Riot Guitar

Until she wasn’t.

It happened in Munich. We’d just wrapped the show, the crowd still roaring as we ran off stage, high on adrenaline. I grabbed Riva’s hand in the wings, pulling her into a deserted storage room, all concrete and stacked crates. We were laughing, breathless, the heat of the stage still clinging to our skin.

“You were on fire tonight, Moriconi,” she said, her back against the wall, my arms caging her in.

“Yeah, well,” I leaned in close, my lips brushing her ear. “Inspiration’s a hell of a drug.”

I kissed her then, deep and dirty, pouring all the pent-up energy of the show into it. Her hands slid into my hair, pulling me closer, her leg hooking around my hip. We were lost in it, in the heat and the need, until the sharp, unmistakable click of a camera shutter sliced through the air.

We froze.

I jerked back, my head snapping towards the sound. A shadow detached itself from the deeper dark near the door – a guy in a hoodie, camera raised. The flash went off again, blinding me for a second.

“Fuck!” The word tore out of me. I lunged towards him, but he was already scrambling backwards, diving through the exit door into the alley beyond.

Riva was frozen against the wall, her face pale in the dim light, her expression stricken. The afterglow of the kiss was gone, replaced by cold, hard reality.

“Well,” I said, my voice tight. “That’s going to complicate things.”

The storage room smelled of dust and damp concrete, the muffled thump of the crowd outside a distant heartbeat. Riva hadn’t moved, her back still pressed against the wall, her eyes wide with shock. The ghost of our kiss lingered on my lips, souring fast.

“Zola—” she started, her voice tight.

I cut her off with a sharp gesture, already digging my phone out of my back pocket. My fingers felt thick, clumsy. The screen lit up, casting a pale glow on the stacked crates around us. Three missed calls from our tour manager, Dave. Four texts, all variations of “CALL ME ASAP”.

“Fuck,” I breathed, scrolling through the previews. The headlines screamed up at me: “Riot Girl’s Secret Rendezvous!”, “Zola’s Backstage Fling Exposed!”. The photos were grainy but unmistakable – me pinning Riva against the wall, her leg hooked around my hip, my hand fisted in her hair. Intimate. Incriminating.

Riva pushed off the wall, her face pale but composed. “Damage control,” she said, her voice clipped, professional. The sound engineer mask was back, locked in place. “How bad?”

“Bad.” I tossed the phone to her. She caught it one-handed, her eyes scanning the screen. A muscle jumped in her jaw. “Dave’s already on the warpath.”

As if summoned by his name, the door to the storage room banged open. Dave filled the doorway, his face flushed, his thinning hair sticking up in all directions. He looked like he’d run a marathon through a hurricane.

“There you are!” he barked, his gaze snapping from me to Riva and back again. “What the *fuck*, Zola? I’ve got TMZ sniffing around the venue like hyenas! Management’s blowing up my phone!”

I crossed my arms over my chest, meeting his glare head-on. “Since when is my private life TMZ’s business?”

“Since you’re the face of a multi-million dollar brand!” Dave snapped, stepping into the room. He jabbed a finger at Riva. “And since you decided to get cozy with *staff* in a goddamn storage room!”

Riva flinched, but her voice was steady when she spoke. “It was consensual, Dave. And off the clock.”

“Off the clock?” Dave’s laugh was harsh, grating. “You’re never off the clock, Chen! Not on tour! Not when the whole fucking world’s watching!” He turned back to me, his eyes narrowed. “You know the drill, Zola. Image is everything. This?” He gestured at the phone still in Riva’s hand. “This is a PR nightmare. Sponsors are already twitchy.”

The unsaid truth vibrated between us: *Sponsors won’t touch a band fronted by a lesbian.* Not in this industry. Not unless we played it very, very carefully.

“We’ll handle it,” I said, my voice tight. “Spin it. Deny it. Whatever.”

Dave shook his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s not that simple. These photos are everywhere. We need a unified front. The label’s already drafting a statement.” He shot Riva a pointed look. “One that’ll require certain… sacrifices.”

The bottom dropped out of my stomach. I knew what that meant. They’d want Riva gone. Cut her loose to kill the story. Make her the scapegoat – the ambitious sound tech who threw herself at the rock star. Plausible deniability for the Riot Girls’ golden girl.

Riva met my gaze across the cramped space, her face a cipher. She handed my phone back to me, her fingertips grazing my skin. The touch was brief, electric. “I’ll go,” she said quietly. “If that’s what it takes.”

“The hell you will,” I snarled, rounding on Dave. “Riva’s not going anywhere. She’s the best damn sound engineer we’ve had in years. You really want to tank the rest of the tour over some shitty tabloid photos?”

Dave’s jaw tightened. “I want to protect this band, Zola. That’s my job.” He looked from me to Riva, his expression hardening. “You two better get your stories straight. And fast. The vultures will be circling the hotel by morning.” He turned on his heel, stalking out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

The silence that followed was deafening. Riva and I stood frozen in the dim light, Dave’s words descending over us like a leaden blanket.

“Well,” Riva said finally, her voice unnervingly calm. “That could’ve gone better.”

I let out a harsh laugh. “Understatement of the fucking century.” I dragged a hand through my hair, my mind racing. “We need to get ahead of this. Control the narrative.”

Riva raised an eyebrow. “Control it how? With the truth? ‘Zola Moriconi, Rock Goddess, in Torrid Affair with Sound Tech’?” She shook her head. “You heard Dave. The label will bury me to protect you. To protect the Riot Girls’ image.”

“Fuck the image,” I growled, closing the distance between us. I cupped her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. “I’m not losing you again, Riva. Not over this.”

Her expression softened, just for a second. Then the mask was back. “It’s not about what you want, Zola. It’s about what’s best for the band. For your career.” She stepped back, out of my reach. “I should go. Let you talk to the others.”

“The others can go fuck themselves,” I said, but the fight had gone out of my voice. Because she was right. Aliyah and Jax, my bandmates, my sisters-in-arms… how would they take this? Aliyah, with her carefully curated social media presence and her picture-perfect fiancé. Jax, who’d built her whole brand on being the carefree, fun-loving drummer. How would they react to their lead guitarist being outed on the front page of every gossip rag in the world?

Riva was already moving towards the door, her shoulders set in a rigid line. “I’ll be on the crew bus. Give you some space.”

“Riva, wait—” I started, but she was already gone, the door clicking shut behind her with a terrible finality.

I stood alone in the storage room, the muffled roar of the crowd seeping through the walls. The photos on my phone screen seemed to mock me – a moment of stolen heat frozen in time, twisted into something cheap and tawdry. The secret we’d nurtured, the fragile thing we’d built in the dark corners of the tour bus… it was out now. Exposed. And the fallout was just beginning.

I leaned my forehead against the cool concrete wall, the rough texture scraping my skin. The Riot Girls. My band. My life. The thing I’d chosen over Riva all those years ago. And now, because of me, because of us… it could all come crashing down.

Its pressure bore down on me, dense and airless. But beneath the fear, beneath the dread… a spark of defiance flared. Let them come. Let the vultures circle. They wanted a story? I’d give them a fucking story.

I pushed off the wall, squaring my shoulders. Time to face the music. And maybe, just maybe… rewrite the damn song.

The hotel suite in Munich felt like a gilded cage, all plush carpets and overstuffed sofas and the cloying scent of the bouquet of white lilies some sycophant had sent up. Management’s idea of damage control – contain the rock star, contain the story. Aliyah and Jax were already there when I walked in, their faces tight with tension. Aliyah paced by the window, the city lights painting stripes across her pinched expression. Jax slumped in an armchair, methodically peeling the label off a bottle of German beer.