Chapter 17 Ryder #2
Tray relentlessly slammed the drums, lost in the euphoria of free style.
He could still embrace the music… just not our music.
His dark hair had fallen over his face, hiding his eyes.
He was smiling, deep dimples on display, and silver nipple rings glinted above his muscled stomach.
He’d started the session in a hoodie, no shirt, but that was tied around his waist now. His chestnut skin glistened with sweat.
Mac sauntered over to us in that reedy, graceful way of his and took over the second chair.
He sat a little sideways, slinging one long leg over the arm before tilting his head back lazily.
The back was too low to properly lounge like that, but Mac contorted just enough to make it work.
He pushed his pale sunny hair out of his face and then knit his hands together, resting them against his stomach.
His bright hazel eyes flicked to my face, before focusing on the wall behind me, his expression glazing over.
“We’ll find the rhythm soon. The lyrics are solid.
The melody still needs tweaking. We’ve been in worst spots before and made it work.
” Mac spoke gently, low calming voice threading through the space and somehow not drowned out by Tray’s staccato beats of Kevlar drumskin.
He’d set aside his specialty, fiberskin drums for now.
My gaze flicked to them, and I wondered if going with that old school, animal hide sound would work for the new song.
“I don’t know, Mac. It just feels all types of fucking wrong.” Dixon’s voice was gruff. He was always on the edge. I missed his old personality, before the past two years began ramping up the rut and the rage.
“We’ll do it,” Mac insisted. “We always do.”
“We aren’t the guys anymore that always fucking do it,” I stopped just short of growling out the words.
I wasn’t angry at him, or Tray, or even Dixon despite how much trouble he’d been lately.
I was mad at myself. If I hadn’t spent eons pining for that girl, that phantom in the crowd, that one kiss I couldn’t shake, then we’d probably have found a decent match well before now.
Yet, anytime a possibility had cropped up—there’d even been a few that almost fit the bill, almost smelled like the future—I couldn’t bring myself to abandon the ghost in my head.
One Omega had really had the hots for Tray, and she was perky and cute, but he’d brought her home after one date and she’d smelled nothing like my dream girl.
No delicate floral, no heady cedarwood. No…
aura of being well loved and fearless. She didn’t smell like home.
I mean, she also had no chance with Dixon, who thought she’d smelled like straight trash.
Or Mac, who, after scent testing her, was completely unimpressed.
Tray had even admitted later, despite the sex being top tier, that the Omega didn’t feed his inner Alpha.
He couldn’t have marked her, even if he’d wanted to.
That was an issue a lot of packs faced—finding the fit that fed the entire unit.
Of course, some packs didn’t go the one and done route.
Some brought in a few Omegas, ones that scent-matched with different members of the group, and they made that work.
Large, old-money packs typically did that more often as a way to build their empires.
Alphas and Omegas with fewer resources tended to link up as individuals and build families.
We’d all decided though, a long time ago, that one Omega was enough.
Two, three, or four… fuck, our lifestyle wasn’t made for that.
We were on the road too often. We couldn’t manage multiples.
Finally, Tray’s drums fell silent, and he jack rabbited over to us, sinking down into the seat next to me, his broad shoulders taking up too much room. I shifted, leaning towards the arm rest on my side. The dude was hella sweaty.
“Whoo! Can’t wait for the Grammys next year,” he quipped, performing a muffled blast beat with his sticks against his knees. “We’ll sweep the awards.”
"Fuck off," I replied without heat, giving him a half-hearted shove. I deliberately beat Dixon, who’d visibly bristled at the joke, to the punch. He’d have broken something else of Tray’s, maybe this time on purpose, just to shut him up.
“I’m serious, the song’s going to be dope.
” Tray rolled the sticks over in his hands, before shoving them upright between the loveseat’s cushion and arm.
“Shit, I stink.” He hopped up energetically and bounced over to a bank of lockers near the minifridge.
Untying the hoodie and dropping it to the floor, he opened a locker and rifled through clothing. He kept a stash down here.
Mac sighed, that patented sound that meant he was about to be the voice of reason. “The problem isn't the music. We all know this. It’s us.”
Dixon grunted and stood up, stalking back to the fridge again. “No shit, Sherlock. Can we not rehash the same fucking topic again.”
“I’m not trying to state the obvious again,” Mac continued, shifting to sit properly in his chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
“We need something to change now. We can’t keep waiting on some mystical hope this fucking institute has promised, no matter what Catalina says.
The Alpha tonics, the meditation—” he glanced at Dixon’s back, who was now leaning down to take another bottle from the mini-fridge, “—the therapy. None of it’s working, and it’s never going to work any better than taking the barest edge off, because we're missing something fundamental.”
“Yes, we know, Mac.” Tray rejoined us, dropping back onto the sofa.
His voice was sarcastic at first, but then his tone shifted, becoming uncharacteristically serious.
“It’s not like we can just wish a perfectly, made-for-four Omega into existence though.
I’ve brought chicks home. At least, I’ve tried.
You all seem content to rot into mad dogs. ”
I wasn’t content. Not by a mile. I would never be content unless I could capture that feeling again. Was it fucking insane to ruin your life over fifteen fleeting minutes with a stranger? Yeah. But, goddammit, it was hard to let her go.
I closed my eyes, the phantom scent of her washing over me again.
Bright, piercing blue eyes. A halo of dark curly hair.
Those ruby glossed lips. I'd spent nearly a decade chasing that feeling, trying to recapture it with groupies, with fans, with anyone who might come close to sparking the same fire. All I’d gotten was a long list of meaningless encounters and a couple STD scares.
“Just give Catalina and this Eros thing a little more time,” I finally breathed out.
“Your mystery girl isn't magically walking through that door, Ryder,” Mac dropped the atom bomb, the one that always brought me to heel and reminded me that I was the one holding us all back. If I’d just let go of her, then maybe we’d successfully find an Omega.
I didn’t agree though. Holding onto her wasn’t keeping us from scent-matching.
The winding, infiltrating weed of her in my brain and soul didn’t change the fact that every Omega we’d tried to bring into the fold just hadn’t fucking fit.
Mac's words stung, but they were nothing I hadn't told myself a thousand times before. I leaned forward, scrubbing my hands over my face, feeling the stubble I hadn't bothered to shave in three days.
“I know, alright? I fucking know.” My voice came out rougher than I intended. “But there's something about her that I can't shake. It wasn't just a scent, or a look, or even that kiss. It was like... finding something I didn't know was missing. You guys don’t get it. You didn’t meet her.”
Dixon stalked back to his chair, clutching another tonic.
“We've all heard this shit before, Ryder. But your little blue-eyed angel isn't fucking real anymore. She was a moment. A fucking moment almost two years ago. And we're all paying for it now. You’ve got to let that shit go before one of us really goes feral. And then? Oblivion Haze doesn’t mean shit anymore.”
Instead of sitting down, Dixon turned away from us all and left our rehearsal space.
I could hear him lumbering down the hall, the ding of the elevator button.
I was screwing everything up, for all of us.
Why couldn’t I just wipe the slate clean and accept the fact that she wasn’t ever coming back into my life?
I couldn’t even argue that it was worth it anymore.
We'd had this conversation too many times, usually with alcohol and shouting.
I'd chase that ghost to my grave if I had to, but I was dragging my brothers down with me. We were supposed to be a unit. We were supposed to follow our group decisions, like finding one perfect Omega. Each time I realized that I was the weak link—the busted puzzle piece, the toxic fucking element—it hit me like a physical damn blow to the gut. It knocked the wind out of me. Yet that still wasn’t enough for me to change my mind.
“Remember when we used to make fun of other bands?” Tray’s joking tone was half-returned, though the normal trickster glint in his eye was dulled.
When Mac and I didn’t respond, he continued.
“All these famous groups letting one thing destroy them. Breaking up, disappointing fans, ruining the way they could have skyrocketed to new heights if they’d just gotten their shit together.
” He gave a little shrug. The movement was boyish, despite his wrestler-thick frame.
“We’re that now, Ryder. And it kind of blows. ”
Tray got up again, seemingly unable to sit still today.
He shoved his hands into his pockets in such a way that his forearms pushed a loose, color-splashed button-down shirt back to reveal a torn ribbed tank beneath.
He gave me a sort of wistful look, like I was a disappointment, yet he still hoped I’d do better soon.
Then he left like Dixon. I waited, not hearing the elevator’s sharp arrival ding. Tray preferred the stairs.
“We all love you, man. Never doubt that.” Mac leaned forward, one hand coming to rest on my leg. “You’re the one who has to finally let go so we can fix our group.”
“You guys act like finding a scent match for all four of us is easy. It’s still a needle in a haystack. No girl has ever matched with more than two of us,” I grumbled the words, still warring with myself.
“Then maybe it’s time to consider changing our plan. More than one Omega wouldn’t be the end of the world, Ryder, but not having a single one just might be.” He squeezed my knee then sat back against his chair.
I knew it was reasonable. I knew it probably was the right thing to do.
Packs who went that route weren’t as close as our group though.
Inevitably, bonding with more than one Omega would mean dividing our attention.
The hierarchy had to shift; it’s why large, upper-echelon packs had a lead Alpha and Omega to organize and control group machinations.
We couldn’t be together the way we were if we were each building our own family units with individual mates.
“We’ve still got the Eros Institute,” I said halfheartedly. I’d already brought it up once, as if it was the cure-all for our diseases instead of this tenuous hope that likely wouldn’t bear fruit.
It had been months since we’d signed the Eros contract—ridiculously the mate matching branch was coined The Cupid Company—paid the ridiculous retainer and gone through scent sampling.
Catalina had found Eros. Not by magic, or out of the blue.
She’d been on a mission. Enough shit had gone down with Dixon, with all of us really, that the label had grown wise to our floundering Alpha control.
With our renewal on the horizon, we needed to fix our pack.
We’d worked too damn hard to fuck it up in our prime.
Cat had been convinced Eros was the answer. She’d given us hope. Even me. For a bright, shining moment, I thought I could move past my hang-ups and help the band.
Yet, all we’d gotten so far was a canned brush off.
“Patience is key throughout this process. Finding one perfect match for a pack will take time.” So much for their advanced fucking technology.
If they couldn’t help us, they’d likely deny a refund too.
They’d been sure to legally cover their asses about how illicit drug use and copious amounts of alcohol could mess with scent sample purity and affect results.
It was snake oil, I was beginning to suspect.
“Sure, Ryder. Maybe that will work out.” Mac gave me a sad smile before standing. He left too.
And then I sat there alone, feeling like the biggest damn failure in the world.
Oblivion Haze couldn’t exist in our current state. Everything we’d worked so hard for was imploding. I knew it was my fucking fault. Just like it had been my fucking fault almost a year ago, sitting in that tour bus feeling sorry for myself.
I needed a drink. Or two. Or maybe I’d just drink myself to the point of booking a fast, one-way trip to six feet under.