Page 2 of Vengeful Melodies (Heaven’s Guilt Revenge Tour Duet #1)

Chapter Two

Alix Sanderson

I touch my lips, the taste of the mystery woman’s cherry lip gloss still lingering.

Maybe she was a fan, just seizing the moment to kiss the drummer from Heaven’s G.

But that doesn’t feel right. She looked at me like she didn’t have a clue who I was.

I should’ve asked her name. Or at least her number.

I glance up at my best friend, about to ask if he got her name or number, but he just lifts his hand before I can speak.

“She literally just caught her piece-of-shit fiancé cheating on her, man,” Grey says quietly, stepping forward and clicking the lock on the half-door that separates the tattoo shop’s lobby from the back rooms. “She’s not your next conquest. That woman’s in pain.

You should know what that feels like… after the Vickie thing last year. ”

The door swings open.

His words hit, and I spiral—right back into the mess I’ve tried to bury.

Being in the spotlight doesn’t stop you from getting cheated on.

I didn’t hear it from her. I heard it on the news. Headlines and flashing images of Vickie, caught in someone else’s arms while I was halfway across the country.

By the time I got home, the apartment was empty. She took everything. Even things that weren’t hers.

Even my grandmother’s wedding ring.

Even her ashes.

Who steals ashes?

I chased her down every lead I could find. All dead ends. Eventually, I found the ashes online—on some auction site that sold celebrity trash. Trash. That’s what she turned them into.

I sent Takoa and Bash to recover them. I couldn’t risk facing her if it was Vivian selling them—afraid she’d do something worse, and I’d lose what little I had left of my grandmother.

But it wasn’t her. Just some greasy middle-aged dude who bought them for thirty bucks. “Some bimbo sold ’em,” he’d said. “Didn’t catch her name.”

Yeah. I know who it was. And apparently, thirty dollars was what my grandmother’s ashes were worth to her.

I hired PIs. Burned through cash. But every trail ran cold. Eventually, my manager forced me to stop. Said I was spending my fortune before I could even enjoy it. Before I could live the dream, we’d built.

A jab to my shoulder brings me back to the present.

“Let’s go,” Grey mutters. “You’ve gotta wrangle the guys before they start lighting fires again. Especially Bash. You know he can find trouble at the bottom of a shot glass.”

There’s still tension between them—leftover from that fight where Grey stopped him from chasing a high he didn’t need.

“I can’t argue with that,” I mumble, rubbing the back of my neck. “Seems like all I’m good for now is keeping this band from self-destructing.”

Grey opens the back door, letting the fluorescent light spill through.

“If we could just find something—some lifeline—maybe we could go back to who we were before.”

Before the fame. Before we were gods to broken people. Before we got broken, too.

“You think this is the last tour?” Grey asks as we step inside.

I shoot him a look. “Do you think you’ll always work under this so-called friend of yours?”

He shrugs. “Not the same. I’m just a goldfish in your koi pond. No one’s coming to see me when you’re the one who saves souls.”

I snort. “You tattoo lyrics on people.”

“Exactly. The lyrics you wrote.” He pauses. “I did ten tribute tattoos just this week. People want to wear the pain you turn into music.”

His voice is rough, low. It cuts deep.

He’s not wrong. But I’ll never tell him. His ego would explode.

“If they knew how broken we really are… how we can’t even save ourselves—they’d give up on us completely,” I say softly, stepping into the room.

It’s dim at first. Then the lights buzz to life.

That familiar black leather chair sits in the center of the room. My throne. My therapy.

I smirk. “Be a doll, baby boy. Make this one hurt.”

I slip off my jacket, toss the wig and hat aside, peel off the sunglasses hiding my eyes.

“Thank God you took off that ridiculous wig. Blonde doesn’t suit you. Makes your skin look sickly,” Grey grumbles, prepping the station.

He’s tried to teach me the tools. Even let me try tattooing myself once. The result? A crooked, sad excuse for a heart on my thigh.

“You excited for the show?” he asks. “Bash and Kai said this is the fourth sold-out arena. Tickets dropped last week, and you only get five VIPs. I already claimed one.”

“You’d be backstage anyway,” I say, flashing a crooked smile. “Five or not.”

Grey blushes but doesn’t respond. He focuses on the stencil he presses to my freshly shaved arm.

“Don’t flirt with me. I know you too well,” he mutters.

The machine whirs to life. The buzz is oddly comforting.

I watch as he works—black ink bleeding into my skin, forming the silhouette of our fallen angel logo. It’s familiar. It’s home.

Four hours pass. My arm throbs, the fresh ink wrapped in a protective layer.

Grey rattles off care instructions like a machine, handing me ointment.

“I’ll see you at the show,” I say, slipping back into my disguise.

He nods. “Be safe, brother.”

As I head out, my phone buzzes. Probably Kai or Bash wondering where the hell I am.

I don’t know why we’re rehearsing every single day like we’re new to this. We’ve done this before. Hell, this is our second tour.

At this point, it’s burned into our bones.