp I swear I can almost feel them.

“You’re a piano prodigy. Maybe you should consider it,” she comments, but I immediately dismiss the idea.

“Never. I’d be bored for the rest of my life. Or it would bore me to death on the spot.” I shudder. Both options sound awful.

Sometimes, the thing you’re good at isn’t the thing you love.

I’ve accepted that I’m not in love with classical music or even piano in general, but my mom hasn’t.

I don’t think she ever will. She seems to think I won’t amount to anything if I give it up, but I know she’s wrong.

Life has to be more than just settling for what you’re good at.

If it’s not, I don’t think I like the world very much.

“I’m just saying that it’s nice to have something to fall back on. Job security.” My best friend looks me right in the eye. “You have a gift, so you’ll never have to be broke a day in your life. That’s not something to turn your nose up at.”

I tuck my chin in. I feel like I always do this: complain about my issues when there are much worse things out there. Here I am with staff and a gold roof over my head, and Cleo doesn’t even know if she’s going to have supper when she gets home, or if her mom will even be there to make it.

I put my hand on hers. “You have a gift, too.”

She scrunches her nose, but I know she knows it. Her voice is the best I’ve ever heard, better than anyone on the radio or any of the opera singers my mom loves. She has something powerful; I just need to convince her to sing outside of our bedrooms so others can see it too.

“My voice is nice, but getting a recording contract is more than just having a nice voice. It’s about having an image,” Cleo tells me. “Like, what if they try to make me into some pretty ’n’ pink Barbie singing soft pop and wearing go-go boots?”

The image that paints causes me to snort.

“It sounds like a drag. What if they give me a backup band that I hate? What if the managers are prudes? What if they make me sponsor a perfume that smells bad?”

I know she is just joking, making the prospect of being a famous singer sound more ridiculous than it is, but her words spark an idea. “Lark’s been playing the drums since she was a kid.”

At the mention of our grumpy friend, an amused smile forms on Cleo’s lips. “Yes, that is true.”

“And I’m sure there are a few girls at my snotty school who secretly play the bass…”

A dark brow rises. “What are you thinking about over there? Spit it out.”

“Maybe we can start a band.” I stand up, walking over to my closet.

She snorts. “A band?”

“A rock band! Just like Stereo Hearts,” I exclaim, grabbing the magazine and flashing the hot drummer once again. “We could write our own songs, make our own sound. Cause chaos.”

“What do we know about that?” she asks with an exasperated laugh.

“Music is music,” I protest. “I know music theory. I’m sure Lark has a good handle on it, too. If we come as a package deal, they’ll have a harder time placing some bullshit image on all four of us.”

“I don’t know…”

“Do you think they could force Lark to wear pink?”

She lets out a laugh. “No, she’d probably cut them,” she mutters.

I let out a deep breath as my hand hooks around the neck of my uncle’s guitar—my most prized possession. In comparison to everything else in this mansion, it’s probably not that expensive, but to me, it’s priceless.

“What are you doing?” Cleo asks, trying to peer over my shoulder.

I pull it out, ready to show her the beauty of it for the very first time. It’s an Ibanez, solid black and glossy. The same thrill I always get when I hold it thrums through my body as I hold it out for her to see.

“Holy shit.” She scoots closer, her fingers almost touching the polished wood before she pulls them back. “I didn’t know you had this.”

“It was my uncle’s,” I tell her, and she gives me a knowing look. “It’s the only thing I have from him. He left it to me, but as you probably know, my mother doesn’t like it. She thinks it’s at one of their storage units.”

My dad isn’t any better when it comes to dissuading me from liking the same music his brother did.

As a congressman, he holds very critical opinions when it comes to any kind of creative career, especially rock stars.

To my parents, rock ’n’ roll is an evil entity, its only purpose to spread corruption and romanticize anarchy.

Rock ’n’ roll is chaos, and my parents like order.

Nevertheless, a small part of my dad knew what this guitar meant to me, knew what it meant to his brother. Because of that, he let me keep it despite my mother’s rules.

So in my closet it stays.

“I play it sometimes. I know music theory, yes, but my fingers still struggle a bit. I have to get used to it, build up the muscle memory.”

She snorts out a laugh. “I mean, that sounds amazing, but—” She shakes her head.

“What?” I ask her.

“You’re good at dreaming, Josie,” she responds, her fingers still hovering over the neck of the guitar. “Even if we did start a band, and we got everything we ever wanted, reality is never perfect. It’s only ever that way in theory.”

She’s right. I know she is. Cleo has always been the realist, if only a tiny bit cynical as well, but something feels right about this.

As I hold my uncle’s guitar, the beautiful instrument practically glowing in my lap, I know it’s meant to be used for something bigger, something greater, and I know that something is supposed to include Cleo.

“Josephine Danielle Rosewood!” My mother calls out, her pumps clicking on the marbled floor as she marches to my room. Cleo and I look at each other with panic. She puts her stuff in her bookbag at lightning speed before hopping off the bed and heading to the door to dip.

My mother doesn’t like me hanging out with Cleo. I’ve never asked her why directly, but I assume it has to do with Cleo’s family not being as well-off as ours. My parents’ classism isn’t a secret, but it’s also not blatantly flaunted, especially not to me.

If my mother had her way, I would have never befriended Cleo back in middle school. I think a part of her thought enrolling me in an all-girls’ private school when high school came around meant that our friendship would slowly die away, but it had the opposite effect.

Most of the girls at my new school look at me like I’m weird. Cleo has never made me feel bad for being awkward or socially inept.

Cleo turns back to me. “We’ll talk about it,” she says, giving me a soft look that bleeds with some kind of hope. She wants this, likes the idea, but it’ll take more convincing for her to realize she deserves it. “Maybe it doesn’t have to go the distance. Maybe we can just consider it for fun.”

“Maybe,” I agree, and then put my finger up to halt her. “Wait, I forgot something.” I grab the big bag of chips that are by my bed and throw them to her. “If my mom finds junk food in here, she’ll kill me.”

She gives me a solemn look. We both know it’s an excuse, but we don’t speak the truth of it. If we did, she wouldn’t accept them, and it might be the only meal she gets until school tomorrow.

“Thanks,” she says, clutching the bag of chips to her chest as she speeds away.

I quickly put the guitar back in my closet and stuff the magazine under my pillow, my chest beating hard with excitement. When my mom arrives, she’s none the wiser, but my lips curl into a smirk.

Maybe piano isn’t the only thing I can be good at.