Chapter 2
Chapter Two
AIDEN
“I’m sorry, excuse me?” My tone is far nastier than it should be with someone who’s managed my career for over a decade, but the words just spoken to me do not add up. “I’m ‘being removed’ from the band?”
Darius stands behind Jordan looking deadly serious—and distant. A fuck lot of distant for someone who’s been my friend since we were teenagers. Ed and Arnold, my other bandmates, aren’t far behind. We were recording an album, the entire atmosphere thick with tension I didn’t know the source of, when Jordan walked in and told me to sit down.
Jordan crosses his tattooed arms. He’s wearing a Designation Outsider shirt like some big fan with a black vest thrown over it. “Yes. It can’t be all that much of a surprise.”
“The fuck it can’t!” I shoot a glare to Darius. “You couldn’t tell me face-to-face? Any of you?” My gaze flashes to Ed and then to Arnold. “We’ve been up here writing and recording all damn day.”
Ed raises his hands. He’s always been the most calm out of all of us, but even his jaw is locked tight. “Things just aren’t the same.”
“We’re not just a band , Ed,” I say but then look at all of them. “We’re a pack. We’ve been an alpha pack for as long as we’ve been a band.”
Ed inclines his head. “And now we’re not.”
Now we’re not. Just like that.
What the fuck. Leaving a band is one thing, leaving a pack is like having my existence cleaved in two.
“Just because we’ve never found an omega doesn’t mean this is so easily broken,” I say, my words and body shaking. “This is serious.”
Jordan nods. “Yes, it is. Which is why I’m here to break the news.”
I feel like I’ve been backed into a corner. Like this is some intervention, but I can’t think of a single fucking thing I’ve done to deserve such an intervention. Blindsided doesn’t even begin to cover sudden pulsing in my head making me lightheaded. “I’ve given fifteen years of my life to this band, to this pack, and you’re removing me without any warning?”
Darius’s hard mask slips—just a little bit. “Your music… your voice hasn’t recovered as expected.”
“As expected,” I echo. “So you’re a doctor now? And what does my voice have to do with an alpha pack?” And why can’t our sound just change a little? It’s not like I fucked up my voice by using it wrong, or by smoking or something.
Jordan nods to me. “We can all tell you’re in pain every time you play for longer than twenty minutes, Aiden. This is less of a ‘kicking you out’ and more of a, ‘Please go rest as you were supposed to.’”
I swipe a hand through the air. “No, fuck that. I did everything the surgeons said. I rested, I went to physical therapy, and they fucking cleared me. I’m your damn front man .”
I knew neck surgery would fuck me over, but I had to give it a go. I’d suffered a football injury in college and this was supposed to fix it. It’d sucked at the time, but set me on the music path that I’d devoted my life to.
A life Jordan and these bastards are ripping from me without so much as a head’s up.
Arnold has the balls to speak up. “We’re so glad you came through surgery okay, and that it mostly worked, and that you’re not in nearly as much pain as you were. But you’re still in pain, Aiden.”
I shook my head. “You don’t get to decide how much pain is too much. I show up, I perform at the top of my game every damned time.”
Jordan takes a step toward me. I want to back away, but I don’t. “Aiden, your performance has slipped. So has your voice and your ability to do your job. I, and the band, feel that it’s time.”
And the band.
Fuck Jordan. But the band? My pack ? I don’t understand why this is happening. How people I’ve known my entire adult life and then some are just dropping me like this.
“Then take some of the budget and send me to vocal lessons,” I say. “If you really think I’ve slipped that far, why not do that? You cannot break up an alpha pack over this, and certainly not as easy as breaking up a rock band.”
But I can tell. Jordan’s face is a practiced mask of neutrality. Ed and Arnold say nothing more. And Darius… Darius looks torn. But he’s silent in that conflict.
This already was a conversation between Jordan and the band. The pack. But it feels like there’s more to it.
“Our shows have been as sold out as before,” I say. “So what is it? You all think surgery screwed me over that much? Have record sales slipped? Merch?”
Jordan uncrosses his arms. “You know concerts will stay sold out because those are the die-hard fans. People who will follow you all through thick and thin.”
“And this is a ‘thin’ time, isn’t it?” I ask. So it was the record sales and merch and everything else. And, I suppose, we had played a few less shows over the last year. “Fuck you, you bastards.” Putting money over the music, over our decade-old pack.
Pure, fiery rage erupts to life within my chest, but I don’t let it go. Not here, not now. That’d just make everything worse. But if these bastards think I’ll go without a fight, they’re so fucking wrong.
I head over to my guitar and put it in its case before slinging that over my shoulder. “You’ll regret this.”
Determination solidifies the rage churning within me. Music is my life. This band and my pack are my life— were my life. They’re all I have. And while I may have more than enough money to be okay for the rest of my life, my concern is more on what I’ll be doing with that life. Because I didn’t fix my fucking neck just to sit around watching television and pretending I’m still in a rock band and a pack.
I’ll be an alpha alone.
“Aiden…” Darius starts, then trails off when his gaze meets mine.
“No, fuck you. I’ll do it on my own.” All of it. A band. A new pack. I’ll find an omega without them and have the entire complete picture, and I won’t share it anymore with people who are supposed to be at my side. It’ll be with people who stand by me through anything. Because here, money is thicker than blood it seems.
I turn and exit the studio, and just like that, everything I’ve worked for since I was eighteen goes up in flames. The injustice, the unfairness, of talent slipping because of surgery and age bores its way through me.
This is not the end. I’ll go solo, or?—
A new band. Yes. I’ll start a new band, get great talent to fill it up, and then become bigger than Designation Outsider.
It feels like a child’s wish. But so was becoming a rock star.
I did it once. I can do it again.
The pack part of it all, though… That’s a harder ask. If I even want to risk that again.
* * *
I’m five beers deep at 8 p.m. at the closest bar to the studio by the time the news breaks about Designation Outsider kicking me out. Which means someone in the band leaked it, or Jordan had the story ready. Trying to drum up interest and a sense of urgency to grab whatever records and merch remain of the original band.
It’s so transparent and greedy and slimy that I nearly vomit all over my cheese fries. A few people glance at me from across the bar. No doubt they’ve recognized me.
Great. Another news story to add to the trash pile from over the years.
The first few messages I get about it all are from my family asking if the rumors are true and if I’m okay. I type out assurances that it is in fact all true and I don’t know if I’m okay. Because that’s honest, and honesty should have been what saved this entire situation.
Maybe if I’d been honest, I would’ve told Jordan that yes, I’m in pain a lot more than before, and can we work something out for that.
And yeah, maybe I have also noticed my singing ability slip. But no one said anything, and so neither did I.
And the big one: none of the guys said anything . Not a worry or concern, not a warning, not a question, nothing.
No truth shared. No talks had.
Then my phone rings. The caller ID says Wesson Thornside. The name is familiar—obviously, it was already in my phone—but I can’t place it across the fifteen years in the industry.
Why is someone from the industry bothering to call me right now?
Curiosity wins out over my sour mood. I swipe the screen to accept the call. “Hello?”
“Aiden! Good, wasn’t sure you’d be in a talking mood tonight.” Wesson’s voice is airy and short—like he’s got some speech prepared.
I sigh. “I didn’t say I was.”
“Before you hang up, will you hear me out?”
“Wesson, how do we even know each other?” Normally I’d ignore this kind of thing, but on a night like tonight I want to think of anything but the band that’s kicked me out. So yes, I’ll hear the random man out as I sip away at my beer.
“Knotty Rock tour, two years ago,” Wesson says quickly. “Atlanta night two, the after party. We met briefly through Jordan, who assumed I was coming to poach you or all of you away from him. But I was just wanting to make connections as a newer manager.”
My brows creased as I tried to place the night in my memory. But, yes, I definitely remember Jordan kicking someone who sounded a lot like Wesson out of our after party for some unknown reason. Must have been the assumed poaching. “Well, were you trying to poach us?”
“No,” Wesson says firmly. “Trying to make connections, like I said.”
I shake my head. “So what’s this got to do with me and the news tonight?”
Wesson pulls in a breath loudly enough that I hear every long second of his unwanted ASMR. “I want to give you an offer. And you can take it or leave it, but at least hear me out.”
“Thornside, huh,” I say. “You going to be a thorn in my side about this?”
Wesson chuckles dryly. “Funny. A bit overdone at this point in my life, but funny.” He pauses—and here’s the prepared speech. “I’m offering to sign you for one band, one tour, one album with minimal royalties to myself.”
Frustration worms its way into my throat. “Wesson, I’m not in a band anymore. That’s why you’re calling me, isn’t it? Didn’t you hear, I apparently lack talent these days.”
“We both know that’s not fucking true,” Wesson hisses, a little too over-protectively for someone not my manager. “And to be honest with you, I hate Jordan. The man shouldn’t be managing anything, least of all rock bands selling out venues the way Designation Outsider is.”
“Yeah, well, we did a lot of that work,” I say.
Wesson snorts. “Not surprised. But listen, I’ve got a few people in mind I want you to meet. I think you’d make a great band together and can go far. I know you can. I think this is a great opportunity, and I want to show you that it is. Will you at least give me that?”
“You wanted me to hear you out,” I clarify. “And I have.”
Wesson gives a little satisfied chuckle. “You haven’t hung up yet.”
Well, he’s got me there. “No, I haven’t. And I’m just pissed enough to say yes to this, I think.”
“You think?” Wesson asks with hope lacing his words. Hope he probably shouldn’t have.
“It’s not just putting people together and hoping it works,” I say. “Starting a band is a ton of work. And it’s expensive.” Monetarily, and emotionally. And I’m really out of anything that isn’t spite at the moment.
“Don’t you worry about the money,” Wesson says while shuffling something on his end. “I’ve always been a fan of Designation Outsider. But I do truly believe that you brought the uniqueness to the band, the heart of it, on your own. Come, meet me and some friends in town tomorrow at Carnation Studio. We can make a band that’ll put Designation Outsider to shame, a band that understands that while music is life and is important, there are other balances, too. I’d never let you go because of surgery recovery, Aiden. That’s swarmy as fuck.”
Other balances. Wesson’s words echo through my mind with the help of all the beer I’ve drunk tonight.
My fury and shame turn to hope—and inspiration.
I’d already decided to go solo or start a new band to stick it to Darius and Jordan both. But there is definitely something infinitely attractive about having actual support behind doing so, and Wesson is offering a whole lot on a silver platter.
One I’m not sure I can turn down. Even if it’s only been a few hours since I’ve been on my own.
“Wesson Thornside, you have a deal,” I finally say. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Wesson breathes an audible sigh of relief. “Good. Thank fuck. Also, please arrive not hungover. I can only imagine you’re at a bar or something right now. Not that I blame you.”
I laugh and shake my head because I didn’t just lose a band, but a pack, too. So yeah, I’m at a bar. “Understood. See you then.”
I order just one more beer and drink it slowly over the course of the next hour. I’d heard that when one door closes, another opens, but I’d never believed it until now.
Because there’s also another saying: If it’s too good to be true, it probably is.
Which one is this? Hope, or folly?
I make a promise to myself to not treat Wesson or this group of people as a rebound chance. I’ll give them everything I have of whatever is left.