Page 25 of Vengeful Melodies (Heaven’s Guilt Revenge Tour Duet #1)

Chapter Twenty Five

Dreya

The rumble of the RV smooths as we pull into L.A., the sky already streaked pink and blue, promising a new day. I’m leaning against the arm of the couch, Jack curled into my side, when Takoa clears his throat from the front lounge.

The room shifts, like someone hit pause on the noise around us.

“We’ll be in L.A. for two nights,” he says, calm but heavy with weight. “Back-to-back shows after that, so enjoy the downtime.”

Kaiser perks up beside me. “Downtime in L.A.? That’s like handing us the keys to a Ferrari and whispering, ‘don’t speed.’ ”

Alix throws a stick at him from the kitchenette. “What you mean is: party. ”

“Obviously.” Kai grins.

Takoa leans against the wall, crossing his arms, eyes scanning each of us like a predator checking his prey. “We’re staying at the Hilton. Presidential suite. All of us. ”

Bash cackles. “Oh, this’ll go great. Absolutely nothing chaotic about four emotionally unstable musicians and one tiny marketing assistant in a luxury box above Los Angeles.”

“Plus Jack,” I add, scratching behind his ears.

Takoa’s lips twitch, just the barest hint of a smirk. “There’s enough room. And better security.”

“ All of us together. ” Kai grins like he’s been handed a bottle of whiskey and a free pass to sin. “Gonna get real cozy.”

Alix kicks his boots onto the coffee table. “I call dibs on a bathtub and room service.”

“You’re not getting the master bedroom, mate,” Takoa warns, then flicks his eyes to me. “Unless Dreya wants it.”

My mouth opens, then closes, caught off guard by the attention.

“She should get it,” Kaiser nudges my sock-covered foot. “She’s the only one doing real work.”

“Hey!” Bash protests. “I’ll have you know looking this good is a full-time job.”

“You’re gonna need more than charm tonight,” Takoa mutters, checking his phone. “Doors open at 8. We’re doing the full set, plus the unreleased closer.”

“The closer?” I sit up straighter.

“Yeah,” Alix says with a grin. “Raw. No lights. No theatrics. Just us.”

“And you,” Kaiser adds softly, eyes meeting mine. “You said you were doing the videos, right?”

“Yeah. That’s the plan.”

“Good,” Takoa nods. “Because tonight’s not just another show. It’s the one where they see us. And we want you there for all of it.”

My heart thuds like a second kick drum.

They all look at me for a beat too long. The charged pause makes my chest burn.

“Better go get dressed before someone steals your eyeliner,” I mumble, standing up.

“I would never,” Alix murmurs, mock offended.

“You totally would,” Bash calls after me. “But only to impress you.”

Kaiser leans in with a wink. “You don’t need makeup, Dreya. You already make us look good.”

I roll my eyes, cheeks burning, and walk faster. But inside? I’m melting. Somewhere between chaos and chords, I’ve fallen into something dangerous. Something I might not survive without getting burned.

Back upstairs, I plug in my speaker, letting one of the band’s older tracks pulse low while I get ready. I tug one of their old tour shirts over high-waisted jeans and boots. Grunge girl. Marketing assassin. Professional chaos wrangler.

I swipe on eyeliner, curl my hair loosely, then grab my tablet, badge, and notebook.

Alix is waiting at the door, dark hair tousled, drumsticks behind his ear. “Looking like a sin we haven’t written a song about yet,” he murmurs.

I arch a brow. “Is that how you warm up? Flirting with your marketing team?”

“Just getting in the rhythm.”

Bash appears behind him, leather jacket over a tank, necklaces clinking. “If that shirt slips any lower, Dreya, I might forget my chords tonight.”

“You’d forget them anyway,” I shoot back.

Bash gasps. “Wounded. Lucky you’re cute.”

Alix elbows him as we step off the RV. “Back off. Don’t try to steal my thunder.”

“Guys,” I deadpan, “I’m holding a clipboard.”

“That’s what makes it hotter,” Bash grins wickedly.

Kaiser leans against the RV, smirking. “You all flirt like it’s a sport.”

“It is,” Bash says proudly.

Backstage, the air is thick with heat, sweat, and soundboard grease. I dodge cords, clutching my tablet. The lights flicker, the crew moves like a storm, and my pulse syncs with the bass rumble.

“Jupey,” Grey grins, carrying a rig. “You’re in the lion’s den now.”

“I’ve been in worse,” I mutter, sidestepping a panicked assistant.

I find a semi-clear corner to set up, fingers flying across my tablet, adjusting mic and frame. I tug the cropped, knotted shirt into place, boots laced, ready for the chaos.

Bash yells, “Where’s my other pick? Alix, did you steal it?”

“I only steal hearts,” Alix replies, adjusting mics.

“Found it!” Kaiser chimes in, grin wide. “You dropped it in the hallway.”

Takoa stands center stage, unmoving. Focused. Burning beneath the surface.

Five minutes to lights down. I press record. The crowd’s roar hits.

And I’m filming. But not just as an observer anymore. I’m part of the madness. Part of them. And I never want it to stop.