Page 75 of Vengeful Melodies
Oversized hoodie, sleek black jeans hugging her hips, ankle boots, auburn bob wig—like she just walked out of some neo-noir fantasy. Bash drew a fake beauty mark under her eye, and the sunglasses make her look untouchable, dangerous.
“You’re trouble,” I murmur, grin tight, teeth pressing into my cheek.
“She’s giving celebrity-escaping-scandal,” Bash declares, stepping back proudly, chest puffed. “Secret girlfriend energy. Or deadly assassin.”
“She is our secret girlfriend,” Kai adds, slinging an arm possessively around her waist, like he’s marking territory in front of the whole universe.
Takoa finally puts on his hoodie, tightening the strings so only his eyes peek out. “Let’s move before someone posts us online,” he mutters, voice clipped but amused.
Dreya catches my gaze in the mirror, smirks—the kind that says she knows we’re all insane and somehow loves us for it. My chest tightens. This chaos, this heat, this ridiculous, sunlit mess… she belongs here. And somehow, so do I.
I can already hear Bash whispering some unholy plan for the walk down the street, Kai plotting where he’s going to press a kiss in public, and Takoa’s quiet, predatory grin promising something just as wicked. And I… I can’t wait.
Out in the city, the sun slices through the air like a spotlight, casting sharp, golden edges on every surface. Street noise hums around us—shouts, engines, distant music—like a soundtrack to our chaos. We slip through a back alley off Melrose, the kind of street nobody bothers with, and end up at the outdoor market Bash swore he stumbled across in some delirious haze of hunger and boredom. It’s tucked away, untouched, alive with the smell of fresh bread, roasted coffee, and something sweet, like candied fruit. So far, untouched by the fan base.
Dreya walks in the middle of us, hands stuffed in her hoodie pocket, sunglasses still hiding her gaze. She’s quiet but her lips curl into a soft smile that’s nearly imperceptible. I can’t say it aloud, but that smile punches me in the chest.
Kai grabs her hand as we cross the street, swinging it like we’re reckless kids in a long-forgotten park. Dreya rolls her eyes, but doesn’t pull away. Bash sidles up beside her at a street vendor selling brightly colored lemonade. He buys her a tall pink strawberry one and leans in like it’s a challenge, bending the straw toward her mouth. “You’ve never looked hotter drinking something pink,” he teases, eyes dark with mischief. She snorts but tilts her head just enough to meet him halfway, lips brushing the straw as if it’s a secret shared.
Takoa, silent and precise, chooses a simple black ring lined with four tiny stars. Without a word, he slips it onto her thumb. She stares at it like it carries a language she’s only just starting to understand.
Me? I drift into a tiny, dusty vinyl shop, the kind that smells of warm plastic and nostalgia, and there it is. Cigarettes After Sex. I remember—three weeks ago, sprawled on the tour bus, her head in someone’s lap, eyes half-closed, legs tangled with mine, muttering about a song she loved. She didn’t know I was listening. I always am.
I pull the record off the shelf and hold it out to her wordlessly. Her lips part, eyes glossy, caught between laughter and tears. “You remembered?”
“I remember the things that matter, darlin’,” I reply softly.
Her fingers shake as she takes it. “There’s this book I read…” Her voice is soft, careful, the way she talks when something aches but she wants to share it anyway. “…the girl in the story was in love. Her heart was breaking so she took the loudest speaker and blasted one of their songs over and over. It destroyed me. Beautiful, tragic, destroyed me. I’ve only ever read it once, but…”
Her fingertips trace the edge of the vinyl, reverent.
“I love this band,” she whispers. “So when I heard that song in the story… I felt it. For her. For me. For… reasons.”
She flips it over, reading the tracklist like it holds a map to some secret world. Her finger rests on one of the titles. “This one… is ours, okay?” she says softly, tappingSweet.
I grin before I can stop myself. “I’d say that one—or the one below it—describes all five of us.”
She tilts her head, scanning the list, and lands onFalling In Love.
“That one could fit,” she admits quietly. “But only time can tell. Three weeks into this tour… we’re still learning about each other.”
“No amount of time would change how we feel,” I murmur, steady, honest. “We wouldn’t ask you to be ours if we didn’t already see our lives revolving around you.”
I reach for the vinyl, taking it gently from her hands, and when she protests, I shake my head and grab the portable player she lingered on when we first walked in. She watches quietly as I pay for both, eyes tracing every motion, like I’ve hung the stars just for her. She doesn’t know—she’s the one weaving the magic, pulling constellations together without even trying.
The rest of the shopping passes in a blur—laughter spilling into the sunlit streets, half-serious arguments about horror movies, shared lattes, and bags stuffed with trinkets that feel like relics of our little universe. Every brush of her hand, every accidental touch, sends sparks racing through my chest. Arms tangle, hands grip, proximity becomes a dare. We’re reckless, loud, and untamed—but somehow, completely, impossibly tethered to her.
We end up in a cramped little pizza place with neon signs that flicker like broken promises and old movie posters lining the walls like forgotten dreams. There’s only room for four in the booth. There are six of us.
Dreya ends up in my lap, warm and soft and completely at ease.
Her weight settles over me like comfort I didn’t know I needed. My chin rests on her shoulder as she swipes a bite off Kai’s plate and laughs at something Bash mutters, cheeks still flushed from the walk.
It feels like a scene from a movie we’ve already watched a hundred times. Familiar. Safe.
“This is what it’s like, huh?” she says quietly, just for me. “When no one’s watching. When we’re just… us.”
I lean in closer, my lips grazing the shell of her ear. “Darlin’, no matter where we are, you’re ours.”