7. Jake
CHAPTER 7
Jake
The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on. Rehearsals aren’t supposed to feel like this—strained, like every note we play is a step closer to setting off a mine. The song we’ve played a thousand times feels different now, heavier. Because she’s here.
Ashlyn stands at the edge of the studio, tablet in hand, like she’s trying to blend into the background. But there’s no blending for her. Not with us. Not with me. She’s a live wire in the room, sparking something in all of us we can’t quite name, though we sure as hell feel it. Todd agreeing to have her here for our rehearsal so she can take notes—it has us all on edge.
My fingers pluck the strings of my bass, the vibration reverberating through me, grounding me as I try to focus on the music instead of her.
Todd’s voice growls into the mic, every lyric painful and raw, cutting through the thick tension in the room. His scent lingers faintly in the air, honeyed amber threaded with an edge of frustration, heady enough to taste. And that’s saying something because, normally, I can’t smell any of them. Only when emotions are strong can I pick the scents out, which probably means they are way stronger for Ashlyn’s omega nose.
West stands beside him, his grip on the guitar tight, his shoulders tense. He plays like he’s trying to exorcise something, the cords digging into his fingers. His almond and vanilla and whiskey musk curls through Todd’s, blending into a mix that’s heavy and smoldering, rife with unspoken words and emotions they refuse to name.
Behind them, Xayden keeps the beat, each strike of his sticks precise but devoid of his usual fluidity. His leather-and-spice scent cuts through the others, bold and dark, but there’s a rigidity to it now, a tension coiled in every movement.
As a beta, I don’t feel the overwhelming pull their musks would have on an omega, but I still sense it—the way it clings to the air, suffocating, tangled with resentment and something dangerously close to longing.
And then it happens. I catch the faintest whiff of strawberries and cream, subtle but unmistakable, seeping into the storm of their scents like a thread of sunlight piercing through a thundercloud. Ashlyn. Her perfume is so achingly familiar, it twists something inside me, dragging me back to a time when this blend wasn’t chaos—it was home.
The sweetness of her scent doesn’t soothe the tension; it sharpens it, pulls everything into unbearable focus. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, standing with her calm, composed mask firmly in place, her attention on the notes she’s taking, but I know better. She feels it too—this overwhelming sense we are all ignoring stuff we shouldn’t.
We wrap the song, and the room falls silent except for the faint hum of the amp. Todd mutters something under his breath, and West’s jaw ticks.
Before anything can explode, I set my bass down, dragging a hand over the back of my neck. My gaze drifts to her again, standing there, typing something into her tablet like she’s actually taking notes and not just avoiding looking at any of us.
Enough.
I light a cigarette as I watch her for a moment longer, then push away from the amp and head toward her. She doesn’t notice me at first, too caught up in whatever she’s pretending to focus on. Her brows are furrowed, and there’s this tiny wrinkle between them I’ve never seen before—a silent marker of how many years have passed.
“Hey,” I say on an exhale of smoke, my voice low enough not to draw attention from the others.
Her head snaps up, eyes locking with mine. There’s something there, just beneath the surface—a flicker of vulnerability that vanishes too quickly for me to grasp.
“Got a minute?” I ask, taking another puff and letting the smoke drift slowly upward toward the ceiling as I watch her through the haze.
She hesitates, her fingers tightening around the tablet, as if it could shield her from me. After a moment, she nods. Snuffing out my cigarette, I motion toward the small recording room in the corner—somewhere quieter, away from the others.
I shut the door behind us, and the thick silence in the soundproof room presses in. Everything feels more real. The space between us seems too small, too close, as if something unsaid hangs in the air.
“I wanted to talk,” I say, leaning against the wall, my arms crossed. I’m trying to look casual, but I can feel the tension in every part of me, coiled and tight. She stays standing, arms folded, her posture defensive, like she’s preparing for something she can’t control.
“About?” Her voice is steady, but I can see the way her fingers whiten, a silent sign of how much she’s holding back.
I hesitate, searching for the right words. “About this. About us. About what the hell we’re doing here.”
She flinches. I catch it, a tiny movement that says more than I think she means to show. “It’s just work, Jake. That’s all it is.”
I let out a dry laugh, the sound rough and bitter. “You really believe that? After everything?”
She doesn’t answer right away, and the silence stretches between us—thick, unresolved. It weighs down on me, on both of us.
“If I can smell them out there, then I know you can,” I say, exhaling a frustrated breath. My fingers rake through my hair, a nervous gesture I can’t stop. “I don’t know what you expect from us,” I continue, my voice quieter now, softer. “You come back after all these years, acting like this is just another project for you. But it’s not, Ash. You know it’s not. Unless you sleep with all of the people you partner with.”
It’s a low blow, I know it is, but it’s hard to think of much else…West and her. Her and West. The fact he was with her in a way I’m sure Todd and Xayden crave as much as I do.
Her eyes flash, a brief crack in her mask, and for a moment, I see the woman I used to know—the one I haven’t let myself think about in too long. The pain in her eyes hits me like a truck, and it makes everything I’ve done feel wrong. All the choices I’ve made, the ones we all made, come rushing back.
She takes a deep breath, her jaw tight, but I can see the cracks. “And what do you want me to do, Jake? Pretend the past never happened? Pretend I wasn’t weak the other night?”
Her words hit me harder than I expected. It’s not just the anger in her voice—it’s the hurt. I can feel the pain of it in my chest and, not for the first time, I regret not fighting harder to keep her. To make things right.
I take a step toward her without thinking, my heart pounding. The air feels thick between us, and I wish I could undo the distance we’ve created. I wish I could just hold her in my arms.
“Maybe,” I say before I can stop myself, the word slipping out like a confession. “Or maybe just… acknowledge it. What we did. What we all lost.”
Her shoulders sag and, for a moment, she looks so tired—tired of fighting, tired of pretending. “I know what I lost,” she whispers, the words barely escaping her lips. “You don’t have to remind me.”
There’s a rawness in her voice that catches me off guard, something so vulnerable it almost breaks through everything she’s built up between us. For a split second, I feel the distance between us thin, the walls waver. Without thinking, I take another step closer, reaching for her without touching.
“It wasn’t just you who lost something,” I say, my voice quieter now, as if the truth is finally settling in. “We all did.”
Her gaze drops, and I catch the briefest shimmer in her eyes—something so close to tears it makes my chest tighten. It’s like a sudden surge of emotion, too much to hold in, and it hits me like a blow. But before I can say anything else, she pulls herself together. The moment is gone. Her mask is firmly back in place.
“I can’t change the past, Jake,” she says, her voice steady now, a wall rising between us once more. “All I can do is try to make this work. Then we can all go back to our lives, where we belong.”
Just like that, the space between us solidifies again. The walls go back up, stronger than before, leaving nothing but the quiet hum of the room between us.
I nod, dropping my hand, stepping back, and keeping my distance this time. “Yeah. Sure.”
But even as I say it, the emptiness of the words sinks in, and I know it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough, not when the past is still hanging in the air between us, unspoken, unresolved.