Claimed by the Band (Fameverse #1)

Chapter 1 – JORDAN

1

JORDAN

T he busy cafe bustles around me to a soundtrack of clinking cups and murmured conversations. I hunker down in my corner booth, laptop open, fingers flying across the keys so fast I'm pretty sure something is about to start sparking.

It's not exactly a great place to focus, but the public WiFi here is my shield along with a VPN and half a dozen other methods of encryption, masking my digital footprints as I probe the defenses of my latest client.

A tech company hired me anonymously to test their security vulnerabilities. It's child's play, really. Their firewall might as well be made of tissue paper. I'm in within minutes, ghosting through their systems, leaving breadcrumbs for their IT team to follow later. Just to make sure they patch up all the holes.

Considering how much this client is paying, it's well worth it. And that check funds my more illicit hobbies.

My phone buzzes, a news alert flashing across the screen. I've got special notifications set up for anything omega-related.

The headline gives me pause. Not the usual counterprotest or asshole politician waxing philosophical about how omegas need to get back in the home. "Violence Erupts at Wild Honey Concert—Omega Singer Targeted."

I click through, scanning the article with growing horror.

"Wild Honey, the chart-topping rock band led by outspoken omega vocalist Asher Wilde, was attacked on stage during last night's performance."

The details are like something out of a nightmare. Masked assailants somehow breached security, releasing a gas designed to throw any nearby alphas into an extreme version of rut. The other band members, four alphas bonded to the lead singer, were hospitalized after coming to his defense from a surge of affected alphas who rushed the stage.

The police say they're investigating it as a hate crime, citing Asher's omega rights activism as a likely motive, but I know how that will pan out.

I study the photos, my jaw clenched tight. The stage is in chaos, instruments scattered like broken toys. Security guards and band members grapple with drugged alphas from the crowd while panicked concertgoers flee.

And there, in the center of it all, is Asher Wilde.

Even in the grainy cellphone footage, he's magnetic. Tall and lithe, with artfully tousled blond hair and violet eyes that immediately mark him as an omega, as rare as they are even among the general omega population. But there's nothing submissive about his stance. He's positioned protectively in the midst of his bandmates, microphone stand brandished like a weapon.

It's the kind of scene that would make one hell of an album cover, if it wasn't born out of a real-life nightmare.

I can't help but feel a grudging admiration. He's not cowering, not running. He's standing his ground, defiant in the face of hate. It's not exactly typical omega behavior.

Then again, neither is anything I do.

I click through more photos, studying each of the band members. They're an attractive bunch, no denying that.

The dark-haired drummer, muscles bulging as he shields Asher with his body, looks absolutely massive even compared to the huge alphas around him.

The bassist is pretty jacked, too, wielding his instrument like a club. His tousled, reddish-brown hair and the flannel he's wearing over his black T-shirt and jeans make him look like a lumberjack-rockstar hybrid.

The lead guitarist has longish black hair and piercing green eyes set with murderous intent at the alphas charging the stage as he stands back-to-back with the leaner rhythm guitarist. He's the lithest out of the bunch, but still plenty muscular with short, choppy dark hair and near-black eyes.

One look at them all and it's easy to see why they're all over every magazine I glance at by the grocery store checkout. Especially Asher. But I have to admit, I'm impressed that a bunch of hot rockstars actually came through in such a high-pressure situation.

One that could have easily turned lethal.

"Sir? Here's the coffee you ordered."

I startle, looking up to find a waitress hovering by my table. She's a young beta, probably barely out of high school, with a hopeful smile and a light dusting of freckles across her nose.

"Thanks," I say, accepting the mug with a nod. She lingers, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

"Can I get you anything else?" she asks, her tone just a shade too friendly to be purely professional. "We've got some great pastries if you're hungry. I know you come here a lot, but you never get food."

I sigh internally. Another location I'm going to have to ditch if I'm regular enough to draw this kind of attention. This happens more often than I'd like, especially since I started binding and dressing as a male beta.

My brown hair isn't even that short, falling just above my shoulders in a versatile style that can easily switch between quirky bob and skater boy, depending on the occasion. The bindings keep my chest flat, and I'm not exactly "gifted" in that department as it is. Baggy sweats and jeans do the rest.

That and the industrial strength suppressants and scent blockers that would have made me a billionaire by now if I got a bit of stock with each purchase.

I go out of my way to be as unremarkable as possible, but there's something about the whole brooding loner vibe that seems to attract a certain type.

"I'm good, thanks," I say, keeping my voice low and gruff. I've spent years training myself to speak from the chest rather than the throat. It's all part of the persona I've crafted so carefully.

The waitress doesn't take the hint. She leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "You know, my shift ends in an hour if you wanted to grab a drink or something."

Pretty sure she's not even old enough to drink legally, but I decide not to bring that up. I meet her eyes, letting a hint of coldness seep into my gaze. "Sorry. I'm gay," I say flatly.

It's better to be blunt. She's really barking up the wrong tree in more ways than one.

Her face falls, a blush creeping up her neck. "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't realize... I mean, I shouldn't have assumed..."

I wave off her stammered apologies. "It's fine. Really."

She nods, mortified, and scurries away. I feel a twinge of guilt for being so brusque, but I squash it down. Survival means not getting close to anyone. Ever. And it's a strategy that's worked for me these last nine years.

My phone buzzes again, this time with a text. The contact is listed only as "Ace," a precaution against prying eyes. But the truth is, I don't know any other name to call him by.

Or her.

Safer that way for the both of us.

The message is simple.

ACE: Showtime.

A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. I've been looking forward to this for weeks. Ace and I have been working on a little project, one that's much closer to my heart than testing corporate security systems.

We're about to take down a social networking site that caters to alphas who stalk and doxx omegas. It's a cesspool of hate and violence, one the authorities have been stubbornly ignoring despite multiple reports. Well, let them ignore what doesn't exist anymore.

This is why I do what I do. It's not about the money, though that certainly doesn't hurt. It's about making a difference, about protecting omegas who can't protect themselves. It's about striking back at a system that would rather pretend we don't exist.

And yeah, maybe it's a bit of consolation for not being able to live as myself. For having to hide behind baggy hoodies, for speaking in a voice that isn't quite my own, for always having to pop pills just to keep my body's traitorous cycles in line. For having to hide, day after day, year after year.

I take a swig of coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste. Time to get to work. I pull up a series of command prompts and dig in. To anyone watching, it probably looks like I'm furiously writing a term paper or something equally mundane.

In reality, I'm about to unleash hell on a bunch of alpha supremacist assholes.

Sometimes I love my job.

The first line of code goes in, a elegant little virus that will replicate and spread through their servers like wildfire. Next, a data scraper to collect evidence of their activities before we wipe everything. Can't hurt to have a little insurance, after all.

As I work, my mind drifts back to the article about Wild Honey. I wonder how Asher's doing, if he and his bandmates are okay. It's not often you see an omega in such a high-profile position, let alone one who's so vocal about omega rights.

Part of me admires him for it. For having the courage to stand up and be counted, to use his platform to advocate for change. Another part of me thinks he's painting a giant target on his back.

Today's attack is proof of that.

But then again, who am I to judge? I might not be on stage in front of thousands, but I'm fighting my own battles. We're just using different weapons.

A notification pops up on my screen. The virus has successfully infiltrated the main server. Now for the fun part. I crack my knuckles, a grin spreading across my face as I prepare to bring the whole system crashing down.

"Enjoy your digital apocalypse, fuckers," I mutter, hitting the enter key with a flourish.

Lines of code scroll across my screen as the virus does its work. In a matter of minutes, the entire site will be reduced to ash. User data, message logs, everything—gone. All except the backups I've already tucked away in my own private server for future evidence I'm apparently going to have to spoon feed to the cops. Anonymously, of course.

They'll have fun scrambling to regroup. It's beautiful, in a destructive sort of way.

My phone buzzes again. Another text from Ace.

ACE: Nice work. Clean getaway?

I glance around the cafe, making sure no one's paying me any undue attention. The waitress from earlier is studiously avoiding my corner. Everyone else is absorbed in their own little worlds.

All clear. No complications.

ACE: Good. Got another job lined up if you're interested. Big payout.

I hesitate, fingers hovering over the keys. I should say no. I've got enough saved up to last a while, and every job is a risk. But the thought of going back to my empty apartment, of days stretching out with nothing but my own thoughts for company...

I'm listening.

ACE: Tech conference next month. Lots of big players, lots of secrets. Client wants intel on new security protocols.

Corporate espionage, huh? Wouldn't be the first time.

Tech conferences are a goldmine of information, but they're also crawling with security. It would be a challenge, that's for sure.

Sounds interesting. What's the catch?

There's a pause before Ace responds.

ACE: It's in Bayview.

I freeze, a chill running down my spine. It's almost the last place I want to go, only thirty minutes from the small town I fled from nearly a decade ago. Too many memories, too many ghosts.

But the challenge... the thrill of infiltration, of matching wits with the best minds in the industry. It's tempting, despite the risks.

And the money would probably fund my other projects for a year at least.

Need time to think about it.

ACE: Understood. Just let me know by the end of the week.

I set the phone down, my mind whirling. Bayview. Could I really go back there? Face all the things I've been running from for so long?

A cheer goes up from a nearby table, drawing my attention. A group of college kids are huddled around a laptop, watching some viral video.

Time for me to go.

And now, I've gotta find a new coffee shop.