Chapter 39
Neon And Need
~AURORA~
"Going to a fucking rave is a stupid idea."
Luca's declaration makes me roll my eyes so hard I practically see my own brain. We're standing in the private garage of the Thorne compound, and his scowl could strip paint off walls.
"Your enthusiasm is overwhelming," I say dryly, smirking at his begrudging commentary.
Cale has his arm wrapped possessively around my waist, his burnt-cedar-and-coffee scent mixing with my smoke-and-vanilla in ways that make my skin tingle. "We're going out before we all combust. End of discussion, Thorne."
What makes this entire situation even more hilarious is watching two grown Alpha men trying to cover me up like I'm walking around naked.
I'm not naked.
I'm wearing a perfectly reasonable rave outfit.
Okay, that's a lie.
It's absolutely not reasonable by any conventional standard, but that's kind of the point.
The dress—if you can even call it that—is electric blue with strategic cutouts that show significantly more skin than fabric.
The neckline plunges to just above my navel, held together by thin silver chains that catch the light with every movement.
The back is completely open, showing the full expanse of my spine down to where the fabric finally appears again at my lower back.
The hem barely reaches mid-thigh, and the whole thing is made of some kind of holographic material that shifts colors under different lighting.
My legs are bare except for thigh-high boots in matching electric blue, the heels high enough to add four inches to my height but still manageable for dancing. And my skin—god, my skin is covered in glitter. Body glitter in silver and blue that makes me shimmer like some kind of disco ball fairy.
I spent an hour on makeup too.
Dramatic smoky eyes with silver glitter in the inner corners, sharp winged liner, lips painted a dark plum that makes my mouth look obscene.
My short blonde hair is styled with texture spray and more glitter, giving it that deliberately messy look that somehow reads as intentional rather than just rolled-out-of-bed.
I look hot.
Undeniably, unapologetically hot in ways that Rory Lane never gets to be in public.
And my Alphas are losing their minds.
Cale keeps trying to drape his leather jacket over my shoulders, only for me to shrug it off and hand it back.
"It's going to be hot in there. I'm not wearing a jacket."
"You're barely wearing anything as it is," he mutters, but his eyes keep tracking down my body with hungry appreciation that contradicts his words.
Luca is somehow worse. He's been glaring at my outfit for the past ten minutes like it personally offended him, his dark-chocolate-and-gunpowder scent spiking with possessive aggression every time I move and the dress shifts to reveal more skin.
"People are going to see you like this," he says flatly.
"That's kind of the point of going out," I reply sweetly. "Being seen. Having fun. Living life instead of hiding in compounds and worrying about threats we can't control."
Their own outfits are significantly more covered but no less attractive.
Cale is wearing black jeans that hang low on his hips, deliberately torn in strategic places that show glimpses of tanned skin.
His shirt is a deep burgundy mesh that's technically opaque but shows enough of his chest and abs to be devastating.
Over that, he's got a black leather jacket with silver hardware, and his dark hair is styled back from his face with some kind of product that makes it look perpetually wind-tousled.
He's wearing holographic glasses perched on top of his head—the kind that will catch neon lights and create rainbow effects.
Luca went for all black—because of course he did.
Black jeans that fit perfectly, a black t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders in ways that should be illegal, and a black jacket with geometric patterns in reflective material that will show up under UV lights.
His dark hair is loose, falling around his face in ways that make him look slightly dangerous.
He's got teal and black glasses tucked into his jacket pocket, and I can already tell he's going to "forget" to wear them.
Both of them look like they walked off a fashion runway. All sharp angles and controlled aggression and barely restrained sexuality that makes my mouth water.
"We look hot," I announce, grabbing my own black shades—oversized and deliberately dramatic—and sliding them on. "Like a pack that fucks. Now can we please go before I lose my buzz?"
The weed gummies I took forty-five minutes ago are starting to hit, creating a pleasant warm sensation that spreads through my body like honey. It's my first time trying edibles—Cale's idea, suggested with a "it'll calm you down" that seems to have had the exact opposite effect.
Instead of calm, I feel excited. Energized. Ready to move and dance and get lost in music without overthinking every consequence.
The shots we did while getting ready probably aren't helping the situation. Tequila on top of weed, creating a combination that has me feeling pleasantly tipsy and significantly more daring than usual.
And the sexual tension between the three of us? Off the fucking charts.
Every brush of Cale's hand against my waist sends electricity through my nervous system. Every time Luca's eyes track down my body, I feel it like a physical touch. The air between us is thick with unspoken want, aggression bleeding into desire in ways that make my Omega instincts purr.
But that's an afterthought right now.
Because right now, I'm buzzed with excitement to be here, to dance, to be seen in ways that Rory Lane never gets to be.
I know someone will recognize us eventually. Three professional racers in the middle of Formula One championship season, at an underground rave when we should probably be resting for next week's competition.
But I want to be daring. On purpose. Want the world to see that Aurora Lane exists outside the garage and the track, that I'm young and alive and unafraid of being visible.
"Let's go," Cale says finally, apparently accepting that I'm not covering up. "Before Grumpy here changes his mind."
"I never agreed to this in the first place," Luca grumbles, but he's moving toward the car.
The warehouse is in the old industrial district, the kind of area that's been abandoned by legitimate business and reclaimed by underground culture.
From the outside, it looks like nothing—just another decrepit building with boarded windows and graffiti-covered walls. But the bass is audible from two blocks away, vibrations traveling through the ground like a heartbeat.
We park in a secured lot that costs more than most people's monthly rent, because apparently underground raves have bougie VIP options now.
The security at the entrance recognizes us immediately—or at least recognizes that we're people who can afford the ridiculous cover charge—and waves us through without question.
The moment we step inside, the world transforms.
Throbbing bass that I feel in my chest more than hear. Neon lights in every color imaginable, strobing and pulsing in time with the music. The space is massive—probably used to be some kind of factory floor, now converted into a multi-level playground of sound and light.
The main floor is packed with bodies moving in synchronized chaos.
The DJ booth sits elevated at the far end, surrounded by screens displaying psychedelic visuals.
Bars are scattered throughout, glowing with LED underlighting.
And above it all, VIP balconies look down on the crowd with private sections cordoned off by velvet ropes.
The air is thick with scents—sweat and alcohol and something sweet that might be synthetic pheromones, all mixing with the overwhelming bass that makes thinking difficult and feeling easy.
I'm already grinning, my body wanting to move to the rhythm pulsing through the space.
"Stay close," Cale says directly into my ear, his hand tightening on my waist. "This place is packed. If we lose you in this crowd, it'll take forever to find you again."
"Yes, Daddy," I reply sweetly, just to watch his eyes darken with want.
Luca moves to walk in front of me, apparently taking the protection role seriously despite his earlier complaints. His broad shoulders cut through the crowd, creating a path that Cale and I can follow.
We make our way toward the main stage, diving into the thick of the dance floor where bodies press together and individual identity becomes secondary to collective movement.
Luca stops maybe fifteen feet from the stage—close enough to feel the full impact of the sound system, far enough to have some personal space. He stands there looking awkward, hands in his pockets, clearly uncertain what to do with himself in this environment.
The contrast between his usual commanding presence and his current discomfort is adorable.
I step in front of him, swaying my hips to the beat, letting the music guide my body in ways that are deliberately provocative. My arms come up to wrap around his neck, pulling him down closer to my level.
"Let loose a bit," I say against his ear, having to raise my voice to be heard over the music. "Dance with me."
"I can't dance," he admits, and there's something almost vulnerable in the confession.
I giggle—the sound bright and uninhibited in ways sobriety would have made impossible.
"Then bob your head like a bobblehead. Just feel the music and move."
I reach up and pull the teal-and-black glasses from his jacket pocket, sliding them onto his head where they catch the neon lights and create beautiful refractions. Then I adjust my own black shades, making sure they're secure.
Behind me, Cale moves closer, his body pressing against my back in ways that create delicious pressure. He's already moving to the music, hips finding the rhythm naturally, hands settling on my waist with possessive certainty.