Riot Guitar

I told them to go fuck themselves.

Instead, I called my old manager, Carl, the one who’d helped me orchestrate the whole damn thing. He set up an interview – one outlet, one shot. No pre-approved questions. No PR flaks hovering. Just me, Riva, and a journalist who wasn’t afraid to print the unvarnished truth.

The interview took place in a Paris hotel suite, all gilt furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Seine. Riva sat beside me on the plush sofa, her hand resting on my thigh, a silent anchor in the storm. The journalist, a woman with sharp eyes and a sharper pen, sat across from us, her recorder a blinking red eye on the coffee table.

“So, Zola,” she said, diving right in. “The Lyon show. That was quite the declaration. Care to elaborate?”

I leaned forward, my elbows resting on my knees. “What’s there to elaborate? I meant what I said. Every word.” I turned to Riva, my gaze locking with hers. “I love her. I have for a long time. I’m done hiding it. Done pretending to be something I’m not.”

Riva squeezed my thigh, her touch steady, sure. “We’re together,” she said, her voice clear, calm. “We have been for a while. It’s not a fling. It’s not a scandal. It’s real.”

The journalist’s pen scratched across her notepad. “And the band? Your label? There’s been talk of tension. Of fallout.”

I snorted. “Of course there’s tension. We blew their carefully curated image to hell.” I leaned back, slinging an arm across the back of the sofa, behind Riva’s shoulders. “But the Riot Girls weren’t built on some focus-grouped fantasy. We were built on truth. On rebellion. On being real, even when it’s messy.” I glanced at Riva, a smirk tugging at my mouth. “And trust me, love? It gets messy.”

Riva rolled her eyes, but a smile played on her lips. “The band’s adjusting,” she said diplomatically. “They’re family. And family rides out the bumps.”

“And the label?” the journalist pressed.

“Can go fuck themselves,” I said pleasantly. “We’re the Riot Girls. They don’t own us. They don’t own our truth.” I let my gaze drift to the window, to the city sprawling below. “This is our story now. Mine and Riva’s. And we’re going to tell it our way.”

The interview ran the next morning, a double-page spread with the headline: RIOT GIRLS’ ZOLA MORICONI ON LOVE, TRUTH, AND BURNING THE RULEBOOK. The piece was raw, unfiltered, a grenade lobbed into the glossy world of pop-rock. The backlash was immediate, predictable. Outraged think pieces. Twitter tantrums. The usual suspects clutching their pearls and howling about ‘appropriateness’ and ‘professionalism’.

But there was support too. Messages from fans who’d seen themselves in our story. Tweets from other artists, other women in the industry, standing in solidarity. A groundswell of something real, something human, pushing back against the noise.

The tour rolled on, the road stretching before us like a promise. Riva stayed. Not as a secret. Not as a scandal. But as mine. As the Riot Girls’ sound engineer. As the woman I loved, out in the open, in the fucking spotlight. The label fumed. Dave sputtered. The image lay in tatters at our feet. And I’d never felt so free.

The tour rolled on, the road stretching before us like a promise. Riva stayed. Not as a secret. Not as a scandal. But as mine. As the Riot Girls’ sound engineer. As the woman I loved, out in the open, in the fucking spotlight. The label fumed. Dave sputtered. The image lay in tatters at our feet. And I’d never felt so free.

It wasn’t all smooth sailing. The first few shows after Lyon were tense, the air backstage thick with unspoken words and sidelong glances. Aliyah was polite but distant, her smiles brittle, her eyes avoiding mine. Jax was quieter than usual, her drumbeats in soundcheck sharp, aggressive, like she was pounding out her frustration on the skins.

But slowly, show by show, mile by mile, the ice began to thaw. It started small – Aliyah passing Riva the last bottle of water on the bus, Jax sticking around after soundcheck to tweak Riva’s levels, the three of us sharing a silent, companionable beer after a grueling show in Brussels.

The real turning point came in Amsterdam. We were halfway through our set, the crowd a heaving, sweating mass, when Aliyah sidled up to my mic during a guitar solo.

“Sounds pretty good up here tonight, doesn’t it?” she said, her voice echoing across the venue. She paused, letting the crowd cheer, then turned to face the wings, where Riva stood at her board. “Guess we’ve got our secret weapon back.” She raised her beer bottle in a salute. “Welcome home, Riva.”

The crowd roared, the sound deafening, and just like that, the last of the tension bled away. Jax joined Aliyah at the front of the stage, her drumsticks tapping a salute against her thigh. Riva stood in the wings, a small, surprised smile on her face, the stage lights glinting off the tears in her eyes.

After that, it was different. The Riot Girls weren’t just tolerating Riva’s presence, they were embracing it. Our love story became part of the tour’s narrative, woven into the fabric of the show. Aliyah started introducing ‘Static Heart’ as “the song that brought our family back together.” Jax added a new drum fill to the bridge, a subtle, driving heartbeat beneath the melody. Even the crew got in on the act, snapping pictures of Riva and me together – not for the tabloids, but for the band’s official social media, captioned simply: “Love wins.”

On stage, I felt invincible. Riva was my anchor, her steady presence at the soundboard a constant reminder of what I was fighting for. Off stage, she was my refuge, her quiet strength a balm to the chaos of the road. We navigated the madness together – the endless bus rides, the grueling schedule, the constant scrutiny – our bond forged in the fire of the spotlight.

The label’s threats never materialized. Oh, they blustered and threatened, sent sternly worded emails and demanded crisis meetings. But the truth was, the controversy was selling tickets. Our shows were selling out, the crowds bigger and more passionate than ever. Turns out, people liked a little authenticity with their rock and roll. Who knew?

As the tour bus rolled towards London for the final show, I looked across the narrow aisle at Riva, her head resting against the window, the city lights flickering across her face. She met my gaze, a soft smile playing on her lips, and reached out her hand. I took it, our fingers intertwining, a silent promise passing between us.

We’d been through the fire, Riva and me. We’d faced down the machine, the image, the fucking lie. And we’d emerged, not unscathed, but stronger. Truer. Ready for whatever came next.

The London show was a blur of noise and light, a fitting end to the wildest ride of our lives. Twenty thousand voices singing along to every word, every chord, the energy like a physical thing, lifting us up, carrying us through the set. Riva worked her magic at the soundboard, making us sound better than we had any right to, her presence a constant, steadying force.

As we neared the end of the encore, the opening chords of ‘Riot Act’ ringing out, I felt it – that familiar pull, that need to have her close. Not later, on the bus, in the dark. Now. Here. In front of the whole fucking world.

I caught Aliyah’s eye, jerked my head towards the wings. She followed my gaze, a slow grin spreading across her face. She nudged Jax, who looked up from her drums, her sticks never faltering. A nod, a flicker of understanding, and just like that, the plan was in motion.

We played the final notes, the crowd roaring their approval, the sound washing over us like a tidal wave. I handed my guitar off to a waiting roadie, my heart pounding, my palms slick with sweat. This was it. The final act. The last piece of the puzzle.

“London, you’ve been fucking incredible!” Aliyah shouted into her mic, her voice raw with emotion. “We love you! Good night!”

The lights dimmed, the band bowing, waving, the applause thundering on. I moved towards the wings, my eyes searching the shadows. And then she was there, stepping into the light, her face flushed, her smile wide, just for me.

I didn’t hesitate. I crossed the distance between us in three long strides, my hands sliding into her hair, my mouth crashing down on hers. The crowd roared, a fresh wave of sound, cameras flashing like fireworks, capturing the moment – Zola Moriconi and Riva Chen, tangled up in each other, the Riot Girls’ logo blazing behind us, a beacon in the dark.