Chapter 8
Silver
“Get that look off your face. We’re not doing it,” Munro snaps before I can even open my mouth to make them an offer they can’t refuse.
Frowning, I glare over at Munro and gripe, “You don’t have to do shit. I’d rather sooner push you into a vat of cow spit than allow you to be my fake date.”
I realize as soon as the words are out that I don’t mean them, because for all of Munro’s misery and annoying attitude, he’s the most perfect out of them all to rub in my mother’s face. Covered head to toe in tattoos, the dark ink spanning up his neck, into his hairline, and trailing down his arms and over his fingers, he looks like a walking, book-boyfriend stereotype. With his dark, mussed curls on top of his head, a look that would slit your throat if it held the power, and an uncanny ability to piss you off, just the sight of him alone would send my mother into a raging bitch fit.
But that’s not why I want them there. Oh, no. It’s simply a bonus that these godlike creatures will send her into a tizzy for not being primped and polished like the stiffs she keeps trying to parade in front of me. It’s the awkward encounter she will be forced to have the moment she sees me surrounded by gorgeous men she wasn’t expecting.
“I said we’re not doing it. Stop looking at me like that,” he damn near growls, and I suppress the shiver my body almost shakes with, damn near revealing that I might have a crush on the asswad.
Deciding I’ll get nowhere with the beta, I turn my back to him, receiving another growl that makes my lips twitch. Instead, I focus on the other three, Haze and Pace already watching me while Rage continues on with the movie. Pretty sure he’s not watching it, though. I sense his attention is firmly planted on the conversation at hand, and I bite my lip to hide my satisfaction over it.
Pulling myself to the edge of the seat, Aero’s hand still in mine but slack now that he sees I’m not fighting this proposal any longer, I lick my lower lip and eye the three alphas. I ignore the way Haze watches my tongue, because I don’t have time to unpack that yet, and dive into my offer. “How about this? I let you all stay here rent free for however long you want if you come with me to this charity thing. I’ll fix you guys up with tuxedos, ties, and all the bells and whistles. You don’t have to spend a single penny, only your time. A couple of hours, that’s all. We show up, support Meemaw—
“Who the fucking hell is Meemaw?” Munro blurts, exasperated and growing increasingly louder.
He goes ignored as I continue, “—with her fundraisers and stuff, mingle if we have to, stay for Alek’s auction, and then we’re out of there like our asses are on fire. You can even sell the tuxedos after and keep the money.”
“That’s a lot of cash to be throwing around. Must be nice,” Rage mutters under his breath, proving that he’s listening and displaying his hand that screams my wealth bothers him.
I ignore him, too, because I’m not about his pettiness right now when I’m trying to negotiate.
“It’s one night where you have to pretend that you can tolerate me. One night where I can be in the same room as my mother without the heavy pit of dread I always feel when I’m around her. One single night that I can spend supporting the woman that took care of me without having to be on guard for the one that birthed me. And you guys can live here however long you need or want for free,” I reiterate, on the verge of begging at this point.
To think I was completely against this idea mere minutes ago.
I’m left to sit on pins and needles while the guys all share looks, each one more telling than the last. They discuss my proposal without even uttering a word, their familiarity sending pangs of longing through me while I anxiously await their answer.
It takes a little longer than imagined, but after a nod of agreement from Haze, a sigh of acceptance from Rage, and a slew of colorful curse words from Munro, Pace finally says, “Counteroffer. We rent tuxedos, no buying. We don’t pay rent for six months, because we’re not having you pay our way here indefinitely. And you have to dance with Munro.”
“What the fuck?” the beta and I both exclaim at the same time, sharing a look before scowling at one another.
“Just say you hate me. That would hurt less than being subjected to that torture,” I grumble, looking back at Pace and finding his lips pulling up in an entertained smile. Damn, why doesn’t he do that more often? Or maybe he shouldn’t, because I think my panties have disintegrated. At least I’m not perfuming right now. That would have sucked.
“One dance with Munro and we’ll agree,” Pace repeats, a single eyebrow lifting on his head with a challenge that already sets me on edge.
“No the fuck we are not agreeing,” Munro tries to inject, attempting and failing to intercept the negotiations happening without his approval. It would be funny if I wasn’t taking this as seriously as a heart attack.
“One dance?” I check, eyeing the now fully smiling alpha speculatively. Something tells me he likes getting his way, and the way he’s smiling at me like the cat who got the canary is enough to confirm it.
“Just one,” he confirms, sending Munro a look that has the beta shutting up with an irritated huff and grumble, before focusing back on me. Reaching over Haze and Rage, he holds his hand out to me and says, “You agree to that, and you have yourself a deal. We’ll be your pack for the evening.”
My pack. Damn my heart for wanting that. A pack of my own, even a fake one for one night just to stick it to my mother.
Mulling it over, I decide it’s too good of an adjustment to my offer to pass. So, with an annoyed acceptance, I reach over for Pace’s hand and slip my smaller one into his much bigger and hotter one. Together, we shake on it, and it’s like the tension evaporates from the room the moment we part ways, his touch lingering long after it’s gone.
“Fuck, yeah. It’s going to be fun, guys. Just you watch,” Aero declares, finally releasing my other hand, only to sling his over my shoulder with a familiarity we do not have but I so desperately want. Man, how sad am I? Practically chomping at the bit for little bits of affection from a guy I thought hated me just last week.
Rage snorts like he’s beyond dubious, Haze nods like he believes Aero, and Pace sits back with a pleased look on his face that makes me feel like I’ve somehow been suckered. I probably have. Something tells me Pace would have agreed without my bargain, but at least I don’t have to stress about the benefit now.
A slow grin forms on my mouth, and my words slip free before I can stop them, “My mother is going to shit herself when she sees you guys.”
“Why? We look as poor as we are or something? That why you want us to go with you?” Rage quips, his barb hitting a little harder and stinging a little more fiercely than his nonchalant tone intended.
I try to bottle the sudden hurt that blooms in my chest, my good mood evaporating as quickly as it came while I chew my inner cheek before I say, “No, actually. It’s because this will be the first time I show up to an event of hers with someone, and she won’t know how to handle it. There will likely be four, maybe five, packs there waiting to meet me just because she’s a conniving bitch who keeps trying to force me into a pack of her choosing. With you all being there, she’ll fumble and make an ass out of herself and I don’t have to uncomfortably excuse myself from a bunch of tools who only want to bond with me to get into my parents’ company’s panties. But hey, you keep judging me if that’s what makes you feel good.”
With Aero’s hold on me loosened, I finally stand, quick enough that he doesn’t have a chance to catch me. I ignore the fierce scowl on Munro’s face, the wince from Haze on his brother's behalf, and the sudden scolded look on Rage’s face. I don’t even look at Pace, sure I’ll find him staring intensely again. Whatever. I’m not getting into it. If they want to keep judging me for having more than them, then that’s their prerogative. I got to where I am by being smart with a trust fund I didn’t know about and wasn’t expecting. I was more than happy to get a job and start paying my way in the world, finally free of my parents’ clutches. I was beyond surprised when, two years into my big-girl job, Meemaw handed over my trust as an eighteenth birthday gift. I’ve barely spent a cent, smartly investing most of it, with Alek and his pack’s help. The house these assholes are living in was bought and gifted to me by my grandparents, each of them insisting I needed somewhere safe to stay that was close to school and Alek. The only true spending I’ve made was on my Ducati and studio, and the money spent was profit from the investments. The money my grandparents gave me is still sitting in stocks and investments now, cultivating profit that I’m hoping to spend at the charity. I still work the job I was offered at sixteen, for fuck’s sake, and I love it.
But what-the-fuck-ever. Let them think I’m a little rich girl with ‘little rich girl’ problems. I don’t have to prove myself to them. They can think what they think, so long as they show up to the fundraiser benefit.
Swallowing my hurt, I clear my throat and nod slowly, gradually coming to the conclusion that my money could be playing a part in the animosity I’ve felt from pack Larsen. It’s clearly a heated topic for a few of them, apparently. More evident in the way they welcomed Juniper so thoroughly and welcomingly, whereas I have had nothing but a cold shoulder, polite platitudes, and an attempt at friendship by the omega of the bunch.
Since there isn't much I can do about the glaring difference between me and them, I shuffle away from them all, feeling somewhat dejected and more alone than ever. A house now filled with life, and it’s more lifeless than it was to begin with. I almost miss the emptiness that was here before they moved in. At least that didn’t hurt my feelings with a few sharp words.
With the shitty acceptance that I’m a problem for them despite my offering to help, I mutter, “Thanks for agreeing. Send me your sizes and I’ll order your outfits. If you have a preference, then let me know before I order something you don’t like.”
“Silver, baby, wait, he didn’t—” Aero starts, but I shoo him away. I want to go to my studio, lose myself in my music, and bury the weird feelings now floating around in my chest until I can’t feel them anymore.
“Don’t sweat it. Not like it matters anyway, right? It’s one night of pretending. You can all go back to whatever the hell it is you’re doing as soon as the clock strikes midnight,” I tell him, sending him a half-assed smile that makes him wince before he turns an omega-worthy scowl on his alpha.
I grasp that moment of opportunity to escape with both hands, crossing my arms over my chest while leaving them all behind in the living room. Before I leave, I hear the slap of skin against skin, and I’m sure Rage grunts in pain. A hiss follows while Aero snaps, “Nice one, idiot. I’m trying to get her to fucking like us, then you go an open your stupid mouth. A whole day of progress wasted because you can’t bottle your hangups.”
“I’ll apologize,” Rage mutters, actually sounding remorseful. I know better, based on how snippy he’s been over my monetary status.
“You better, because I’m not having you ruining this,” Aero warns, and I hear Munro scoff.
I linger for only a moment longer, catching Munro’s words, “What even is this? Since when were you two close enough for you to be holding her damned hand like it was tethering you to Earth?”
“Jealous? Wish it was you?” Aero volleys, and there’s only silence that follows.
I disappear to my studio a moment later, blocking out any other pieces of conversation I might overhear that I don’t want to. The last thing I want to hear is how my mere presence pisses the beta off, or how he can’t stand to be around me. Hell, the jack-off spent enough time avoiding me any time I was with Juniper before she was attacked.
Yeah, no thanks. I’m not into self-inflicted torture, and hearing Munro gripe about me currently sits beneath that umbrella. What I heard was enough to leave me zooming through the house and toward my studio, my thoughts racing with me. Why is Aero trying to get me to like him? And why is Rage at my throat about money any chance he gets? And what the fuck is Munro’s problem? Pace and Haze are just as confusing, but at least it doesn’t seem like they hate me as much as their beta.
I’m up the stairs quickly, shutting the door firmly before turning to face the only room of solace I have that isn’t my nest. I don’t even want to go in there right now, because I know Aero’s scent will still linger in the blankets and pillows.
Taking a deep breath, I decide that working might be what I need to escape this rotten mood I’ve found myself in. So, sitting at my keyboard, I start up my PC, slip my pastel-pink headphones on, and spend the next three hours compiling a set list for work, working on a couple of songs that need perfecting, and searching for tuxedos on my cell phone in between bouts of inspiration.
By the time my eyes start crossing from staring at the screens too long, my leg has started bouncing with restlessness, a weird sense of anxiety clawing at my psyche. I try to ignore it, immersing myself further into composing the base track of a song I’ve been working on for forever , but it doesn’t work. The longer I try to sit still, the worse my leg starts shaking, and with the shaking comes thoughts of pack Larsen, invading my mind as though they have a right to be there.
“This is your own fault, Silver. You and your bleeding heart. Should have left them to find a place themselves. Damn Juniper Baines for dragging me into this shit,” I grouch to myself, slumping in my seat at my keyboard.
Scrubbing my hands over my face, I groan into my palms, feeling frustrated and antsy. So, instead of sitting here dwelling on all that is currently my existence, I opt to do something about it. If I’m going to suffer with an energy overload that won’t disappear here in my studio, then I’ll find something that will steal it effectively and quickly.
Reaching for my cell, I find my boss’s number and press dial, tucking my phone between my cheek and shoulder while I wait for him to answer. As the phone rings, I head down the stairs and to my nest, picking at my chipped nail polish while beelining to my walk-in closet. I’m peering at clothing options when Tanner finally answers, the steady pumping of music blaring from the speaker before his smooth, dulcet tones croon oh so sweetly to me from the other end of the line.
“My little Pixie Dust. To what do I owe this honor?” the zesty man ten years my senior asks, and I release the first genuine grin I’ve had since stepping into the house.
“Hey, Tan. Do you think you could add me on the roster tonight? I’m a little amped and studio work isn’t helping,” I explain, pulling out one of my favorite work outfits.
“Oh my god, you’d actually be doing me a favor. The guy I hired for tonight is a flop, and the place is dead. A group of betas are literally escaping right now as we speak. Do you have a setlist ready?” the alpha asks mindlessly, like he’s forgotten who he’s talking to already.
Huffing a laugh, I answer, “Of course. I always have one ready.”
“Sweet. I’m going to give this guy one more song before switching to my own playlist. Set up as soon as you get here. Your stuff is in my office. You’re my hero, Dusty Girl,” he drawls overdramatically, disconnecting the call before I can voice a response.
Chuckling, I place my cell on a dresser and go about fixing my outfit quickly. I’m encased snugly in a pair of high-waisted jean shorts over a pair of torn-up, grungy, pastel-pink fishnet tights. My shirt is a white-sequin number that always catches the strobe lights when I’m on stage, strappy on the back but modest on the front with only a small dip in the neckline to reveal a smidge of cleavage. Well, as much cleavage as can be for a girl who is considered an honorary member of the itty bitty titty community.
Stuffing my feet into a pair of white, chunky platform Doc Martens with pink laces, I check myself over in the floor to ceiling mirror in the closet and nod my approval. I go through the rest of my routine quickly, painting my face with heavier makeup than I would normally wear, and fixing my hair into two pigtails with pastel pink extensions woven throughout.
After spritzing myself with a scent masker, taming my sugary-sweet scent to a more subtle aroma that will have the alphas leaving me alone while I’m working, I gather my pink mini-backpack and old jean jacket that has more tears in it than my tights.
I’m striding out of my nest only minutes later, already in higher spirits and anticipating the heady atmosphere at Raverz I’ve grown addicted to. There’s no high quite like that of people dancing and singing along to setlists and remixes you’ve made of club favorite songs, hyping you up while you shred a DJ deck like it’s your sole reason for living. What’s even better is that none of them know it’s me.
Which reminds me, I should check if Tanner still has my mask at the club. Otherwise, I’ll have to take my backup.
Retrieving my cell phone from my back pocket, I’m calling my boss again, only waiting a few short rings before he answers, “I beg of you, please don’t cancel on me. I just broke the news to DJ Floppy that he’s got to go, and he didn’t take it well. Can you hear that? His last song he decided to play?”
Sure enough, in the background, I can hear the heartbreaking ballad of a singer called Billie something. Something about wondering what they were made for, the song a complete one-eighty to the vibe that usually occurs at Raverz.
Laughing, I tell him, “Oh, wow. Man is heartbroken. Have no fear, I’m just about to leave. I just wanted to ask you to check that my mask was still there. I have a spare, but I prefer my usual.”
“Let me check. Hold please and thank you,” Tanner quips, and I’m grinning just before I collide full force into a body that’s turning around the corner I’m taking.
“Fucking A,” I blurt, bouncing off a firm body filled with warmth and the distinct scent of tart rhubarb, earthy and sweet, a shout of alarm lodging itself in my throat before it can escape.
Large hands grip me steadily, rescuing me from a tumble to the hard floor, and my gaze snaps up to meet the alarmed, stormy-blues of Haze’s. Wait, no. That’s not Haze. Haze smells like wild mint, sharp and cool. Haze also keeps his hair a little longer than his twin, and has the smallest beauty spot just beneath his right eye… not that I pay that much attention.
“Sorry, forgot I didn’t live alone for a second there,” I mutter, pulling myself out of Rage’s hold, attempting to sidestep him and be on my way. I just managed to get back my good mood, so the last thing I want is to linger in this man’s presence and ruin my progress. So, with a polite smile that I don’t feel and my phone still pressed to my ear, I skirt around the guy and mutter, “Have a good night.”
“Hold up,” he rushes, hand reaching for my arm to halt my getaway. Damn it, I was so close.
Looking down at the fingers wrapped around my bicep, masking the thrill that goes through me at being touched, I raise an eyebrow and give him an expression that says ‘what do you want?’ more than words could.
Sighing, Rage releases me and I consider myself pathetic when I miss the contact instantly. I clearly need therapy or something. Is therapy for touch-starved omegas a thing? I should look into it.
When the surly twin doesn’t speak right away, I hold the cell away from my face and mutter, “I’m just on my way out. Are you having an existential crisis that you need help with or something? Because, let me tell you, I’m a pro at making those worse. Ask Juno. She got stressed about her birthday, and I made it worse by proclaiming that she’s just under a quarter of the way through the average lifespan for a woman.”
“Wait, what?” he asks, confused. But then he thinks better of himself, and holds his hands out as if to stop the explanation I wasn’t going to offer. “Look, I just wanted to apologize for earlier.”
Oh. Right. The apology.
“I didn’t mean—” he begins, but I have no interest in hearing it. He said what he said, and he clearly meant it when he voiced his thoughts, otherwise it wouldn’t have come out of his mouth with such effortless ease.
Interrupting by holding my hand out, Rage’s mouth snaps shut and he narrows his eyes on me as I save us both the awkwardness. “Save it. If you’re going to be a bitch in the moment, own it later. You meant what you said, and you said what you meant. Did it hurt my fragile, little feelings? Yeah, it did. Am I going to cry myself to sleep over it? No. Am I going to obsess over it until it’s all I think about? Another no. Are you keeping me from work right now? Solid yes, dude. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to leave and save us both from an apology you don’t actually mean.”
When I try to step around him again, Rage groans, a deep sound that makes me shiver, and he reaches for my arm once more with a protest. “That’s not it, Silver. I was going to apologize for upsetting you.”
“Needn’t bother. The beta of your merry little bunch of assholes hurts my feelings more than you did earlier on a daily basis. I think I’m growing a tolerance. Save your breath, because I’m not going to lose sleep over it. I really need to leave, so please, wipe your conscience clear and have a splendid evening,” I chirp, patting his hand on my bicep a little patronizingly before pushing it off, missing the touch again like a total loser.
Before he can utter another word, Tanner is back on the call, breathing hard, “Pixie Dust, you still there?”
“Still here, Tan. Did you find it?” I ask, staring into Rage’s eyes while I speak, waiting for him to step aside so I can leave.
“Found it, safe and sound. It was under the bar. I’ll put it in my office with everything else,” he assures, and I smile, enjoying the way Rage’s eyebrows draw down in a pinch.
Pulling a face as if to say, ‘move, idiot’, I answer Tanner. “I don’t remember taking it off there, but thank you. You’re the best.”
“Of course, I am. See you soon, Dusty Girl,” the alpha quips, making my smile expand before he disconnects and leaves me with a now scowling Rage, his eyes now roaming over my outfit. I’m almost convinced the scent of rhubarb grows a little stronger around me, but I deduce that I’m a delusional, little omega, and scratch at my forehead before blurting, “What, Rage? What is happening right now? I gave you a pass. Be free. Spread your wings. Have a blessed day and move on.”
“Where the hell are you going dressed like that?” he spouts suddenly, ignoring everything I just said while his stormy-blues darken as they linger on my tights.
What the hell is his problem?
Eyeing him like he’s lost it a little, I remind him, “Work. You know, the thing I just mentioned. Are you okay?”
He doesn’t answer, simply allows me to pass as he moves away stiffly, and I don’t bother sparing him another second before I’m shaking my head and bypassing the guy quickly, baffled by that little exchange but opting not to dwell on it. Instead, I race through the house, praying I don’t suffer another encounter with another beautiful man, and I’m out of the door and in my car before I know it.
This weekend has been hella weird.