Riffs That Ruin (Survival Records #2)

28. Raina

T he swishing beads on my costume click together as I stride toward the small group of carefully selected fans. My heart pounds against my ribs like a drum, matching the rhythm of my anxious thoughts.

Izzy, Nash, Keaton, Blake, and Darius trail behind me, their combined presence forming a protective barrier around me. I’m not sure I’d be able to do this without them, not without resorting to drugs again. It was the only way I could get through it in the past.

At the same time, it feels like I’m walking on air. We might not have solid information about Tristan, but his name has come up on reels. Someone on Izzy’s team has messaged the account, but they haven’t received an answer yet.

There’s hope though. And sometimes that’s all you need.

Entering the room, I catch sight of the excited fans looking across the room, waiting for me to walk through the door, and I’m abruptly struck with guilt. When I first started touring, I used to love getting to meet them. It suddenly feels like one more thing Dickless has stolen from me.

Gill meets us right inside the doorway of the room. “We decided to keep things small. Only a few fans are waiting to meet you. We have them lined up on the far side of the room. If things go well, let me know and we can try a few more next time.”

I give her a thankful smile, feeling less overwhelmed already.

The first fan, a freckle-faced redhead sporting one of my old tour t-shirts, steps forwards hesitantly. She clutches her sketchpad tightly in her hands, the universal symbol of an artist. When she meets my gaze, tears well up in her eyes and she stammers out praises for our music, her words stumbling over one another in her nervousness.

As our conversation continues, she shows me some of her art, things my music has inspired her to draw. I’m hit with a wave of understanding more impactful than the one I experienced the other day with Darius.

They’re more than fans; they connect with my—well now it’s becoming our—music on a deeper level. It’s comforting to know how much the lyrics mean to them… to her.

The music is bigger than just us on stage.

The next fan is a tall young man with a shy smile. He tells me how our music has helped him get through tough times, and I feel Nash’s hand press against my lower back in support. His genuine gratitude is enough to warm me from the inside out. I reach out and give the guy a soft smile, offering a hug. His eyes widen, as if he can’t believe I’d do something so personal, but he wraps his arms around me carefully. “Thank you,” he whispers, almost too quietly for me to hear.

When I pull away, he’s still smiling, but his eyes shimmer like he’s holding back emotions he doesn’t want to show. My chest tightens. I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on interactions like this for so long. It makes me fucking angry how these meet and greets got tainted over the years.

I glance over at Darius, standing beside me. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a hint of pride in his eyes. Maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.

The line moves forward, and another fan steps up. She’s bouncing on her heels, clearly bursting with excitement. “Raina, oh my God, I’ve waited so long to meet you!” she squeals, practically vibrating with energy.

Her enthusiasm is contagious, pulling a genuine laugh from me. “I’m glad you’re here,” I say, meaning every word.

She hands me a poster to sign, her hands trembling as I scrawl my name across the glossy paper. “You saved me,” she blurts out. “Your songs... they saved me.”

My pen halts mid-signature, and I look up at her, stunned by the raw vulnerability in her voice. “I’m so glad the music helped you,” I tell her, but the words feel a little disingenuous when my music wasn’t enough to save myself when the time came.

Behind me, I feel Keaton’s silent support, his presence grounding me as the weight of these interactions sinks in. It’s as I walk to the next waiting fan that I see her sign says #TeamDarius. I’m surprised she didn’t say anything about it at all, but I suppose she had other things on her mind.

As we continue down the line, each Storm Chaser tells their story, and every one chips away at the walls I’ve built around myself. I can feel the anxiety fading, replaced by a sense of belonging—not just with the band, but with these people who have connected with us in ways I never expected.

Finally, we reach the last fan in the line, a girl who can’t be more than thirteen. She’s clutching a scrapbook, her eyes wide as she steps forward. “I made this for you,” she says, her voice trembling slightly.

I take the book from her, flipping through the pages filled with photos, lyrics, and artwork—everything dedicated to me. Each page is a testament to how much my songs mean to her, and my throat tightens with emotion.

“It’s beautiful,” I say softly, running my fingers over a drawing she’s done of me and the guys. “Thank you so much.”

Her eyes shine with pride, and she grins up at me. “I just wanted to give something back, you know? For everything you’ve given me.”

I close the scrapbook gently, handing it back to her with a warm smile. “You already have.”

As we finish the meet and greet, the fans start to leave, their excited chatter echoing in the hallway. I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, the tension finally melting away. Darius steps up beside me, his gaze lingering on the retreating fans.

“You did good, Raina,” he says quietly.

I glance over at him, offering a small smile. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought.”

Nash chuckles from behind me, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Told you. Your fans love you.”

Keaton gives me a soft smile, his hand brushing against mine in a brief but reassuring gesture. “They’re here for you. We all are.”

And for the first time in a long time, I believe it.

“Seems like everything went well. What do you think?” Gill asks, her smiling face bringing me an unexpected sense of joy. I can’t help but match it.

“It really did. Thank you for helping to pick the right fans.” I’m not sure why I do it, but I reach out and give her a quick hug.”How did you know I had anything to do with it?” she asks, a little flustered by my affection.

“Because you wouldn’t have left something like that up to chance. You care about your job too much,” I tell her.

She quickly glances at the ground before looking at me again, pink tinging her cheeks. “So, does that mean we can add a few more next time?”

“That would be great.” Saying yes almost feels like a weight is lifted off my shoulders. I’m reclaiming everything I love about music, one step at a time.

“I’ll make sure it happens.” She looks at her watch, checking the time. “Carmen should be getting close to being done, then we’ll get the stage reset for your performance if you want to catch any other pre rituals before show time.”

“Thanks, Gill. You’re the best!” I turn to the guys, making sure they all heard her. “Let’s head back to the dressing room.”

We make our way through the halls and take a shortcut that leads us into the backstage area. Carmen’s whiny voice reaches me, making me instantly wince with the sharpness of it. Someone should really turn her mic down.

“Thank you, thank you, everyone!” She blows the fakest kisses toward the audience. It doesn’t pass me by that it’s a cheap carbon copy of my Pucker Perfect face, which I’m deciding right fucking now that I’m dropping it.

It’s stupid. I hate it. I won’t do it again.

“We had a break from the tour the past five days, and I’ve had a chance to record some new songs. Would you like to hear my new single hitting the radio today?” The crowd cheers, but I groan. I’m surprised she got any work done being at that hell hole with Dickless and no doubt Napalm Delights.

The backtrack of her song plays through the speakers and I turn to get at least a few minutes of peace and quiet before I have to get on stage myself.

I’ve almost made it through the maze of stage crew and instrument cases when her words hit me like a freight train. She’s singing my song. The one we painstakingly pieced together the music for until it was perfect. I freeze in place, unable to tell if I’m actually living in some kind of nightmare that I need to wake myself up from.

My suffering spews out of her mouth, an upbeat party anthem track making it sound fun instead of agonizing.

Anger flares inside me, raw and potent. My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms until I bleed. But it’s nothing compared to the way my heart is cut open, bared for all to see.

“Nash!” I hiss, grabbing his arm since he’s closest and demanding his attention. At the same time, the others tune in to me, their eyes on me in question. It should make me happy that they all automatically tune out from hearing that bitch whenever they can, but I need them to know my agony without the added insult of having to explain it. “Listen.”

My heart pounds in my chest, a sickening lurch of betrayal settling in my stomach. I point behind me to the stage where Carmen’s garish figure prances about, belting out the words that came from the darkest corners of my soul. The audience eats it up, oblivious to the theft they’re witnessing.

Nash glances at me, confusion crinkling his forehead before he turns his gaze toward the stage. Comprehension dawns on his features, his face seemingly melting of all the playfulness that makes him Nash, leaving behind a blank slate.

Keaton steps beside me in an instant, his hand a solid comfort on my shoulder. “Raina,” he murmurs, as if my name alone can pull me out of the nightmare.

Blake swears under his breath, tension radiating off him like heat from asphalt. Even Darius looks thrown off balance, his usual confident smirk nowhere to be seen.

“It’s not possible,” I fume, turning around and storming to the edge of the stage, barely out of sight of the fans in the crowd. The band follows closely behind me, a protective barrier against my rising rage.

The sickeningly sweet sound of Carmen’s voice washes over us as we stand here, her words twisting the meaning of my song beyond recognition. It’s amazing how you can change the perceived meaning of something based on the music you pair it with.

I should know, I’ve been hiding my torment in plain sight all along.

“Gill!” I call out, my voice loud over the music. She appears a moment later, an index finger poised against her earpiece. Her eyes widen at the uncontained rage on my face before her gaze flicks toward the stage.

“Raina,” she starts in a soothing tone, trying to placate me. “I’m already on comms with Izzy, she’s contacting your lawyer as we speak.”

“They stole my song, Gill!” I can’t help it, I snap the words at her, pointing at Carmen still performing on stage. Gill’s gaze hardens, and she nods in understanding.

“We’ll sort this out,” she assures me in a tight voice. I know she means it; she’s always had my back. But right now, it’s not enough to soothe the broken pieces of me threatening to cut me to shreds.

“She’s singing our song,” Nash states plainly, though his voice reveals his shock. “How’d she get hold of it?” he asks in shock, clearly feeling the same betrayal.

I shake my head, wrapping my arms around myself as if it could ward off the chill creeping up my spine. “I don’t know,” I admit in a hushed whisper.

Those words were hidden in my journal. How the fuck did she get them?

I frantically trace back in my mind every time the book wasn’t with me. I’ve been diligent about keeping it hidden on the bus when I’m not writing in it, and before then… we were in the beach house.

Right as the realization hits, my gaze lands on Dickless, way on the other side of the stage in the wings, staring at me with a sick twist of his lips.

My gut twists in searing pain when I hear the now familiar riff Darius added to our version. The one he said played in his head whenever he saw me.

He’s smug as he mouths the words, “You should’ve done the duet.”