Claimed by the Band (Fameverse #1)

Chapter 4 – JORDAN

4

JORDAN

T he alley behind the pharmacy reeks of piss and rotting garbage. I wrinkle my nose, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. It's deserted, just like always, but I can't shake unease crawling its way up my spine. Years of paranoia have honed my instincts to a razor's edge. Right now, they're screaming at me to get the hell out of here.

But I can't. Not yet.

I check my watch. 11:58 PM.

She's late.

A door creaks open, and I tense, hand automatically reaching for the taser concealed in my jacket pocket. But it's just Mira, the pharmacy tech I've been bribing for the past three years to get my suppressants and blockers without a prescription.

"You're late," I growl, keeping my voice low and gruff.

Mira rolls her eyes, fishing a small paper bag out of her coat. "Chill, dude. I had to wait for my manager to leave. You want these or not?"

I snatch the bag from her hand, realizing I probably look like some junkie. But my nerves are frayed. I fish out a wad of cash from my pocket and hand it to her.

"Same time next month?" she asks, thumbing through the bills.

I grunt noncommittally. Truth is, I don't know where I'll be next month. The tech conference in Bayview is looming on the horizon, a tempting challenge and a potential nightmare all rolled into one. Part of me wants to go—to prove to myself that I can face my past, that I'm not still that scared little omega who ran away all those years ago.

But the rest of me? The rest of me is fucking terrified.

Being surrounded by a bunch of alphas is never a good idea, even under the best circumstances. Even with suppressants and blockers, there's always the risk of going into heat. And now, with extremists using pheromone-based weapons? One whiff of the wrong toxin and I'd be outed faster than you can say "omega rights."

It'd be suicide.

I stuff the bag of pills into my backpack, zipping it up with more force than necessary. "We'll see," I mutter.

Mira shrugs, already turning back toward the door. "Whatever, man. Just text me when you need a refill."

The door slams shut behind her, leaving me alone in the alley once more. I take a deep breath, trying to calm the churning in my gut.

It's fine.

Everything's fine.

I've got enough suppressants and blockers to last me for months now since I stockpile them. Plenty of time to figure out my next move.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fish it out, heart rate spiking when I see Ace's name on the screen.

ACE: Given any thought to my offer?

Fuck .

I stare at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard. This is it. Decision time. Do I take the job and risk everything I've built over the past nine years? Or do I play it safe and stay in my comfort zone?

The smart thing would be to say no. The part of me that wants to say fuck you to my past is screaming to do the opposite.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and decide to air on the side of having a brain.

Sorry. Can't do it.

ACE: No problem. Figured that'd be your answer.

I let out a breath, some tension unspooling from my limbs. That was easier than I thought it would be. Maybe I just need to take some time off. Go through a normal heat, as much as the thought tortures me. I'm way too jumpy.

My phone buzzes again.

ACE: Got something else that might interest you, though.

Goddammit.

What is it?

A moment later, a photo pops up on my screen. It's a face I've seen plastered all over newsstands and social media for weeks now.

Asher Wilde.

ACE: Recognize him?

I roll my eyes.

Yeah, he's all over the news. What about him?

ACE: His band's rhythm guitarist is an old friend. Called in a favor. They're looking to find out who's targeting Asher, get some proof since the cops aren't helping.

I snort. What else is new? Cops and their "investigations" are about as useful as tits on a bull when it comes to omega-related crimes.

Still... I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intrigued. I've never been hired by a rock band before.

ACE: Different kind of gig than usual. Would require you to go on tour with the band. Be part of their security detail.

My blood runs cold. I send my response immediately.

No. You know I don't do in-person. No names, no faces, no locations.

ACE: I know. Told them it was a long shot. But wanted to ask, considering it's an old friend.

I pause, finger hovering over the screen. It hits me suddenly that Ace is kind of putting himself on the line here, too. Asking me to take on a client who knows him personally... that's not nothing.

In-person is a no-go. But I'm willing to talk to them. You can give them my number.

There's a long pause before Ace responds.

ACE: Thanks. I'd consider it a personal favor.

I scoff out loud before typing out my reply.

I don't do favors.

ACE: I know. But for what it's worth, you're the only person I trust enough to compromise my identity to.

There's a pause before he starts typing again.

ACE: And it would be kind of cool to meet my idol.

Heat creeps up my neck.

Idol? Knock off the flattery.

He sends back a gif of a laughing cartoon cat. I roll my eyes again.

I'll hear them out.

Then I shove my phone back in my pocket before I can agree to anything else.

The walk back to my apartment is a blur of neon signs and honking horns. My mind races, weighing the pros and cons of taking on this new job.

On one hand, it's dangerous. Getting involved with high-profile clients like Wild Honey means increased scrutiny, increased risk of exposure. And the thought of having to interact with them directly, even over the phone, makes my skin crawl.

But on the other hand... this could be huge. If I can track down the people targeting Asher Wilde, expose this anti-omega hate group... it could make a real difference. Save lives, maybe.

And isn't that why I started doing this in the first place?

I unlock the door to my apartment, kicking off my shoes as I enter. The place is small, sparsely furnished—just the basics I need to survive. No personal touches, nothing that can't be abandoned at a moment's notice if I need to run.

It's not a home. It's a safehouse.

I flop onto the couch, pulling out my laptop. Might as well do some research while I wait to see if Wild Honey actually tries to set up a time to call. I pull up every article I can find about the attack at their concert, scouring for details in the available security footage online the media might have missed.

The more I research, the more my blood boils. The gas they used at the concert... it's nasty stuff. Designed to trigger an alpha's rut response and amplify it tenfold, overriding their conscious mind and turning them into slaves to their most primal instincts.

In a crowd that size, with that many alphas... it's a miracle more people weren't hurt.

Or killed.

Can't help but admire Asher Wilde's response to the whole thing. He barely even paused to get his bearings. He's been all over the media since his bassist got out of the hospital, using the attack to draw attention to the larger issue of omega rights. He's eloquent, passionate, refusing to back down or be silenced.

It is admirable.

But it’s also incredibly fucking dangerous.

Then again, the thought that the fuckers who tried to hurt him are probably having a hissy fit over the fact that it backfired and brought even more attention to the cause brings a smile to my face for the first time since I can remember.