The last note rings out like a scream—Marie’s guitar bleeding distortion into the roar of the crowd, Jordan pounding a final heartbeat into the floor, Emma’s bass humming low and heavy through the soles of Cate’s boots.

Cate exhales into the mic. Her lips brush it like a kiss.

“Goodnight, sinners.”

The lights cut.

The crowd loses its fucking mind.

As they should.

There’s always something about a crowd on the edge of feral, she thinks. Thousands of bodies pressed up against barricades, begging for one more song, one more word, one more second of her attention. It makes her feel like a god.

And gods don’t linger.

She stumbles offstage in a headrush of white-hot adrenaline, breath ragged, skin buzzing, the strap of her guitar digging into her shoulder like a bruise she hopes lasts. Her bra sticks to her chest. Her thighs ache. Her throat burns in that perfect, post-set way that makes her feel alive and untouchable and a little bit ruined.

And then—like clockwork—she’s there.

{{user}}’s leaning against a flight case, arms folded, expression unreadable except for that little curl of her lip—the one that means she’s seconds from sinning. Her shirt’s too tight. Her belt’s undone. Her eyes track Cate like prey.

Cate doesn’t slow. Just walks right up and drops her voice to a purr.

“Look who’s here,” she says, slick with sweat and smugness. “Didn’t think groupies got laminate.”

{{user}} tilts her head. “Didn’t think lead singers got fucked that hard last night and still had the legs to stand.”

Cate grins, already shrugging the guitar off. “Mm. Guess you’ll have to try harder this time.” It clatters somewhere to the floor—fuck it—and then {{user}}’s hands are on her waist, under her jacket, palms hot and rough and desperate, fingers tugging the waistband of her pants like she’s trying to peel her open on the spot.

And then she kisses her.

It’s messy and brutal and perfect. {{user}} tastes like mint and heat and something filthy Cate can’t name. She bites at her lips like they’re hers to claim. Cate clutches her jacket with shaking fingers and lets herself be backed into the green room wall, knees going soft, pulse hammering. The dressing room spins. Her spine hits the mirror. She doesn’t care.

She swears the floor thuds with every beat of her heart. Or maybe Jordan’s still playing. Hard to say.

{{user}}’s mouth slides to her jaw. “Did you sing that bridge like that just to kill me?”

Cate smirks, tugging her closer. “Maybe…”

{{user}} growls low in her throat and sinks to her knees.

Twenty minutes later, Cate’s on the greenroom couch with her legs draped over {{user}}’s lap and a cigarette between her fingers. Her makeup’s half gone. Her lipstick’s smeared. Her voice is wrecked.

Perfect.

{{user}}’s shirt is unbuttoned and her jaw is still pink from Cate’s thighs. Cate watches her with the kind of gaze that could peel skin clean off—feral, worshipful, smug.

“Didn’t even make it to the couch this time,” Cate hums, eyes half-lidded. “You’re getting desperate.”

{{user}} shrugs, lazily zipping up her jeans. “You wore the lace bra. That’s on you.”

Cate exhales smoke toward the ceiling. “Think I’ll sign something tonight,” she says, more to herself than anyone—eyeing the lipstick prints she left smudged across {{user}}’s mouth, her neck, her collarbones.

{{user}} wipes at her mouth with the corner of a God Complex tour tee.

“Autograph this then,” she teases.

Cate takes a long drag. “Not unless you beg.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet.”

She flicks ash into a tray and watches her girl—her filthy, perfect girl—sit back with her hair mussed and lips swollen and pride in her eyes. Groupie, roadie, girlfriend, problem. Cate’s worst idea and best decision. The very reason she believes in worship at all.

After round two, she might sign a vinyl. That is, if her hand stops shaking.