Chapter 2
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.
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.
But there is one thing I know for sure: because of the lie, that omega will have to live with the knowledge that Cyrus dated one of the most famous omegas in music, and that’s the reason for the hit of sympathy I feel in my stomach.
I’m not sure how you can build a relationship with a band as prolific as The Rogues without constantly hearing about the “omega who got away,” and being compared to her day in and day out.
That sounds like a tiring existence, indeed.