Chapter 1
Chapter One
My life is a cycle of getting lost in the music and choking on regret.
When the volume gets too low, my emotions too overwhelming to face on my own, I come here. To the suburban garage where my bandmates still practice.
These guys are so damn young. So full of hope.
They aren’t using music to chase demons; they’re chasing dreams.
Sometimes I question if I’m pulling them down. Hindering their rise to stardom with my shit mental health and even shittier outlook.
“You good, dude?”
I shrug, letting Joey step back into position so we can run through the song again. Getting lost in the beat of the drums and the rhythm of the guitars, the words pour from my lips. An intro full of emotion to draw listeners in, and then my voice drops, chest rattling with deep, growling screams.
Elation sweeps the angst away, finally letting the tension bleed from my body as I pour my soul into the music.
Matt takes over, belting out the chorus in his smoother, dulcet tone. His voice fades, and it’s back to me. Another verse to bring my heartbreak to life.
I love this feeling.
The high that comes with performing.
As soon as my voice tapers off, the guys slam into action, dropping into a breakdown that rattles the windows. The sound ricochets through my body, and for a moment, I’m free. Weightlessly floating in a cloud of heavy bass, drum kicks, and guitar harmonics.
I’m not the man who wakes up hating himself, nor am I the one who goes to sleep filled with regrets. The burdens of my mistakes and the what-ifs can’t reach me here.
The instrumentals drop back into their normal rhythm, shattering my temporary bubble of peace. I move on instinct, taking the mic in hand and falling into the bridge with the same intensity as my bandmates.
As soon as it’s over, I’m ready to dive back in.
To find a way to make that feeling last forever.
“We’re awesome.” Matt cheers, double high-fiving our drummer, Lee.
“Hell yeah, we are.” Lee tosses his drumsticks in the air and catches them, rattling out a short burst of beats.
He slumps on his stool and levels them at me.
Sweat drips from his shoulder-length hair, soaking into the top of his lime-green t-shirt.
“Great job, man, but I’m calling it. I’m starving. ”
Disappointment briefly fills my heart, but I push it aside. I would be a jackass if I demanded they keep going when they clearly need a break.
My stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten today. “Yeah, sounds good.”
We unhook our equipment and pack it into Joey’s van. The guys tease each other, talking shit like good friends do. I move between them, silently helping tear everything down.
Do I belong here? In their pack?
When I was younger and imagined what finding my pack would feel like, it wasn’t this. In those daydreams, I wasn’t an uncomfortable outlier, always standing at the edges of the group, but an integral part of the pack itself. There was laughter, friendship, and love.
My reality is jarringly different. Was I na?ve to believe forming a pack would be effortless? That we would fit together with no bumps or bruises?
“Pizza?” Matt asks, bumping into my side to get my attention. His dark green eyes study me intensely.
Instead of joining them for food, maybe I’ll head to the gym. Running for a bit might help clear this funk I’m in.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I follow him to my car. Only two of us fit in the van, so we split up to head back to our apartment in Starburgh.
Halfway back, my phone rings with a call from our band manager.
“Good evening, boys,” Bea chirps into the phone. “Since I know some of you don’t check your phones, I thought I’d call to confirm you received my email about the meeting tomorrow.”
Matt mutters something about telling Joey she’s shit-talking him. Our bassist is chronically offline. So much so that I doubt he knows where his phone is.
“I need you at the label tomorrow at two o’clock. Do not be late.”
Our schedules are usually plotted out pretty far in advance, so I’m curious what this last-minute meeting is about.
By the time we make it to the apartment, the thought of eating makes me nauseous. I waited too long, and now my body is making me regret it.
The guys give me worried glances when I leave them in the kitchen, muttering that I need to shower. I feel bad for worrying them, but I can’t force myself to eat when my stomach has decided I’m no longer hungry.
Hot water pelts against my back as I stand and stare at the faded cream shower tile. I was happy once, wasn’t I? This emptiness eating fragments of my soul wasn’t always there, but it’s been so long that I don’t remember what it felt like to be whole.
When was the last time the weight of depression wasn’t crushing me?
One corner of a grin flickers through my mind. The briefest memory of lips I used to kiss. Of the woman who once owned my heart. Things haven’t been the same since we went our separate ways.
Slamming the water off, I step into the steam-filled bathroom and swipe my palm across the mirror.
I’m no longer the boy-next-door she remembers.
Tattoos cover the majority of my body. Colorful macabre swirls of ink that work better to keep me afloat than my monthly therapy sessions.
My once dark brown hair is shaved on the sides and bleached on top.
I’m taller, thicker, and bulkier than I ever was back then.
Would she recognize me if I passed her on the street?
Fuck, I need to get out of my head before I spiral.
Throwing on shorts and a cut-off shirt, I grab my gym bag and slip back to the garage. A good workout will exhaust my body and force my thoughts to stop running long enough for me to make it back home and pass out.
I hope.
Pounding on my bedroom door startles me awake. Tossing the blankets aside, I roll over and curse when I see my alarm clock. How the hell is it already one in the afternoon?
Scrubbing a hand over my face, I let them know I’m getting ready. Throwing clean clothes on, I take a moment to finger-comb my unruly bleach-blonde curls before rushing out the door.
Soulbound Echo Studios is housed in a large, red brick building. The exterior is pretty nondescript, matching the neutral-toned interior. It isn’t until you get into the offices or studios that personality shines through.
Like the manager’s office, which is a cluttered, chaotic mess. Old band posters cover one wall, and four desks are crammed around a small conference table.
Descenters work in overdrive, but they still cannot remove the faint pineapple coconut scent that comes from our Omega manager. As hot as Bea may be, her scent is too sweet, making my nose itch with an impending sneeze.
I’ll suffer through it, though, because she’s proven to us how great at her job she is. Genuinely caring about us instead of the money we could make her.
“Take a seat.” She claps, standing up from her desk by the window. Brown curly hair piles on her head in a messy updo, the kind where every loose strand looks intentional. Dark blue eyes connect with ours as she slides papers onto the table and takes a seat.
“I’m sure you’re all aware of the horrifying things that happened in the Montgomery cult, and that the FCDA is still dismantling it. Part of their investigation led them to rescue dozens of Alphas and Omegas who were being experimented on and tortured by the cult members.”
A low growl builds in my chest imagining what those people went through. I know firsthand how dangerous anti-designation rhetoric can be, but our small town never witnessed it on a scale as large as what happened in New Hampshire.
Grant Montgomery, the cult leader who paraded as a pastor, was arrested in August after his hidden Omega daughter confronted him in a nationwide livestream. Her bravery revealed his horrific abuse and delusions of power, destroying his carefully cultivated image as a man of God.
The guys voice their disgust, and Bea nods sharply. “Exactly. To help those affected by that bastard’s bullshit, the label plans to run a two month long charity tour. All proceeds will go into a fund to get the victims the care and support they need to recover.”
“We’ll join,” I cut in. “We want to help.”
Bea’s dark blue eyes sparkle as she hands us each a paper from her stack.
“I was hoping you would. Most slots are already filled by other bands, but I picked these three for you. They’re all East Coast, and they aren’t back to back, so it won’t be as hectic as your tour with Primordial Covenant over the summer. ”
“Are they joining?” Matt asks. He’s a huge fan of the masked rock band, and getting to open for them over the summer was a dream come true for him.
Shaking her head, Bea stands and brushes her hands down her high-waisted teal slacks. “With several high-level cult members still unaccounted for, the label decided it would be best for them to sit this one out.”
“Because Omen is their mate, their shows could become targets,” I surmise. Omen was our tour photographer. She is also Bea’s best friend, Primordial Covenant’s Fate-matched mate, and Grant Montgomery’s daughter.
She’s dealt with enough danger for one lifetime. The rest of us can take the risks and help the other victims.
Our first show takes place in ten days, with the other two following the weekends after. The thought of climbing onto a stage and performing again sends sparks up my spine. Cheering crowds, blinding lights, and music.
Yeah, that’s exactly what I need.
Lee throws an arm around my shoulder as we leave. “You know what that means? We’re back on the bus.”
He cackles louder when I dislodge him from my side. I fucking hate being on the bus. It’s cramped and smells like a gym locker room no matter how deeply I clean it. Our tour over the summer had us living out of that stinky piece of shit for over two months.
I should book hotel rooms for these shows instead. Sending Bea a quick email, I ask her to help me set them up. She replies with three bookings, already one step ahead of me.
Guess we get to avoid the bus after all.