17. Kai
CHAPTER 17
Kai
I’ve settled for wearing two pairs of boxers under a looser pair of black trousers for tonight’s gig. It sounds daft but I think it does the trick.
Thomas was quick to confirm he’s still on suppressants. Which means he didn’t scent her as our match. And I feel the world’s biggest shit for not telling him. Or Nico, or Holden. They deserve to know. But I don’t want this. I can’t want it.
Not after Nyah. And certainly not after my own parents. After three decades in the music industry together tore them apart and left me with a silent household and neither as a shoulder when I needed one the most, I would never do that to my own pups. Or to myself.
I start up the second song of the night, knowing full well that after this one’s when I’ve agreed to name-drop Jez. The crowd is different tonight, and I’m not sure why. The weather’s colder, and there aren’t any obvious Jez fans in front of the stage.
Her performance went smoothly until about halfway through. I watched from offstage when someone who’d smuggled a dildo inside threw it on the stage. It landed at Jez’s feet as she was singing her most energetic number.
To her credit, she calmly bent down and continued singing as she picked it up like a used tissue, then hucked it toward stage left. But it was the worst thing she could’ve done I think. Acknowledging it made the haters in the crowd roar with laughter and approval, and other things flew on stage. Security made quick work of most of the offenders, but I don’t want that shit at my show. And I sure as hell don’t want my crowd becoming violent.
And it occurred me just before we hit the stage to a thunderous applause and stomping of feet: this is our crowd tonight. Wholly. All her fans seemed to attend Glasgow. And I have no control over what the people who pay money to see us play do . Do I?
For the first time it occurs to me, they could turn on us on a dime, too. For having her on board, or for any reason at all. Fans are just normal people. And normal people can be truly terrible.
Maybe I subconsciously transferred my anger at Nyah to the next Omega to come into my life, via the music industry. And maybe that’s really the only thing I hold against her, is a completely irrational belief that any other Omega I might find beautiful, talented, and irresistibly confident—could be my downfall.
It hits me like a bolt out of the sky. And not just because I scented her and knew she was our match three years ago, only to be reaffirmed last night. It’s because I do find her beautiful, talented, and irresistibly confident. And always have.
Fuck me.
No one knows what I know, not even my pack mates who won’t get off their suppressants, because we’re not supposed to want this. It was my idea in the first place.
She’s our scent match. She’s in the industry. We nearly destroyed her career. And now, it really is our job to give her everything she needs. Safety, security, protection, pleasure. Us.
She may have gotten use out of Thomas, but she’s not going to want us. Or she’ll never admit she does.
And now I have to fucking pine again for another Omega musician who will push me away, laughing and scoffing as she disappears down a path I can’t follow.
* * *
We get through the set but I’m not having fun despite the grin and sweat-soaked hair plastered on my face as we burn through our fan-favorite bridge on Across the Isle . Holden’s drumming is on fire tonight, and his shirt’s off even before the encore. The crowd’s raging and dancing in the steam drifting across the lights, and I’ve never seen such an atmosphere for a chilly evening, but on stage it feels like a million degrees.
Our own scents are filling up the stage and there are two additional enormous fans blowing air around, which I requested for tonight. I hate to make last-minute demands but it adds to the atmosphere—and maybe shifts at least some of Jez’s scent away from the stage.
But its soaked into the floor. Every night on this tour, this is how it will go. She’ll spread her scent all over the stage I have to then spend two hours singing and playing my heart out on. And act like my body doesn’t notice that the Omega who should be ours is backstage without the slightest clue.
Thomas throws me a look as we segue into the next number. He’s been doing that all night—that one-raised-brow look, wrinkling his nose to push his glasses back up on his face.
He knows what she feels like. And fucking hell, she should be all of ours. But I can only be glad, really, that of all the people to be there for her when she’s stuck in the shittiest place—full of anxiety and heat, simultaneously, with a bunch of guys she hates and yet wants to impress—it was Thomas. He would’ve been gentle, and empathetic, and kind. And I’m glad. The Omega in me is glad.
Because I would’ve been a fucking mess.
Maybe it was meant to be. Thomas can keep her satisfied, safe, and calm. And after the tour ends, we can go our separate ways. I can’t endanger my band.
I haven’t been on them since my early twenties, Thomas. I’m allergic. There. I’ve said it.
When I’d told him that earlier, he’d given me a blank look, but a look that said so much. It accused me of knowing she was an Omega who could use our help.
To my knowledge there are no other unmated Alphas on the crew—only us. So it’s our duty as Alphas who care. I only knew she was in heat last night though. It’s not like being off suppressants gives me super powers and the ability to forecast it.
Ash will have known Jez was in heat, too, but he’s too much a gentleman to breathe a word of it. Though certainly he didn’t know she’d be in heat or he’d have said something. All working Omegas tend to be on suppressants unless they’re trying to catch. I wonder what happened with hers.
This tour is in so much trouble.
Just before we start on the penultimate song before the encore, Thomas does it again—sending me that look with the waggling eyebrow. Is he having some kind of fit or something?
But then Holden smashes a cymbal three times in a row, hard, and I look over at him. He gives me the same face and shrugs his shoulders in a Well? way. And then I realize: I’ve forgotten.
Shit.
I grimace and step toward the mic, then back up to stage left, remembering the tech has to change me out. Jan hands me my Jazzmaster without blinking and I return to the mic stand.
“Hey guys, hey, thanks so much for coming out. It means a lot, and it means a lot that you got to hear and see the beautiful Jez Jacobs who was gracious enough to join our tour and give us the warmest opening—uh?—”
Fuck. What the fuck am I saying?
Hoots, hollers, cheers, laughter, some boos, and some maniacal whoops follow this. I can just see Ash’s face now. The WARMEST OPENING, Kai? Fucking really?!?
I swallow and smile sardonically as though this was meant, all the while moving the mic around and claiming a pic off the stand, flicking it between my thumb and index finger.
“She’s put on an amazing show for you guys, so we want to hear you make some noise for our tour mate, Jez Jacobs.”
What can only be described as a limp and lethargic round of applause zig-zags lazily through the crowd. I swear, the applause from the guys behind me on stage is louder. But this pathetic response is not what I’m used to hearing. And even if it’s not for me, I’m not having it.
“C’mon, I mean it. We’re indebted to her for warming you buggers up, so get off your arses and make some fucking noise!”
That gets them going a bit more, and I spot a couple of people further out with JEZ WOULD NEVER signs, presumably referencing both her song called Would Never With You , and the fact that she’s opening for us and her most devoted fans largely hate our guts. They wave the sign around with all their might and I point in their direction.
“She might never with you, but she hasn’t said as much to me.”
Oh. My. Christ, why the fuck did I say that?
“Hahahah, okay guys,” I blunder onwards. “This is Clear Blue Nothing .”
I spin around to face the stage with eyes like saucers and an empty chasm for a gut. Thomas’s eyes are closed and he’s shaking his head. Holden looks like he’s trying to decide between laughing and calling me a cunt. Nico looks like he’s just seen a car crash.
For the rest of the gig I don’t dare make eye contact with Ash, or even Steve who’s standing just off the stage with his arms crossed. I dive straight into the song, lose myself in the lyrics, and hope to God I can remember the chord progression.
If she didn’t hate me before, I’ve made sure she will now.
Maybe that’s what I want.