Riot Guitar

“About time,” Aliyah snapped as I kicked the door shut behind me. “Where the hell have you been? Dave’s been blowing up our phones for an hour.”

“Dealing with the fucking fallout,” I growled, crossing to the minibar. I needed a drink. Something strong. The bourbon burned a trail down my throat, but it did little to ease the knot in my gut. “Where is he anyway? Our fearless leader.”

“On the phone with the label,” Jax said, her voice flat. She didn’t look at me, her eyes locked on the peeling label. “Trying to put out the fire you started.”

The accusation lingered in the air, sharp and bitter. I took another slug of bourbon. “It’s not like I planned a fucking photoshoot, Jax.”

Aliyah stopped pacing, turning to face me. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her designer sweater pulled tight. “No, you just decided to maul our sound engineer in a storage room! What the hell were you thinking, Zola?”

“I was thinking it was none of your goddamn business!” The words cracked out like a whip. Aliyah flinched, but held her ground.

“It’s our business when it blows back on the band!” she shot back. “When it’s splashed across every gossip site from here to Timbuktu! ‘Riot Girls’ Zola Moriconi in Secret Fling with Staff’ – really, Zola? Really?”

The pettiness of it – reducing what Riva and I had to a tawdry ‘fling’ – sparked a fresh wave of anger in my chest. “It’s not a fling.”

Jax finally looked up, her eyes narrowed. “Then what is it, Zola? Because from where we’re sitting, it looks like you’re playing with fire. And we’re the ones getting burned.”

The door opened before I could answer, Dave blowing in like a storm cloud. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, his tie askew, shadows bruising his eyes. He didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“The label’s furious,” he announced, tossing his phone onto the coffee table with a clatter. “They want a statement. A denial. Something to kill this story before it gets any more legs.”

“A denial?” I scoffed, pouring another finger of bourbon. “And what exactly am I denying, Dave? That I have a personal life? That I’m human?”

Dave rounded on me, his expression hard. “You’re denying that you’re fucking the sound engineer, Zola! You’re denying that there’s any truth to these photos. You’re protecting the band’s image. That’s your job.”

The hypocrisy tasted like ash on my tongue. The Riot Girls – built on rebellion, on sticking it to the man. On being real. Until it inconvenienced the bottom line. “So we lie? Is that the grand plan? Spin some bullshit about ‘misleading angles’ and ‘out of context’?”

“If that’s what it takes,” Dave said coldly. “Riva’s prepared to play ball. She’ll resign. Quietly. We’ll leak that she quit for ‘personal reasons’. The story dies, the tour continues. Business as usual.”

The bourbon turned to bile in my stomach. Riva, resigning. Taking the fall. Again. History repeating itself on a brutal loop. “Like hell she will.”

“It’s already done,” Dave said, a grim satisfaction in his voice. “I spoke to her an hour ago. She understands what’s at stake. She’s packing her gear now.”

The floor tilted beneath my feet. I could see it – Riva in her cramped bunk on the crew bus, methodically folding her clothes, packing up her headphones, her world narrowed to the four walls of her suitcase. Walking away. Again. For the band. For me.

“This is bullshit,” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “She doesn’t deserve this. She’s the best damn engineer we’ve ever had.”

“She’s also a liability,” Aliyah interjected. Her voice was softer now, almost pleading. “Zola, think about the sponsors. The record deal. Everything we’ve worked for. One story, one scandal… it could sink us.”

Jax nodded, her expression miserable. “We’re with you, Zola. You know that. But Dave’s right. Sometimes… sometimes the image has to come first.”

Their betrayal, however soft-spoken, however ‘necessary’, cut deeper than Dave’s bluster. Aliyah and Jax. My bandmates. My friends. The women I’d gone to war with, night after night, stage after stage. And they were siding with the suits. With the lie.

I looked from one to the other, to Dave’s smug, satisfied face. The gilded cage closed in around me, the air heavy with the perfume of lilies and surrender.

“Fine,” I said, the word tasting like broken glass. “Write your statement. Spin your story.” I set the bourbon glass down with a sharp click. “But mark my words, Dave. This isn’t over.”

I didn’t wait for a response. I turned on my heel and walked out, the door slamming shut behind me like a coffin lid. The hotel corridor stretched before me, sterile and silent. Somewhere down the hall, a vacuum cleaner whined. The mundane soundtrack to the end of something vital.

I found Riva in her bunk on the crew bus, just as I’d pictured. Her suitcase lay open on the narrow mattress, already half-full. She was folding a band tee – one of ours, the Riot Girls logo stark across the black cotton – her movements precise, economical. The sight of it, of her systematically erasing herself from our world, hit me like a physical blow.

“Going somewhere?” I said, my voice rough.

She didn’t look up. “You know I am.” She placed the folded tee in the suitcase, smoothing it flat. “Dave told you, I assume. The great escape plan.”

“He told me.” I stepped into the cramped space, the curtain falling shut behind me. The air smelled of her – vanilla and sandalwood – and the faint, metallic tang of electronics. “You don’t have to do this, Riva. We can fight them.”

She finally met my gaze. Her eyes were clear, resigned. No tears. No anger. Just… acceptance. “Fight them how, Zola? With what army? You heard Dave. You heard Aliyah and Jax. The band has to come first. The image. The machine.” She reached for another shirt, her fingers grazing the worn fabric. “I’m just a cog. Easily replaced.”

“You’re not a cog,” I said fiercely, crossing the small space to grip her arms. The suitcase lay between us, a physical symbol of the distance they were trying to force. “You’re everything. You’re the reason this tour hasn’t imploded. You’re the reason I haven’t lost my fucking mind.”

A flicker of something – pain? Regret? – crossed her face. “I’m also the reason your career’s hanging by a thread,” she said softly. “The reason the label’s ready to pull the plug.” She stepped back, gently disengaging from my grip. “Let me do this, Zola. Let me take the heat. It’s the cleanest way.”

“The cleanest way for who?” I demanded. “For them? For the fucking shareholders? What about us? What about what we have?”

“What we have?” Riva’s laugh was short, brittle. “What do we have, Zola? Stolen moments? Secret kisses? A history of you choosing the Riot Girls over me?” She snapped the suitcase shut, the sound final, devastating. “This isn’t a relationship. It’s a slow-motion train wreck. And I’m tired of waiting for the crash.”

Her words landed like body blows, each one precise, devastating. The truth in them, the brutal, unvarnished reality, stole my breath. She was right. I had chosen the band. I always chose the band. And where had it gotten us? Trapped in a storage room with a paparazzo’s lens shoved in our faces. Trapped in this goddamn bus, this goddamn lie.

“I’m sorry,” I said, the words inadequate, useless. “I’m so fucking sorry, Riva.”

“I know,” she said, her voice softening. She reached out, her hand cupping my cheek for a fleeting second. Her palm was warm, familiar. “But sorry doesn’t change anything. It never does.” She hefted the suitcase off the bed, the muscles in her arm flexing. “This is my stop, Zola. Time for you to get back on the road.”

She brushed past me, the curtain swishing shut behind her. I stood alone in the cramped bunk, the scent of her lingering in the air, the imprint of her hand still warm on my skin. The bus engine rumbled to life outside, a low, steady growl. The sound of the tour moving on. The sound of everything ending.

I sank down onto the narrow mattress, the springs groaning in protest. The Riot Girls. The tour. The image. The machine. It had won. It had taken Riva from me. Again. And this time, I’d helped them do it.

The bus lurched forward, pulling away from the curb. Pulling away from her. I closed my eyes, the bourbon sour in my stomach, the future stretching ahead like a long, dark highway. Empty. Solitary. Silent, save for the low, mournful hum of the engine.