by Elle Greco
“Why don’t we call it, then?” I said, putting down the notebook and my pen.
“No,” Presley said. “This is a good song. We need to finish it.”
I shook my head. “Not if it costs you your voice.”
“Then you do it.”
I cocked my head to the side. “What are you talking about?”
“You,” she said, pointing at me. “You take vocals on this one.”
Beads of sweat prickled along my spine. “I’m not a vocalist.”
“No, you’re not,” Presley agreed. She didn’t bother buffering that one. “But this one is so in your kit, and you can hit that low range. It’s like we wrote it for you or something.”
“Or something,” I grumbled. “You know I can’t do this.”
“You can be all Dave Grohl–like and sing from behind the drums,” Jett said, referencing the former Nirvana drummer and current Foo Fighters front man. “It’s not like it hasn’t been done.”
“I can’t replace Presley.”
“Replace me? Please.” Presley’s laugh was haughty. “You can do this one song. But you are so not a front woman.”
“And there she is,” Jett said, setting her own guitar aside.
Presley’s eyes cut to her. “There who is?”
“Bitchy Presley. I was really starting to miss her.” Jett’s voice was thick with sarcasm.
“I’m not a bitch,” Presley said, squaring her shoulders. “I’m a truth teller.”
Jett folded her arms across her chest. “Claims all bitchy people to excuse them for being, you know, bitchy.”
“Just give me that chord again,” I interrupted them.
Presley had sent my competitive streak a call to action. My ambition trumped my self-doubt. She wasn’t the only one who could front a band.
Presley stuck out her tongue at Jett before cradling her acoustic guitar. She strummed the first few notes, and my voice picked up the song. I warbled, but once my vocal cords warmed up, I lost myself in the music.
I wrapped up the final note, when Dion’s applause shattered the silence on the bus. “That was stunning.”
“Sorry we woke you up,” I muttered.
Rafe popped his head out from behind the bunk curtain. “Me too. You woke me up too.”
“Sorry,” I repeated.
“Actually, thatwasssrillygood,” Rafe said.
“What the hell did you just say?” Jett asked, her face filled with disgust but her eyes dancing with amusement. “Damn, Rafe, are you still drunk?” Rafe gave her the finger.
“He said that was really good,” Dion clarified. “And it was. Really good. I didn’t realize you sang too.”
I stood up and stretched. “I don’t.”
“But you just did,” he said.
“But I don’t. I only did this one because it’s in the wrong key for Presley. Not a good time to fuck with her voice.”
“So, if it’s the wrong key for your singer, who gets the song?” Rafe asked, sounding pretty sober all of a sudden.
“I didn’t really think about it,” I said. “Jett?”
Jett shrugged. “I didn’t think it about either. I just write them.”
“You could sell it,” Rafe suggested.
Presley crossed her arms. “Who would buy one of our songs?”
“Plenty of artists,” Rafe said. “You do know the majority of pop singers don’t write their own songs, right?”
“Of course we know that,” Jett scoffed, her lips pursed. “We’re not idiots.”
“So then why aren’t you selling yours?” Rafe shot back.
“Our songs are our songs,” I said. “We write them for us.”
“Not if you write them in the wrong key,” Dion pointed out. He bent over and pulled a bottle of water out of the mini fridge. I allowed myself to admire his ass while it was in the air.
“Have you sold any of your songs?” Jett asked Rafe.
“Sure,” he said, dropping out of his bunk. “A few.”
“You guys don’t save them for Rogue Nation?” Jett continued to prod him.
“Nah,” Rafe said. “We’d have too many songs. What do you do with your rejects?”
“Um. Reject them,” Jett said.
“And that means what?” he asked.
“We throw them away.”
Rafe’s brows shot up in shock. “With your lyrics? That’s like burning money, girl.”
“Well, I don’t really throw them away,” Jett admitted. “I shove them in a drawer.”
Rafe’s eyebrows went up. “So you have all these songs written and they’re just sitting in a drawer in your bedroom?”
“Why are we even discussing this?” I moaned. “We write for us. For Satan’s Sisters. Not for a bunch of pop tarts.”
“No, wait,” Jett said, holding up her hand. “I want to hear this.”
I looked at Presley. “You want to hear this too?”
She shrugged. “Jett does the bulk of the songwriting. It’s up to her if she doesn’t want to toss the rejects.”
“But I do the arrangements,” I cut in. “And I can’t arrange shit if we start selling our songs.”
“Wait, you side gig all the time,” Jett started to argue. “What do we do with a song like the one we just wrote? Presley can’t sing it.”
“We could change the key,” I argued.
“Or you could sing it,” Dion said, his tone offhand.
“Me?” I shook my head. “No way. I can’t sing in front of anyone. Only backup.”
He smirked at me. “You just did, Nikki.”
“No, I sang in front of my sisters.”
“And me and Rafe,” he said.
“You were sleeping.”
His eyes crinkled, and he flashed me a smile. “What are you afraid of?”
“Nothing,” I said, jumping to my feet.
“Rare for a performer to have stage fright,” he continued.
“Adele has stage fright,” I pointed out. I squeezed past Jett, who was still working out her agitation by pacing the plush carpet of the bus. I moved to my bunk.
“But I don’t,” I added before climbing into it.
“I’m not judging,” Dion said, following me. “I just think the song works and you should sing it.”
I pulled the privacy curtain shut. Dion pulled it back.
“Are you upset?”
“No,” I lied, rolling over and giving him my back. “I’m tired. Some of us didn’t nap the day away.”
“Shove over,” he said, climbing into my bunk.
I didn’t budge from my spot. He squeezed himself into my bunk, his firm body pressed against mine. “Stop it, Dion. Get in your own damn bunk.”
“Come on, shove over,” he said, pushing me farther toward the wall. I was no match for him physically, so despite my protests, he wedged himself into the narrow bunk with me.
“What the hell are you two doing?” Presley called out. They’d all watched Dion scramble into the bunk with me. I pulled the pillow over my head.
“Talking some sense into her stubborn ass,” Dion shouted back at her before pulling the curtain closed again. “Now that I have you alone,” he whispered, snaking his arm over my stomach, “that song was kick-ass. You were kick-ass singing it. Now what do I have to do to convince you?”
His hand wandered to the waistband of my yoga pants before I could answer.
“We can’t do this,” I whispered, straining my ears to listen to Rafe, Presley, and Jett discussing how to sell our songs to pop tarts more famous than us.
“Why not?” he asked. “Our siblings are otherwise engaged.”
His hand slid under my T-shirt, warming the skin on my stomach. I wanted to curl into him, to touch him, to meet his mouth with mine. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and never let go.
Instead, I closed my eyes, tired of letting my emotions make bad decisions. “Come on, Dion. After what you did this morning?”
“What I did this morning? How about we talk
about what you did?”
I pushed his hand off of me. “Me?”
“You walked out, Nik,” he said.
“I did not walk out, Dion,” I said, dropping my voice to a whisper.
“No, you’re right,” he said, not bothering to drop his own voice. “You snuck out.”
“Will you keep your voice down?” I hissed. “I left to go to my own room, that’s all.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Why?” I repeated.
“Yes, why did you sneak out of my room this morning?”
“I— We—” I stammered. I wasn’t ready for this. If anything, I figured Dion would be thrilled to have me out of his hair. He was a one-and-done sort of guy.
“Are you embarrassed or something?” he asked. “Is that why you left?”
My heart pounded in my chest and bile rose in my throat. “No.”
His eyes were hard. “Tell me why, Nik.”
My breath was shallow, like I’d just finished a sprint. Sweat slicked my back. My head pounded.
“Nikki, I think I deserve to know,” Dion said.
I barely heard him over Devlin’s warnings that were on repeat in my mind.
Dion was always a wild child. Had a way with the women.
I don’t want to see you broken, Nikki.
It’s going to take more than the love of a good woman to settle him.
What you and Dion are playing at? That’s the shit that breaks up bands.
“I left because you’re Dion Davis,” I said, my loud voice shattering Devlin’s words.
He blinked at me. “And?”
“And you’re an asshole!”
There was silence both in and out of the bunk. As Dion’s face morphed from angry to hurt, my resolve weakened.
“Look, Dion—” I started, but he cut me off.
“I know I’ve been an asshole, but have I ever hurt you?” he asked. “I mean, truly hurt you?”
Regret flooded through me, and I closed my eyes, wishing I could give the last few minutes a do-over.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said in response to my silence.
I opened my eyes. “Dion, let me—”
“Nah,” he said, his eyes filled with contempt. “I get it now. There’s a lot more Pamela in you than I let myself believe.”
I leaned back, momentarily stunned by the verbal slap he’d just landed. Then rage flooded my body, and a red sheen blanketed my eyes. “Fuck you,” I snapped.
Then I shoved him, hard enough that he fell out of the bunk. But before he plummeted to the floor, he grabbed onto me, and we both tumbled off the mattress and landed on the hard floor with a thud. Three sets of feet tapped on the floor beside us.
“So, you want to tell us what you two have really been up to?” Presley asked.
“I mean, honestly, Nik?” Jett said. I looked up at my sisters. If their tone hadn’t clued me in, both of their faces displayed a mix of shock and disappointment.
Rafe pressed his hand to his forehead. “Dion, you get your pick of ass to tap, but you decide to shit where you eat? Not cool.”
Jett’s eyes flashed, and her mouth puckered in disgust. “Just lovely, Rafe.”
“I mean, he’s Dion,” Presley gasped, her mouth open in shock.
“So?” I asked, scrambling to my feet. It was easier to defend myself without lying prone on top of Dion.
I put my hands on my hips and challenged her. “We’re adults, Presley. I can make our own choices.”
“Yeah, bad ones,” Jett muttered, keeping her eyes averted.
“But the band, Nik,” Rafe groaned. “You’re willing to break up the band?”
“She’s not breaking up the band,” Dion scoffed, and he came up on his elbows.
Rafe hinged at the hips and jutted a finger out at Dion’s chest. “All this fucking around ends now.”
Dion got to his feet and squared off to his brother. “Relax, man. I’ve got this under control.”
Rafe got in his face. “It looks to me like the only thing that has control in this situation is your dick. Or, more likely, she’s got control of you and your dick.”
Dion took a step back. “You need to chill, Rafe.”
“Chill? You think I should chill? You remember who her mother is, right? There’s the apple, and there’s the tree. You know what I’m saying?”
“Whoa. Stop right there.” Jett stepped in between the puffed-out chests of the two guys. “You want to rail about band members hooking up and how uncool that is, I’ve actually got your back. But seriously, do not compare any of us to Pamela.”
“And this is totally different anyway,” Presley jumped in, defending me. “This is nothing like Mom and Vince, not even close.”
Rafe glared at us. “Really? Tell me, after you moved into our house, did Vince ever go out on tour again?”
“Yes,” Jett said.
“No, Jett. I mean, really tour,” Rafe said. “Not those shitty five-city farewell tours. Hell, since he put the damn ring on it, they haven’t cut a new album.”
“Anthem retired,” I said. “The band went on to side projects. Why should they grind it out when they don’t need to?”
“Wrong,” Rafe barked, taking a step toward me, his finger jutting out. “Vince loves the grind. It’s Pamela that’s the problem.”
Dion stepped between us. “Back off, man. Just take it easy.”
“Please,” I scoffed at Rafe. “Our mother has zero control over Vince.”
“Pamela doesn’t trust Vince,” Dion conceded, shaking his head. “But he made the choice to retire.”
“Yeah, to make that bitch happy,” Rafe said with a snarl.
“What’s interesting,” I said, bitterness seeping out with each syllable, “is that Vince didn’t have to go far from home for temptation.”
“What are you talking about?” Rafe asked.
“Come on! The constant parade of maids in miniskirts?” I asked. “The Davis house is like a stand-in for the Playboy Mansion circa 1978. Marrying Pamela did not cramp Vince’s style one bit.”
“That’s true,” Jett said, nodding her head in agreement.
Rafe was undeterred. “Rogue Nation had a good thing going. We actually had a chance to get out from under Anthem’s shadow. But you two fucked that up because of your damn hormones.”
Dion put his hand on Rafe’s chest. “Come on, Rafe.”
Rafe shoved it off. “No, we’re done. You’re off the tour, Nik.”
My heart stopped. “What?”
“Come on, man, you don’t mean that,” Dion said.
“Yeah, I do,” Rafe said. “I’m not going to let the two of you blow Rogue’s shot.”
“How? We’ve been fine,” Dion said.
“Yeah, for now,” Rafe said. “What happens when you go off and bang someone else?”
Dion held up his hands. “Dude—”
“Oh, so you’re telling me Nik’s the one,” Rafe mocked.
“She’s not the one,” Dion snapped.
“Exactly…”
Rafe’s words bled together, my brain no longer processing what he was saying. It didn’t need to. I’d heard all I needed to know. Dion’s words burned through my chest, and my body flushed with humiliation. I’d been lying to myself all along. I’d wanted to be Dion’s one all along. How could I have been so stupid?
I came out of my stupor just as Rafe shoved past Dion and stormed to the front of the bus.
“Come on, Rafe,” Dion called after him. But Rafe didn’t look back.
“Fuck,” Dion bit out, following his brother. Without a second glance at me, he left me behind with my two disappointed sisters.
“I hope the sex was worth it,” Jett said. “Because you just betrayed Rafe’s trust. Big time.”
My back stiffened. “This didn’t happen in a vacuum. Dion betrayed it too. And why the hell are you taking Rafe’s side?”
“Because it was wrong, Nik,” she said.
“Wrong? How the hell wa
s it wrong?” I asked.
“You didn’t think of the band,” she continued.
“I always think about the damn band,” I said. “That’s all I ever think about. Maybe I wanted to think about myself for a change.”
“But Dion, Nik?” Jett asked, her lip curling in disgust. “God. Anyone but Dion.”
My heart twisted at her words, and a lump blossomed in my throat.
Presley sat down on the bottom bunk and pressed her fingers to her temple. “We all only think about the damn band. Maybe it’s time we stopped thinking about the band and thought about ourselves instead.”
“What are you saying?” I asked, not really wanting to hear the answer. Tears burned at the corners of my eyes.
“What I’m saying is that maybe we need to take a break,” she said.
“A break?” I asked. “There’s a bidding war for us between record labels!”
“So?” Presley asked. “Rogue Nation is about to explode. We’ll be your side project.”
“You’re my sisters,” I said, dropping down next to her. “You’ll never be my side project.”
“That’s sweet,” she said, giving my hand a squeeze. “But this Rogue Nation thing is real.”
“I’m out. You heard Rafe,” I said, twisting my head toward the front of the bus, where the murmurs between the two guys were punctuated by shouts of “Fuck you.”
“Rafe will get over it,” Jett said, flopping on the floor in front of us. She pulled her long legs into her chest.
“Doesn’t sound like it to me,” I muttered.
“The point is, Nik,” Presley continued, “this feels like a good time to take a break. You know, think through things.”
“She’s right,” Jett agreed. “You know I’ve just been along for the ride. I miss school.”
My heart raced with panic. “Presley, you want this too though. You love to sing.”
“Of course I want this,” she said. “But I’d love a solo career. And a fashion line. And maybe a fragrance.”
“Gwen Stefani is her role model,” Jett quipped.
Presley sighed and pushed a mess of blonde hair away from her face. “Look, I am going to admit it—I’m tired. Gigs at night, cutting backup vocals wherever we can find a studio by day, Grimm pressuring me to get in the studio for my own album. All while traveling in this monstrosity.” She swung her arm around. “I’m exhausted.”