Chapter 9 Micah
Micah
I'm very overwhelmed. That's the only way to describe the chaos happening around me.
Jordan and Liam talk over each other, explaining the ins and outs of their setup with an enthusiasm that would be endearing if I could process any of it.
Jordan gestures toward his microphone setup, explaining something about sound mixing and vocal monitors.
Liam shows me his guitar, pointing out custom modifications and talking about tone and pickups.
If I were a fan, I would be falling all over myself, geeking out about everything they were showing me. I’d be asking to keep little trinkets sprawled across the room or taking random selfies to include these men on my socials. But I’m just… really overwhelmed.
I nod along, trying to look engaged, but nothing sticks. The backstage area is smaller than I expected, cramped with equipment cases and cables running everywhere. The walls are concrete, painted black, and covered in years of graffiti from previous performers.
"This is my baby," Liam says, running his hand along the neck of his guitar with obvious affection. "Custom made, took me two years to get the specs exactly right. The tone is—"
Rex steps inside through a side door, his larger-than-life presence filling the space immediately. He's even more confident in person than he appeared on stage, energy radiating off him in waves. He takes one look at the scene and grins.
"Showing off again?" Rex moves to grab another guitar from a stand, this one sleek and black with silver hardware. "Let me show you how it's really done."
He launches into a complicated riff, his fingers flying across the frets. The sound fills the small space, raw and unfiltered without the venue's sound system. It's impressive and I watch with wide eyes even though I don't know enough about music to fully appreciate what he's doing.
I manage a smile, trying to feign interest as Rex finishes with a flourish, grinning at my expression. "Pretty sick, right?"
"Yeah," I push out, my voice coming out rough. "Really impressive."
Jordan pulls out a marker from somewhere, uncapping it with his teeth. "We should sign your cast! Can't send you home without proper autographs."
They crowd around me, taking turns signing the white plaster encasing my arm. Jordan's signature loops around, taking up way too much space. Liam's is smaller and neater, printed rather than cursive. Rex draws a small guitar next to his name with surprising artistic skill.
"How'd you break it?" Liam asks, capping the marker.
My throat tightens. "Fell off a roof at work."
"Shit, that sucks." Rex winces sympathetically. "Construction?"
"Yeah."
They don't recognize me, unable to connect the random fan in their backstage with the Beta who fell a month ago. Why would they? Kellan was the one who helped me, not them. They probably only heard about it secondhand, another news story in their busy lives.
The door opens again and everything stops. My heart stops, my breath stops, time itself freezing. Kellan steps inside and our eyes lock immediately.
I forgot how beautiful he was up close. The photos don't do him justice.
His tattoos are more extensive than they appeared on stage, ink covering his arms and creeping up his neck, his piercings covering nearly every inch of his ears and littered along his brow and nose.
But it's his eyes that hold me captive, dark and intense and widening with recognition.
We stare at each other for a long moment.
His hand comes up to press against his chest in that same gesture I've seen him make repeatedly tonight.
The gesture I've been making myself without thinking about it. The air between us feels charged with something I don't understand, that connection I’ve felt for the past few weeks strengthening until I can’t breathe.
No fucking way.
Tom breaks the moment, his voice cutting through the tension. "Kellan! There you are. Perfect timing."
Rex looks between us, his expression shifting from confused to shocked. "Wait. Aren't you that guy who fell from the..." He trails off. "Fuck."
Tom grabs my good arm, already steering me toward an attached office before anyone can say anything else.
I look back over my shoulder, meeting Kellan's eyes one more time. His expression is blank, the muscles in his jaw working too hard, his hands fisted at his sides. I don’t know how to process this.
Mine.
I shake off that thought, sitting down one of the chairs just beside the main desk, Tom sitting across from me on the other side of the coffee table. He sets a hefty file onto the desk between us, the papers inside threatening to spill out.
"I thought we were definitely clocking an Omega," Tom purrs, a predatory tone to his words. "But this is perfect. You're perfect."
"What are you talking about?" My voice comes out wary as I glance at the closed office door and then the Alpha sitting in front of me.
Tom's grin widens. He pulls a single sheet from the file and slides it across the table toward me. "You see, we've been trying to update Kellan's image. He's our resident bad boy, always has been. But I think the heavens are watching over me tonight. The fans will love this story."
I stare at the paper. It's dense with legal language and paragraphs of text that blur together. "What is this?"
"An NDA. Non-disclosure agreement." Tom produces a pen from his pocket, setting it on top of the paper.
"I need you to sign it. Anything said in this room can't leave this room.
You can't post it, can't tell your friends, nothing.
Standard procedure before I get into more of the nitty gritty details"
"Um..." I pick up the paper with my good hand, trying to read through the legal jargon. I understand maybe three words of it.
"This is customary," Tom says, his tone suggesting this should be obvious. "Everyone who comes backstage signs one. Protects the band's privacy and our business discussions."
I sign it. I don't know why I sign it. I don't know what possesses me to put my name on a legal document without reading it properly first. Maybe it's the way Tom watches me with those calculating eyes.
Maybe it's the pain in my chest that's gotten worse since seeing Kellan. Maybe I'm just an idiot.
The second I finish signing, Tom launches into an explanation that makes my head spin.
Lunar Ransom's new album is going to be all about love and life and packs.
They need to update Kellan's image to match this new direction.
The bad boy needs to show a softer side, needs to prove he's capable of connection and vulnerability.
"The analytics show that fans respond well to relationship narratives," Tom says, pulling more papers from the file. "Seeing their favorite artists in love, settling down, finding their person. It humanizes them and makes them more relatable."
"Why are you telling me this?" I lean back in my chair, my good hand gripping the armrest.
Tom's smile sharpens. "Because you're going to be his boyfriend."
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline, waiting for him to laugh and say he's joking. But his expression stays serious, a hint of hope that I might just readily agree to the shit that came out of his mouth.
"It's just three weeks," Tom continues, pulling out what looks like more legal documentation.
"You get to eat out at lavish restaurants, take a few pictures together, attend some events.
Get new outfits, probably a whole wardrobe upgrade.
A little bit of everything and in return, you'll get a pretty paycheck.
" He slides another paper toward me, this one with numbers on it.
"Enough to pay off those medical bills, I'd wager.
Maybe even get a new expansion on your house or take a really good vacation. It's a win-win situation."
I look at the number on the paper and my breath catches in my throat.
It's more money than I make in six months of construction work.
Maybe more than I make in a year after taxes.
Enough to pay off every bill sitting on my kitchen table, enough to replace my aging truck, enough to finally fix the leak in my roof with the expensive material needed I've been ignoring.
"I don't..." I shake my head. "This is ludicrous."
"It's really not." Tom leans back, completely at ease.
"This kind of arrangement happens all the time in the industry.
Publicity relationships, image management, controlled narratives.
You'll get along fine and you get to hang out with a rockstar for three weeks.
Most people would jump at this opportunity. "
My chest tightens and not from the pain this time.
This is insane. They want me to pretend to date Kellan, to lie to everyone, to make a relationship out of nothing just to sell albums. The man I've been obsessing over for a month, whose scent I can't get out of my head, whose face haunts my dreams.
I start breathing a little harder, my ribs protesting each inhale. My vision tunnels for a second before it comes back, my scent fluctuating between too thick and nonexistent. This is too much. Everything about this is too much.
The door bursts open and Kellan stands there, his expression clearly pissed off. "Tom, get out. I need to talk to Micah."
Tom doesn't move. "Just hold on a minute. We're in the middle of—"
"I'm not going to hurt him." Kellan's voice deepens, a growl edging his words. "I'm going to talk to him because god knows you just sprung some shit on him and it's a lot. Out. Let me talk to him."
Tom looks between us, the Alpha weighing the pros and cons before finally standing and walking out. "You've got ten minutes. Then I need an answer."
Kellan stands there for a moment, hands fisted at his sides before he seems to deflate slightly, the aggressive posture softening into something more human. He clicks the door closed, leaning back against it. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't know they were going to pick you."
"But you knew they were going to pick someone for this contract?" Honestly, I’m just genuinely confused.
Kellan drags a hand through his hair, messing up the carefully styled look. "It's complicated, but yeah. I knew. They told me before the show that they'd chosen some random fan to approach with this arrangement. I didn't know it would be you. I didn't even know you'd be at the concert."
He looks frustrated, flustered in a way that doesn't match the bad boy image he projects on stage. There are dark circles under his eyes, his skin paler than it should be. He looks like someone who hasn't slept properly in weeks.
"You don't have to sign anything," Kellan continues. "I'll just let Tom know. It doesn't matter. We'll find someone else or I'll refuse to do it at all. You shouldn't feel pressured into this."
I stand slowly, Kellan watching me warily, like he's not sure what I'm going to do. Maybe he thinks I'm going to yell at him, tell him what a fucked up situation this is, storm out and never look back.
Instead, I walk over to him. Each step feels monumental, the distance between us both too far and not far enough.
The pain in my chest pulses stronger with each step closer, but it doesn't feel bad.
It feels like something clicking into place, like a puzzle piece finding its match.
I test my luck and place my good hand on Kellan's chest, right over where his heart is.
The contact sends a jolt through me, heat building in my lower belly.
It feels fucking perfect. Like my hand belongs there, like I've been searching for this exact spot my entire life without knowing it. The pain in my chest eases immediately, not disappearing but transforming into something else. Something that feels right.
Kellan's eyes widen, his breath catching audibly. His hand comes up to cover mine, pressing it more firmly against his chest, the rapid thud of his heartbeat picking up faster.
I swallow, searching his expression for what I’ve been feeling for the past month. "You feel it too?"