Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
Zia
The bubble held for another twelve hours. We moved through the night like a single organism, navigating the shift from "colleagues" to "poly-amorous biological disaster squad" with surprising ease.
We slept in a pile again. We woke up in a pile.
But the world outside the bus was waking up, too. And the world had questions.
When we rolled into the venue parking lot in Manchester, I could see the press van from the window.
"Gareth," Alfie growled, peering through the blinds. "He’s tipped them off. He’s trying to force a reveal."
"He wants a bond walk," Kit said, standing behind him, cracking his knuckles. "He wants us to parade you out there like a prize."
"Two constraints," I said to the room. I was pulling on a hoodie, Alfie’s this time, the scent of burnt sugar heavy on the fabric.
They all turned to me.
"I’m not hiding in the bus," I said. "But I’m not giving them the headline they want."
"Plan?" Euan asked.
"We walk out," I said. "Formation. But not 'romance' formation. Work formation. I’m the producer. You’re the talent. We go straight to the load-in."
"And if they ask?" Alfie asked.
"Then we tell them the truth," I said, checking my reflection. I looked tired, bruised, and thoroughly claimed, even without the marks on my neck. "Just not the truth they’re looking for."
I grabbed my bag.
"Ready?"
Alfie grinned, that reckless, stage-light grin returning. "Boundaries are punk, yeah?"
"Yeah," I said, opening the bus door. "Let's go teach them a lesson."
The Manchester rain was a different frequency than Seattle’s. Seattle rain was a persistent, grey static that smoothed out the world. Manchester rain was percussive, sharp, cold needles hitting the asphalt of the loading dock in a chaotic rhythm that made my teeth itch.
I tightened the cuffs of Alfie’s hoodie. It swallowed my hands, smelling of burnt sugar and the ghost of the nest we’d just dismantled. It was armor.
"Formation check," Kit rumbled from directly behind me. He wasn't touching me, rule number two of the public rollout, but I could feel the heat of him, a solid wall of espresso and molasses blocking the wind.
"Formation is Work," I said, my voice steady despite the flutter in my pulse. "I'm the producer. You're the talent. We're walking to a job, not a wedding."
"Copy that," Alfie said. He was vibrating again, bouncing on the balls of his boots near the bus door. He’d swapped the sweats for his black skinnies and a sheer mesh shirt under the pink faux-fur coat.
He looked like a rockstar. He looked like a distraction.
"Eyes front. No engagement unless they block the path. "
"They're going to block the path," Euan noted, peering through the tint of the bus window. "Gareth has positioned the press pool directly between the vehicle and the stage door. It’s a choke point."
"Then we walk through them," I said.
I verified the Exit Card was in the locked drawer in the back lounge. I didn't need it today. Today, I needed the faders up.
"Open the door, Barry."
The hydraulics hissed. The smell of wet concrete and ozone flooded the stairwell.
We stepped out.
The flashbulbs hit us instantly. It wasn't a steady light; it was a violent strobe, a chaotic assault of white-hot bursts that triggered a synesthetic wash of jagged silver and static across my vision. The noise was worse, shouting, names being thrown like rocks.
"Alfie! Alfie over here!"
"Is that her? Is that the engineer?"
"Show us the bond mark! Give us a smile, love!"
I kept my head up. I didn't hide behind Kit’s bulk. I walked matching Alfie’s stride, keeping a professional two feet of distance between us.
Gareth Blake was waiting at the mouth of the gauntlet. He looked immaculate in a tailored suit that probably cost more than my entire recording rig, but the scent coming off him, cloying bergamot and slick, artificial syrup, curdled the air.
He stepped forward, arms wide, grinning like a shark who’d just smelled chum in the water.
"There they are!" Gareth boomed, playing to the cameras. "The dream team! Manchester is ready for some romance, eh?"
He tried to usher us together, his hand reaching for my shoulder to guide me into a photo op next to Alfie.
Kit moved. It was subtle, just a shift of weight, but suddenly he was between Gareth’s hand and my body.
"Don't touch the producer," Kit said. His voice didn't rise, but it carried that low, subsonic frequency that triggers a primal flight response in lesser mammals.
Gareth’s smile didn't falter, but his eyes tightened. He swiveled to the press, gesturing to me.
"Come on, then! The fans are dying to know. Are we finally announcing a bond for the rollout? Brand safety, right? A nice, tidy romance to sell the tour?"
A microphone was shoved into my face. A dozen recorders pressed in. The air was thick with aggressive curiosity.
Is she yours? Did you claim her?
Alfie opened his mouth, his scent flaring hot and sharp, ready to snap.
I cut him off. I didn't do it with a gesture. I stepped into the space.
"They're not 'my' Alphas," I said.
The crowd quieted. The projection of my voice, trained in vocal booths to cut through a mix, held the air.
"We function as a unit," I continued, locking eyes with a reporter who was trying to get a shot of my neck, looking for bite marks I’d covered with a high collar. "We choose each other daily. Based on the work. Based on respect."
"But the lyrics," a journalist shouted. "‘Ghost in the machine.’ It’s a love song, isn’t it?"
"It’s a policy statement," I corrected flatly. "Consent is not merch. We don't sell it at the table."
Gareth laughed, a nervous, brittle sound. "Very modern! But surely, the chemistry—"
Alfie hijacked the moment. He didn't shout. He stepped up beside me, not in front, matching my line. He leaned into the cluster of microphones, his pink coat brushing my arm.
"Boundaries are punk," Alfie said. He flashed that lethal, wide grin that usually made stadiums scream, but there was no humor in his eyes. "You want a story? Here’s the story. We ask before we touch. We ask before we tweet. And we ask before we spin someone’s biology into a promo code for the label. "
He looked directly at Gareth.
"If you're here for the romance, you're at the wrong gig. If you're here for the revolution, welcome to the show."
"Is that a confirmation of the Omega Rider?" another reporter yelled.
"That," calm, cool Euan said, stepping up on my other side, "is a confirmation that our producer is out of your pay grade. Clear the lane."
Tammy Rook, our head of security, a massive Alpha female who smelled like black pepper and cedar smoke, materialized from the shadows of the venue door. She didn't even have to speak. She just walked forward, creating a wake of displacement that forced the photographers back.
"Load-in active," Tammy barked. "Credentials or pavement. Move."
We swept past Gareth. I saw his smile fracture. I smelled the sour spike of his annoyance, like vinegar poured into milk.
We hit the backstage corridor. The heavy fire doors slammed shut behind us, cutting off the noise of the press.
The silence in the hallway was ringing.
My knees gave out. Just a little. A micro-tremor.
Alfie spun around instantly, catching my elbow. His pupils were blown wide, the adrenaline of the confrontation flooding his system.
"You okay?" he asked, breathless. "That was... you were brilliant."
"I need a minute," I gasped. The rush of dopamine and terror was too much. The lights, the noise, the proximity of Gareth’s oily scent. "Bathroom."
"I'll clear it," Kit said, already moving to the nearest door marked 'WC'.
"No," I said, grabbing Alfie’s wrist. "Just Alfie."
Kit stopped. He looked at me, then at Alfie. He read the signal in the air, the spike of burnt sugar, the neon crackle of my own ozone.
"Copy," Kit said, backing off. "We'll hold the hall."
I dragged Alfie into the disabled stall at the end of the corridor and threw the deadbolt.
The space was tiled, cold, smelling of bleach.
"Zia?" Alfie started, "Did I overstep? I tried to—"
I shoved him back against the tile wall. Hard.
"Shut up," I hissed.
I crowded into his space, grabbing the lapels of his ridiculous coat and yanking him down. He made a shocked, strangled noise as I crushed my mouth to his.
It wasn't a soft kiss. It was an adrenaline dump. I ground against him, letting the friction of our jeans spark the heavy, dark arousal that always followed a fight.
"You handled that," I murmured against his lips, biting his lower lip, tasting copper. "Properly."
"Copy that," he groaned, his hands finding my waist, gripping tight enough to bruise. "God, fox. You told them. 'Not merch.' I thought Gareth was going to choke."
"He might yet," I said, sliding my leg between his, pressing my thigh against his erection. He was hard, instantly and painfully hard. "Don't make a sound."
"What?"
"The crew is outside," I whispered, putting my hand over his mouth. "Tammy is right there. If you moan, Alfie, if you let out one single peep, we’re compromised."
His eyes went wide above my fingers. The dare landed. The challenge sparked in the gold of his irises.
I started to move against him. A slow, deliberate grind. I watched his face crumble. He squeezed his eyes shut, his hips snapping forward involuntarily, bucking into me. A muffled whine vibrated against my palm.
He tasted like victory. He smelled like scorching sugar.
I kept him there, pinned against the cold tile, torturing him with the friction and the silence until his breathing was a ragged, broken rhythm against my hand. I felt the shudder run through him, the way his knees buckled, forcing him to slide down the wall an inch as he fought for control.
"Good boy," I whispered into his ear.
He stiffened, a violent tremor racking his frame, but he stayed silent.
I stepped back. I smoothed down the front of my hoodie. I fixed my hair in the mirror.