Page 76 of California Wild

She opened them. Caiden was still standing there, still holding the tequila, waiting.

Her fingers curled around her phone.

She met his gaze.

Then, slowly, she shook her head. “Not tonight.”

She handed the glass back and marched toward the stage.

* * * * *

The next day, the thick, humid air of Brisbane, Australia, clung to Hayley’s skin as she stepped out of the car and onto the pavement outside The Triffid, the legendary rock venue nestled in the heart of Newstead. The old WWII aircraft hangar-turned-music-club loomed in front of her, the steel bones of the structure giving it an industrial feel, softened by the warm yellow glow of the venue lights.

It smelled like city life—rain-soaked concrete, car exhaust, and the faint scent of cigarette smoke lingering in the air. But beneath it all, she could already pick up the scent of spilled beer and warm wood, the telltale markers of a place that had seen thousands of nights like the one she was about to have.

Excitement bubbled beneath her ribs, pushing away the last remnants of jet lag. Brisbane had a different energy than Auckland—it was hotter, heavier, louder. The festival show tomorrow would be massive, but tonight, tonight was for the die-hard fans. The ones who had been with them since their first EP. The ones who knew every lyric by heart.

“Hell yeah, Triffid, baby,” Kilgor grinned as he stretched his arms behind his head, taking in the building like he was about to conquer it. “I love this place. Feels like home.”

Billy gave a small nod beside him. “Solid venue.”

Caiden, standing just behind her, slung an arm lazily over her shoulder. “You feeling good, Fox?”

She glanced up at him, adjusting the strap of her guitar case slung over her back. “Yeah. I think I am.”

And she wasn’t lying.

For the first time in a long time, she actually felt good. Present. Clear-headed.

A new city. A new show. A new chapter.

Just music.

Tonight was going to be good.

The band left their gear with the crew and headed to Triple M Brisbane Studio. The radio station was just down the road, housed in a sleek, glass-paneled building that buzzed with industry types moving in and out. They were ushered into a small, soundproofed studio, a neon Triple M sign glowing against the exposed brick walls. The place smelled of stale coffee and worn leather, the scent of years of rock musicians passing through.

Hayley settled into her chair, adjusting the headphones over her ears, the mic standing inches from her lips. Across from her, Caiden and Billy did the same while Kilgor drummed lightly on his knee, always restless.

The host, a gruff-looking Aussie with salt-and-pepper hair and a Midnight Oil t-shirt, grinned at them from behind the console. “Alright, legends, we’ve got Dead Run Riot in the studio tonight. Hayley, Caiden, Billy, Kilgor—welcome to The Friday Rock Show.”

“Happy to be here,” Hayley said, smiling as she leaned into the mic.

The next thirty minutes flew by in a blur of easy banter, talking about their tour so far, the madness of playing in New Zealand, and the Soundwave run ahead of them. The host cracked jokes, spun one of their tracks, and then—of course—steered the conversation toward Hayley and Caiden.

“So,” he smirked, tapping his fingers against the desk, “you two have been stirring up quite the rumors, huh?”

Hayley barely had time to react before Caiden let out a low chuckle beside her. “Oh, mate, the media loves a good story.”

She forced a small laugh, brushing off the comment, but the host wasn’t done. “Come on, Fox, tell us—any truth to it?”

She leaned back, playing it cool. “I’m married to the music, mate.”

Caiden grinned, shooting her a sideways glance. “Safe answer.”

The host let out a laugh, then segued into an acoustic session. Hayley was grateful for the shift, focusing on her guitar instead of the questions that still lingered in the air.

They played a stripped-down version of Let It Burn, the rawness of the acoustic set bringing the lyrics to life in a different way. When they finished, the host gave them a nod of approval. “Bloody hell. That was sick.”

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