Discover Me (Beta Accepted #8)

Chapter 1 Micah

Micah

The first day of fall always feels like a beginning, even when you're twenty-eight and stuck in the same small town you grew up in.

There's something about the crisp air that makes everything feel possible, like the world's offering you a clean slate even though you know damn well you're going to write the same story on it.

I breathe in deep, letting the cool September morning fill my lungs as I stand on the scaffolding attached to the old entertainment building downtown. My toolbelt weighs heavy on my hips, my work gloves shoved onto my hands, fingers already aching from the early morning labor.

Boss’ voice is still ringing in my ears, the old crabby Alpha telling me that this job was more important than anything else we were working on because someone important was coming into town.

Which… is fine.

But patching up a roof is not my specialty.

I just happen to be the only one without kids, without any additional ailments, and the only one stupid enough to grab some overtime.

Which is why I’m up on the goddamn roof, attacking the water damage from last spring's storms. It left some sections rotted through, and the owner wanted it fixed before the big charity event they're hosting this weekend.

Easy enough work. The kind my dad used to do before his heart gave out three years ago, leaving me with nothing but his toolbox and a position at Henderson Construction Company.

I don't mind it, really. There's something meditative about working with my hands, about seeing a problem and fixing it with sweat and skill.

I can lose myself in it, let everything else fade away until it's just me and the task in front of me.

I'm securing the last section of new shingles when I hear voices below, followed by the industrial groan of something heavy being moved.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I straighten up, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm as I look down at the street level.

Four massive posters are being unrolled down the side of the building, each one probably fifteen feet tall, and I watch as they unfurl to reveal four gorgeous faces staring out at the town.

Lunar Ransom, the bold lettering declares across the top. Live at the Fall Charity Gala.

I've heard of them, vaguely. Some rock band that's been climbing the charts, the kind of music that plays in the background at the bar when I'm trying to enjoy a beer in peace.

The four faces on the posters are striking in that intentional, crafted way that screams money and image consultants.

Three men and one who could be anyone, really, all of them beautiful in that untouchable rockstar way.

Dark eyeliner, perfect hair, leather and attitude captured in glossy print.

One of them catches my eye more than the others.

Dark hair, tattoos visible even in the promotional photo, multiple piercings that make me intrigued rather than turned off.

He's holding drumsticks, positioned behind what I assume is his kit, something intense about his expression.

Not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. Just..

. present. Like he's looking right through the camera and seeing something the rest of us can't.

I snort and shake my head, turning back to my work. That's the kind of guy who peaked in high school, probably. Got told he was special one too many times and believed it. Not that I have any room to talk, considering I never left the town I grew up in.

At least I'm honest about where I am in life. Construction work, same company my dad worked for, same small apartment I've had since I was twenty-two. It's not glamorous, but it's mine.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fish it out to see a text from my coworker, Jamie.

Those rockstar posters up yet? Whole town's gonna lose their minds.

I glance back down at the massive faces now adorning the building.

Just went up. Very... sparkly.

Jamie sends back three crying-laughing emojis, and I slip my phone back into my pocket with a small smile.

At least someone's entertained by all this.

The charity gala is supposed to be a big deal—local Alphas with too much money and not enough sense sponsoring some cause or another, bringing in a famous band to make themselves look good. I've seen it before.

Hell, half the sponsors probably did peak in high school, now living off daddy's money and pretending their donations make them good people.

I crouch down to pack up my tools, double-checking that everything's secure.

The morning's work is done, and I'm ready to get down, grab lunch, and maybe take a break before the afternoon shift starts.

My toolbox clicks shut with a satisfying sound, and I heft it up, adjusting my grip as I turn toward the ladder.

That's when I see them.

Two Alphas standing at the base of my ladder, looking up at me with expressions that make my heart drop into my stomach.

I recognize them immediately as Derek and Colt, two guys I turned down at Riley's Bar a few nights ago when they decided I looked lonely enough to approach.

I wasn't interested then, and I'm sure as hell not interested now, but apparently they didn't get the memo.

"Hey there, pretty Beta!" Derek calls up, his voice carrying that particular brand of false friendliness that sets my teeth on edge. He's got his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels like he's got all the time in the world. "Fancy seeing you up there!"

I sigh, gripping my toolbox tighter. The last thing I want right now is to deal with their bullshit, but I can't exactly stay up here forever. "Not interested, guys. Move along."

"Aw, come on," Colt chimes in, stepping closer to the ladder.

He's bigger than Derek, broader in the shoulders, with the kind of build that says he spends too much time at the gym and not enough time developing a personality.

"We just want to talk. You left so quick the other night, didn't even give us a chance. "

"I gave you an answer," I say, keeping my voice level as I approach the ladder. "That answer was no. Still is. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do."

I start to descend, keeping a firm grip on the sides. I've done this hundreds of times. It should be fine. It will be fine.

"You know," Derek says, an edge to his voice now, "you Betas think you're so special. Acting all high and mighty when an Alpha shows interest."

"Not acting like anything," I mutter, focusing on my descent. Just a couple dozen more rungs and I'll be down and can walk away from this whole situation. "Just not interested. There's a difference."

"We could fill that pretty little hole of yours," Colt adds, the crude suggestion making my jaw clench. "Make you forget all about being picky."

"Pass." I'm halfway down now, and I can see them more clearly. There's something in their expressions that makes unease prickle at the back of my neck. They're not just being persistent—they're being aggressive about it. "Go find someone else to torture."

I try to tune them out as I continue down, counting rungs in my head. Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen. My arms are starting to ache from holding the toolbox, and I'm looking forward to solid ground under my feet. Just a little further.

That's when the ladder jerks beneath me.

My heart jumps into my throat as I grip it tighter, looking down to see Colt with his hands on the ladder, shaking it. Not hard, but enough that I can feel the movement transferring up through the metal rungs.

"Fucking stop!" Fear cuts through my annoyance. I'm still ten feet up, and a fall from this height with a heavy toolbox could do serious damage.

"It's just a joke," Derek laughs, but there's nothing funny about it. "Hold on, you big ole Beta. Don't be so dramatic."

"Stop it!" I try to keep my voice steady, an edge of panic creeping in. The ladder's shaking harder now, and I can feel my grip starting to slip. "This isn't funny!"

Colt keeps shaking it, apparently thinking this is hilarious, and I watch in horror as the ladder starts to lean backward, away from the building.

Physics takes over, and I know what's coming even before it happens.

The ladder reaches its tipping point and then slams forward, the top edge crashing against the building's edge with a metallic clang that reverberates through my bones.

My head connects with the metal rung in front of me, and pain explodes across my forehead.

Stars burst in my vision, my body sliding down a few rungs as my grip loosens.

Everything becomes a little hazy, like I'm looking at the world through frosted glass, a high-pitched ringing in my ears suddenly starting up.

"Shit, shit!" One of them is saying something, but I can't focus on the words. My hands are slipping, sweat and shock making it impossible to hold on properly. "Please," I manage to gasp out, my voice sounding strange and distant to my own ears. "Please stop, just stop—"

But they don't. Maybe they don't hear me, or maybe they're too caught up in their own panic to register what I'm saying. The ladder jerks again, harder this time, before it starts to slip away from the building entirely. I make a desperate grab for the rungs, but my toolbox is still weighing me down. That’s when everything goes from bad to downright awful.

The ladder slides off the roof's edge with a sickening scrape of metal on concrete.

I don't even have time to scream before I feel something jagged catch the side of my neck, tearing through my skin like I'm made of paper. A white-hot line of agony drags down from my neck, across my chest, following the momentum of my fall. I cry out, and then my grip finally gives out completely.

The ground rushes up to meet me, and I have just enough time to think this is going to hurt before I hit the concrete.

The impact drives all the air from my lungs in one violent rush, and I lie there gasping, unable to draw breath.

My toolbox lands somewhere nearby with a crash of metal on concrete, but I can't focus on that.

Can't focus on anything except the burning in my chest and the wet warmth spreading across my skin.

"Shit! Oh shit, oh fuck!" Derek's panicked voice sounds far away. The sound of rapid footsteps and multiple people converging on where I'm lying hits my ears,

I try to move and assess the damage, but my body's not responding the way it should. Everything feels disconnected, like my brain's sending signals that are getting lost somewhere along the way. There's a copper taste in my mouth and the world keeps tilting in ways that don't make sense.

Then there are hands on me, someone carefully rolling me onto my back. I blink up at the sky, quickly darkened by a face appearing above me, and even through my hazy vision I can see the concern etched into his sharp features.

"Hey, hey, stay with me," a voice says. "Can you hear me? Don't move, okay? Just stay still."

I try to focus on the face, details starting to filter through the fog in my brain. Dark hair falling across his forehead. Multiple piercings—eyebrow, nose, several in each ear. Tattoos creeping up his neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt.

It's the guy from the poster. The drummer. He's crouching next to me, one hand hovering near my shoulder like he wants to touch but isn't sure where it's safe to make contact.

"Someone call 911!" he shouts over his shoulder, and I hear another voice saying she's already on it.

Then his scent hits me, and everything else fades into background noise.

Sweet rum. That's what he smells like. It's intoxicating and warm, wrapping around me like a blanket, and despite the pain radiating through my entire body, I find myself smiling.

It's a small smile, probably looks insane given the circumstances, but I can't help it.

Something about that scent feels right in a way I can't explain, like coming home after a long day, like safety and warmth and everything good in the world distilled into one perfect smell.

My tunnel vision narrows further until he's all I can see—this tattooed stranger with worried eyes and gentle hands, smelling like sweet rum and concern.

I reach up with a trembling hand, my fingers brushing against his jaw. His skin is warm beneath my touch, the need for contact more than I need my next breath. He catches my hand gently, his fingers wrapping around mine.

"Don't move," he says again, a desperate edge to his voice. "Just stay still, okay? Fuck, I don't even know what's broken. The ambulance is coming, just hold on."

I want to tell him I'm okay, want to reassure him even though I'm pretty sure I'm not okay at all.

But my tongue feels too heavy in my mouth, and the edges of my vision are going dark despite the bright afternoon sun.

The pain is starting to fade too, which some distant part of my brain knows isn't a good sign, but mostly I just feel tired. So incredibly tired.

The sweet rum scent intensifies, the Alpha saying something else but the words don't make sense anymore. They're just sounds at this point.

Sirens wail in the background and I think about how I should probably stay awake for this part. Should probably try to keep my eyes open, keep breathing, keep holding on. But it's so much easier to just let go, to sink into the darkness that's pulling at me with gentle insistence.

The last thing I'm aware of is that scent following me down into the black.