Chapter 6 Kellan #2
I hold my tongue through the rest of the meeting, managing to keep the anger off my face until we’re dismissed and filing out into the hallway.
The moment the door closes behind the four of us, I turn on Jordan.
"Can you tell me what just happened? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you handed them everything they needed to completely remake this band. "
Jordan runs a hand through his hair. "It was just business. There were talks about our brand getting tired, about needing to evolve or risk becoming obsolete. I did what I had to in order to keep us relevant."
"But we've never done love songs. Ever." Rex's voice is tight with frustration, the Alpha leaning against the wall.
"That's not really our thing. Our brand is about freedom and feeling the air in our wings and choosing our own paths.
We sing about independence and not conforming and living life on your own terms. How does any of that translate to love songs about mate bonds? "
"It doesn't," I say flatly. "That's the point. They want to change who we are fundamentally."
Jordan's scent spikes with distress. "I was trying to help. To give us a direction that would keep the label happy and keep us employed. Do you have any idea how many bands get dropped every year because they can't adapt?"
"Tell me there's no other ulterior motive and I'll leave it alone." I stare at him, searching his face for any sign of deception. "Tell me you didn't see this as an opportunity to push your own creative vision at the expense of the band's identity."
"There isn't anything else, I swear." Jordan's voice cracks slightly as he raises his hands in defeat.
"I didn't tell you guys because I wasn't sure it would work.
I didn't know Tom would take the songs straight to the label.
I thought he'd come back to me first, that we'd have a conversation about whether to pursue this direction as a group. "
Liam steps closer to Jordan, still clearly upset.
"You should have at least told me, asshole.
" He hits Jordan lightly on the shoulder, before a small smile forms on his lips.
"We're supposed to be partners in this. You don't get to make unilateral decisions that affect both of our careers, not to mention the rest of the band’s. "
"I know." Jordan sighs, his shoulders falling. "I fucked up. I'm sorry."
The apology doesn't make me feel any better. "Cool. Great. I'm going back to my apartment. And Rex?" I turn to look at him. "Get the goddamn note right next time."
Rex's expression shifts to something defensive.
"You've been crabby ever since you caught that Beta, you know that?
Almost like he meant something to you." His eyes narrow speculatively.
"I heard Tom say you even picked out the flowers yourself.
Had them sent to the hospital with your money, not the label's. What’s that about? "
The observation catches me off guard. I did pick out the flowers.
Spent twenty minutes in a florist shop the day after the charity gala, trying to find something that felt right.
White lilies for peace, red roses because they seemed appropriate, greenery to fill out the arrangement.
The florist asked who they were for and I couldn't explain it.
Just someone who needed to know that what happened mattered. That he mattered.
"It fucked me up, alright?" Revealing any part of the truth, that Micah might actually mean something is off the table.
So, I circumvent it as best I can. "I watched a man fall some ten feet in the air.
More than that, actually. I was covered in his blood and the first thing Tom really said to me was about how we could spin the media coverage.
Not 'are you okay' or 'that must have been traumatic' but 'how can we use this.
' I still don't even know how he's doing.
I mean, I know he's alive from the news coverage, but that's it.
I don't know if he recovered, if his injuries healed properly, if he's back to work or still in physical therapy. "
Rex's defensive posture softens. "Shit, sorry, man. I didn't realize it affected you like that."
I shrug, trying to play it off. "It's whatever. Just a bad day. I'll talk to you guys tomorrow," I say, suddenly needing to be alone. "I need to process all of this."
I walk off before anyone can respond, pulling out my phone as I head toward the elevator. My thumbs move almost without conscious thought, typing Micah Davis into the search bar. I tell myself I'm just curious, just checking to see if there are any updates. It doesn't mean anything.
The search pulls up several results. A few news articles from right after the fall, all with headlines about the heroic rescue. Then, buried on the second page of results, I find a small post on a local news site. An update on the recovering Beta.
Micah Davis, the local construction worker who suffered severe injuries in a fall last month, has been released from the hospital and is continuing his recovery at home.
Davis sustained bruised ribs, a fractured arm, and significant damage to his scent gland during the incident.
Friends and family report that he remains in good spirits despite the challenges ahead.
The article includes a photo. It's grainy, clearly taken from someone's social media, but I can see Micah clearly. He's sitting on a porch, his arm in a cast, a tired smile on his face. Even through the low-quality image, I can see the scar running down from his neck, disappearing under his shirt.
But he’s okay. A smile pulls at my lips as I run my finger over the picture. He's alive and recovering and smiling despite everything. The relief that floods through me doesn't make sense given that he's a stranger, but I can't deny it's there.
Then I frown, shoving my phone back in my pocket.
Why the fuck was I smiling? It was a freak accident, a random moment of being in the right place at the right time.
Micah and I are just strangers passing in the night.
Two people whose paths crossed briefly and then diverged.
There's no reason for me to be this invested in his recovery, no reason to be checking up on him weeks after the fact.
But for a moment, while I was looking at that photo and reading about his recovery, the pain in my chest eased.
That persistent ache that's been my constant companion since the charity gala faded to almost nothing.
Just seeing proof that he's okay, that he survived and is moving forward with his life, made me feel lighter.
“Yeah, no, we’re not doing that,” I mutter to myself, jamming my finger into the elevator button as if that will make it come faster. “It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything.”