Riot Guitar

The bus rumbled through the night, a metal beast swallowing the miles. I lay in my bunk, the vibrations humming through the thin mattress, my thoughts a tangled snarl. Riva’s face flashed behind my eyelids – the resignation in her eyes, the finality in her voice. ‘This is my stop, Zola.’ A clean cut. A surgical strike. She’d always been good at that. At walking away when the walls started closing in. When I started choosing the Riot Girls over her.

But what if I didn’t? What if I chose her? Not in the shadows, not in stolen moments… but in the fucking spotlight?

The idea sparked, small at first, then catching fire. A wildfire racing through my veins. It was madness. Career suicide. The label would crucify me. Dave would have an aneurysm. Aliyah and Jax would never forgive me.

But Riva… Riva might.

I sat up, swinging my legs out of the bunk. The bus corridor was dark, the crew bunks silent save for the occasional snore. I padded towards the front, my bare feet silent on the cool floor. The driver glanced up as I slipped into the passenger seat, his face impassive in the glow of the dashboard lights.

“Everything alright, Ms. Moriconi?”

“Peachy,” I said, my voice tight. “Just need to make a call. Private.”

He nodded, his eyes already back on the road. I dug my phone out of my sweatpants pocket, the screen lighting up like a beacon in the dark. My fingers flew across the keys, pulling up a contact I hadn’t called in years. My old manager. The one who’d discovered the Riot Girls in a dive bar in Brooklyn, who’d believed in the raw, messy truth of us before the image consultants got their claws in.

He answered on the third ring, his voice sleep-roughened but alert. “Zola? Jesus, it’s… what time is it? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Carl,” I said, my voice low. “I need a favor. A big one.”

Twenty minutes later, I hung up, my heart hammering against my ribs. The die was cast. The plan was in motion. It was insane. It was reckless. It was the only way.

The next forty-eight hours were a blur – frantic phone calls, hushed conversations, a clandestine meeting in a Parisian café that smelled of strong coffee and damp pavement. Carl worked his magic, calling in favors, twisting arms, greasing palms. By the time we rolled into Lyon for the next show, the pieces were falling into place. Riva was somewhere out there, in some anonymous hotel room, blissfully unaware of the grenade I was about to detonate in the middle of the Riot Girls’ carefully constructed image.

The venue in Lyon was a converted warehouse, all exposed brick and industrial-chic lighting. The crowd was a living thing, a sea of faces turned up to the stage, their energy a tangible force. I strutted and swaggered through the set, my Gibson screaming in my hands, my voice raw and ragged. But my mind was elsewhere. On the words Carl had said. On the heft of the microphone in my hand. On the secret burning a hole in my chest.

We closed the main set with ‘Riot Act’, the crowd roaring along to the chorus, the floor shaking with the force of their feet. As the last chord faded, Aliyah grabbed her mic, her smile bright, her voice breathless. “Thank you, Lyon! You’ve been incredible!” The crowd cheered, a wall of sound crashing over the stage.

This was it. The moment. The point of no return.

I stepped up to my mic, my heart in my throat. Aliyah shot me a sharp look, her smile faltering. This wasn’t in the script. This wasn’t part of the Riot Girls’ carefully choreographed show.

“I’d like to play something a little different for you tonight,” I said, my voice echoing in the sudden hush. The crowd murmured, sensing a deviation, a crack in the polished facade. I caught Jax’s eye behind the drum kit. Her expression was unreadable, her sticks poised over her snare.

Aliyah opened her mouth to interject, but I powered on, the words tumbling out, unstoppable now. “This is a song I wrote a long time ago. For someone… important. Someone who’s reminded me what really matters.” I shifted my gaze, squinting past the blinding stage lights, searching the darkness at the side of the stage. “She’s out there tonight. And this one’s for her.”

A ripple went through the crowd. Confusion. Curiosity. The low thrum of speculation. I turned to the band. Aliyah’s face was pale, her knuckles white on the mic stand. Jax met my gaze, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. She gave a single, barely perceptible nod.

I took a breath, the first chord of the song spilling from my guitar – clean, pure, achingly simple. The opening notes of ‘Static Heart’, the ballad I’d written for Riva all those years ago. The one I’d never played for anyone but her.

The crowd fell silent, a collective intake of breath. This wasn’t Riot Girls. This was something else. Something raw. Something real.

I sang, my voice stripped bare, the words I’d written in a haze of heartbreak and longing laid out for thousands to hear. I sang of whispered secrets in the dark, of stolen kisses in the wings, of a love that burned brighter than the stage lights. I sang for Riva. For us. For every second chance we’d been too scared to take.

As the last note faded, the silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then, like a dam breaking, the crowd exploded. Cheers. Whistles. A roar of approval that shook the rafters. Camera phones flashed like stars, capturing the moment – Zola Moriconi, rock goddess, laid bare.

I didn’t wait for the encore. I handed my guitar to a stunned roadie and walked off stage, the applause following me into the wings. My heart hammered against my ribs, adrenaline singing in my veins. I’d done it. I’d blown the Riot Girls’ image to smithereens. And I didn’t regret a single second.

I found her by the catering table, a Styrofoam cup of coffee clutched in her hand. She looked tired, wary, her eyes shadowed. She hadn’t expected to be here tonight. Hadn’t expected to see me. Not after Munich.

The noise of the crowd was a distant thrum, the stage a world away. For a long moment, we just stood there, the air between us charged with everything unsaid.

“You dedicated a love song to me,” Riva said finally, her voice soft. “In front of ten thousand people.”

“I did,” I said, taking a step closer. “I meant it. Every word.”

She set the coffee cup down on the table, her movements slow, deliberate. “Zola… what have you done?”

“What I should’ve done years ago,” I said, closing the distance between us. I reached out, my hand cupping her cheek. Her skin was warm, familiar. “I chose you, Riva. In front of God and everybody.” I gulped, the gravity of the moment pressing down on me. “I’m done hiding. Done letting the label, the image, the fucking machine call the shots. I want you. All of you. On my terms.”

She leaned into my touch, her eyes searching mine. For doubt. For hesitation. For the Zola who always put the Riot Girls first. She didn’t find her.

“You’re sure?” she whispered, her voice thick. “This is really what you want?”

“More than anything,” I said, my thumb brushing her cheekbone. “But only if you want it too. If you want me. The real me. The messy, complicated, rock-star me.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, small at first, then spreading like dawn. “I’ve always wanted you, Zola Moriconi. Even when you were being a monumental pain in my ass.” She turned her head, pressing a kiss to my palm. “Especially then.”

The last of the tension bled out of me, replaced by a fierce, incandescent joy. I pulled her into my arms, crushing her against me. She came willingly, her arms sliding around my waist, her face burying in the curve of my neck.

The backstage area was a flurry of activity – roadies moving equipment, crew members talking into headsets. But in that moment, it was just us. Just Riva and me. The beginning of something real.

I pulled back just far enough to look at her, my hands framing her face. “Stay,” I said, my voice rough. “Stay on the tour. Not as my dirty little secret. As mine.”

“Yes,” she said, no hesitation, no doubt. Just certainty. Just her. Just us.

The next twenty-four hours were a blur of headlines, hashtags, and hysterical phone calls from the label. The Riot Girls’ PR machine went into overdrive, spinning the narrative, putting out fires, trying to salvage the wreckage of our carefully constructed image. They wanted damage control. They wanted a carefully worded statement. They wanted me to walk back the truth.