Chapter 2
Beck
The roar of the crowd is deafening, or at least it feels that way. The cacophony of sound bounces around my skull, growing higher and higher in pitch until all I can hear is a piercing ringing noise.
I turn wide eyes to my left, sinking into familiar dark pools. Eli’s dark hair is slicked away from his face, drawing my eyes along the sharp cut of his jaw, covered in the perfect amount of stubble. It casts a dark shadow across his tan skin.
His face is split into a rare grin, transforming his normally dour expression into one of unbridled, almost childish joy and pride.
The look sparks through me, jolting me back into my body.
Eli seems to notice something in my expression, because he instantly averts his gaze.
Good. There are cameras on us.
Now I just need to figure out a way of twisting my face into something appealing. The version of my face plastered onto the screen right now doesn’t feel like me.
My movements are stiff and robotic as I push myself up from my chair. Eli’s blood orange scent wraps itself around me. There’s a part of my brain that always seems to be aware of him.
I blame it on my stupid omega hormones.
I turn to my right, towards my other best friend, Leo. Technically, he’s my publicist. The shield that keeps the vultures at bay, as Eli likes to put it.
“You won a Grammy, Beck!” Leo says, squeezing my shoulder before wrapping me in a tight hug. His warm paper scent is milder than Eli’s. I’m grateful. Leo’s beta scent is exactly what I need right now.
I think the stress of this situation is making my nose extra sensitive. Despite the high ceilings here, the mix of all these scents is giving me a headache.
His normally sharp eyes are twinkling crescents as he flashes a bright grin at me.
“So proud of you, man,” he says, running a hand through his dark hair, parted down the middle.
“Thank you,” I sigh, my face relaxing into a genuine smile.
I’ve known Leo and Eli since we were in kindergarten together. They’ve been my rocks throughout the chaos of everything. There’s no one else I’d rather celebrate this milestone with.
I turn to Eli, swallowing hard. I can still feel the cameras on me. My lizard brain can’t seem to tell the difference between the barrel of a gun and the lens of a camera right now. I feel far too vulnerable.
My hug with Eli is far more chaste than the one I shared with Leo. But I still soak in the comforting scent.
“You did it,” he murmurs softly, his voice sending a shiver down my spine the same way a rough caress would. “Always knew you would.”
My stomach does a whole back handspring in my abdominal cavity. I blame it on the alcohol I’ve been nervously sipping at all night.
Not the allure of Eli’s alpha-ness.
I can’t find Eli alluring. We’re friends.
Good enough friends that he helps me through my heats, but that’s only because the Omega Center Network doesn’t offer heat services to male omegas yet. I guess they don’t have a whole lot of volunteers for that sort of thing. Which means I’m shit out of luck whenever my heat rolls around.
Well, I would be—if Eli didn’t step up to the plate.
A pang of guilt makes my stomach roil again. Shit, am I going to throw up?
I can’t throw up.
I can see the headlines now.
Male omega too emotionally fragile to handle fame.
I’d make people feel even weirder about my designation than they already do.
A strong hand claps down on my shoulder, dragging me out of my anxious thought spiral.
“Take a breath, Beckham. You’re lucky the cameras can’t smell,” Everett, the record label executive who signed me, says. The words are harsh, but his tone is even and reassuring.
He’s right. My burnt caramel scent is a whole lot more burnt than caramel right now.
I take a deep breath and give him a jerky nod. I need to get my shit under control.
His lips quirk up in a proud smile as he runs a hand over his salt-and-pepper beard.
“Good. You deserve this. You’re changing history right now, I hope you know that.” He offers me one last shoulder squeeze before gently nudging me towards the stage. “Now go represent all the male omegas out there.”
Great.
No pressure.
No fucking pressure at all.
The lights from above get more and more blinding as I step up onto the stage.
A beta actress I remember watching at the local movie theater in the small town Eli, Leo, and I grew up in beams as she hands over the trophy.
My trophy.
For Best New Artist.
At the Grammys.
Okay, I was wrong.
This is a whole lot of fucking pressure.
Even more so when I see the timer counting down, indicating how much time I have on the stage to say what I want to say.
Sweat beads on my brow as the stage lights beat down on me from above. All the faces in the crowd morph, and I cling to the trophy like it’s my lifeline.
It’s funny. I can rock a stage when I’ve got a guitar in my hand and my songs to sing.
I take a deep breath and draw from that well of courage, imagining all the fans who are maybe watching this live or who will watch it when it’s clipped for social media later.
“Wow,” I say, clearing my throat. “I never thought I’d be here. It feels like yesterday when I was waiting tables at the local diner in my tiny town and posting covers on YouTube. Thank you to my label for taking a chance on me. Thank you to my management—”
My eyes drift to Eli, whose gaze is locked onto me.
“I’d never be here without you.”
There’s a part of me that says the words directly to him, despite the room full of people.
“And to any male omegas out there,” I continue, “this is for you. Anything is possible. Dream big.”
The trophy trembles in my hand ever so slightly as I hold it up.
The walk back to my table feels surreal. Like I’m floating.
The cameras aren’t on me anymore; they’ve already started moving onto the next award, but I’m still terribly anxious.
“To Beckham!” Everett says with a proud smile, lifting a flute of champagne for a toast.
I go through the motions of lifting my glass, pouring two-thirds of it right down my throat. Probably a bad idea because it feels like molten lead in my stomach. Actually, scratch that. Definitely a bad idea.
“I’ve gotta go to the bathroom,” I mumble, not really caring who hears me.
“You good?” Leo asks, tilting his head.
“Fine.” My nod is jerky as I push myself up from my seat.
Eli moves at the same time.
“You going with him, Elijah?” Everett asks, raising his brow.
“Yeah,” Eli nods gruffly.
Part of me wants to protest, to tell him he can stay here and continue watching the award ceremony.
The other part wants to tuck myself into his side and breathe his blood orange scent in until this godforsaken headache goes away.
Fuck that other part of me.
That’s my inner omega talking, and he’s stupid.
And needy.
So fucking needy.
I settle on staying silent as I walk towards the back of the room. Eli follows on my heels, never more than a step behind me.
Following me, of all people.
I’m holding him back. I know it deep in my core.
I wonder what life would be like if I hadn’t presented as an omega a couple years ago? Most male omegas seem to be late bloomers, but still. It was so unexpected.
“You doing okay?” Eli murmurs as the door shuts behind us.
I continue along the hallway, not bothering to put an answer to words because I know I’ll probably fall apart.
My steps falter when I catch sight of a crowd of people. With cameras pointed right at me.
Paparazzi.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
“Beckham Knight! Congrats on your win tonight!”
“Do you have any comments?”
“How do you feel about representing the male omega community?”
“I—” I open my mouth, trying to come up with something that distills how I’m feeling without any of the negative anxiety, while also balancing my attempt at not being cancelled.
“What do you have to say about critics calling your music teenage girl trash?”
Any possibility of words die on my tongue at that last question.
Eli steps between the paparazzi and I, his broad shoulders blocking out the bright lights.
“Enough questions,” he says, nudging me to continue walking with a light brush against my shoulder.
The touch sears through the fabric of my suit.
I blame it on the alcohol, but heat radiates from where he just touched me and travels through my entire body.
Maybe it’s because he’s an alpha, but the paparazzi don’t follow us down the hallway I wander aimlessly down. I don’t even know if this is in the direction of the bathroom.
“Over here,” Eli says, letting out a soft huff of laughter.
I turn on my heel, seeing him gripping the handle to a door with a very clear single-stall bathroom sign.
Oops. Guess I missed that.
My attention is drawn to the veins I see along the back of his massive hands.
“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head.
“Your head’s in the clouds, huh?”
More like in the gutter.
“Not really,” I mumble, stepping into the bathroom.
The heavy door shuts behind us with a definitive thump.
My eyes widen as my gaze darts around the bathroom.
“Damn, this place is a little ridiculous,” Eli chuckles, leaning against the bathroom door with his massive arms crossed over his chest.
He’s right. There are marble countertops and even a mini-chandelier. Who needs a chandelier where they shit?
“It really is.”
“Things sure have changed a lot, huh? We don’t have bathrooms like this back home.”
“We definitely don’t.” My laughter sounds nervous, even to my own ears. I’m like a parrot, repeating his own words back at him.
Eli pushes himself off the wall to stand in front of me. My breath hitches in my throat, almost like I’m hoping that if I hold my breath with his scent there, I’ll feel calm forever.
He reaches up and massages the back of my neck, his thumb digging into the crick that always seems to appear when I’m stressed.
I melt into his touch. My eyes flutter shut. I can’t bear to look at him.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” he scoffs as if my words are stupid.
“For needing to be comforted.”
“No need to apologize. This isn’t the first time. Won’t be the last.”
His words just twist the knife already lodged in my chest.