11
Parker
The walls of the bus felt too fucking tight.
I couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t breathe. My knee bounced, my fingers drummed against the tabletop, and the noise—the fucking noise—was grating against every raw nerve I had. Laughter, conversation, even the hum of the engine felt like it was drilling into my skull.
I snapped at Kage when he asked if I was okay.
I told Phoenix to fuck off when she offered me food.
And when Zeph raised an eyebrow and muttered something under his breath, I nearly launched myself across the aisle.
“Jesus, Parker,”
he growled. “Dial it the fuck down.”
“Don’t start with me,”
I snapped, my voice louder than I intended. My chest felt tight, a pressure building behind my ribs like a bomb waiting to blow.
It was always like this.
Every year.
Same day. Same goddamn feeling. And no amount of deep breathing or grounding techniques or pretending I didn’t remember could make it stop.
My mother’s face kept flashing in my mind. Her smile. The way she used to hum while she cooked. How small her hands looked when I held them that last time in the hospital bed. That helpless, fading grip. That silence.
I shoved the thought away and stormed toward the front of the bus. My ADHD was bad on a good day—but on a day like this? It felt like my brain had turned into a pinball machine, and someone cranked the speed up to max.
I passed Phoenix in the living area. She was leaning in close to Kage, whispering something. Her brows were pulled together in that soft little line of concern she wore far too often around me lately.
“What’s wrong with him?”
she asked, just quiet enough that she thought I wouldn’t hear.
Wrong. With. Him.
My jaw clenched.
Fuck that. Fuck her concern. Fuck the way it made something vulnerable twist in my chest.
She didn’t get to look at me like that—not with those pretty gray eyes, like she actually gave a damn. Not today.
I turned on my heel without another word, shoved open the bus door, and stepped into the night. The cold air hit me like a slap, but it didn’t slow me down. I needed space. Noise. Chaos. Anything but this.
I walked fast. Too fast. Shoulders hunched, hands in my jacket pockets, head down.
I didn’t stop until I found the first dive bar with flickering neon and music loud enough to drown out my thoughts. I went in without hesitation.
The first drink went down like water.
The second burned a little more.
By the fourth, I was buzzing just enough to feel numb. Numb was good. Numb was safe. Numb meant I didn’t have to feel the guilt gnawing at my insides or the grief festering like an open wound that never healed.
Someone bumped into me. I turned, ready for a fight, teeth bared.
“Chill out, man,”
the guy muttered, backing off.
Yeah. Chill out. Sure.
I tossed back another shot.
The music pulsed in my chest, a beat I could drown in. I lost count of how many drinks I had. I just knew the bartender stopped asking for payment at some point, probably feeling sorry for the guy with the haunted eyes and twitchy hands.
I stared into the bottom of my glass like it might hold answers. Maybe if I drank enough, I could forget the way my mom smelled. The way her voice shook when she told me she was proud of me.
Fuck.
I slammed the glass down and stumbled back from the bar, pushing my way outside before I lost it in front of a room full of strangers.
The cold slapped me again, harsher this time. I leaned against the wall of the building, the bricks digging into my back as I tilted my head to the sky.
It was cloudy. No stars.
Figures.
I didn’t know how long I stood there, breathing in the icy air like it could freeze the mess in my chest. My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I ignored it. I knew who it would be—Phoenix, probably. Maybe Kage. Maybe both. I didn’t care.
I didn’t want them to see me like this. Broken. Angry. Fractured in ways I didn’t know how to fix.
I sank to the curb, elbows on my knees, hands in my hair, and let out a shuddering breath. I wanted to scream. Or cry. Or fight. Anything to get this restless energy out of my system.
But all I did was sit there, drunk and cold, trying not to remember that tomorrow it would be exactly ten years since I lost the only person who ever saw past the chaos in my head and loved me anyway.
And I hated that no amount of booze could bring her back.
I don’t know how long I sat there on that goddamn curb, hunched over like some tragic figure in a story no one wanted to read.
People passed by, their footsteps muffled under the weight of my thoughts. No one stopped. No one cared. I was just another drunk guy outside a bar, drowning in something too heavy to name.
Good. That’s what I wanted. To disappear.
The cold had crept in, numbing my fingers and the tips of my ears. I pulled my jacket tighter, but it didn’t help. The chill was inside me, deeper than bone.
I kept hearing her laugh—my mom’s. The way she’d call me "bug" when I was little, the way she’d smooth my hair when I was fidgeting too much in school, tell me I wasn’t broken, just wired different. That it made me brilliant.
She believed in me when no one else did.
I don’t know what finally pushed me to stand. Maybe I just ran out of reasons to stay sitting there, feeling sorry for myself. Or maybe it was the distant part of me that still clung to the idea of getting back to the bus before someone came looking. Before Phoenix came looking.
My legs didn’t really work the way they were supposed to—booze had seen to that—but I managed to stumble my way back. Street after street blurred together, and when the bus finally came into view, I stopped to stare at it.
Maybe I should’ve turned around.
Maybe I should’ve just kept walking.
But my feet carried me forward anyway.
I pushed open the door quietly, the inside of the bus still and dim. Everyone was asleep. I moved slowly, careful not to knock into anything, though I still banged my shoulder on the edge of the kitchenette and hissed under my breath.
Then I saw her.
Curled up on the couch in the lounge area, her knees tucked beneath her, Phoenix slept. A soft blanket covered her legs, and her long hair spilled over the cushion like red silk.
Had she waited up for me?
That thought hit like a sucker punch to the ribs.
She let out a little moan in her sleep, shifting slightly.
And just like that, everything else disappeared—my anger, my guilt, the spinning mess of grief and booze in my veins.
All I could see was her.
The curve of her cheek, the way her lashes brushed her skin, the rise and fall of her chest.
I leaned against the wall, letting my head thump back softly. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
The room was quiet, save for the soft rhythm of her breathing. Fuck, she looked peaceful like this. Lips parted slightly, lashes fluttering faintly.
I should’ve walked away but then she let out another moan. A soft, breathy sound that slipped past her lips and curled around me like a fucking noose. Low. Throaty. It hit me straight in the gut, and my cock stood to attention.
I shifted against the wall, trying to ease the pressure. Didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse. My jaw clenched. I let out a slow breath, controlled, measured. Holding myself back when all I wanted to do was walk over her and make her say my name like that.
She’s asleep, I reminded myself. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.
But the sound played on repeat in my head. That innocent little moan—so sweet it turned fucking lethal. My fingers twitched on my thigh, itching to touch her. To wake her. To press my mouth against that soft spot just below her ear and—
I couldn’t.
And then she did it again. Another moan, this one a little louder, a little longer, her voice trailing into something that sounded too close to pleasure. My heart hammered in my chest, the sound tightening like a fist around my ribs. I could feel my cock straining, desperate for friction.
I was already unbuttoning my jeans before I realized I’d moved. The soft pop of the button sounded too loud in the silence. I dragged the zipper down slowly, biting back a curse as the tightness eased just a little.
My hand slipped inside.
Jesus. I was already leaking, throbbing, hard enough it hurt.
I kept my eyes on her as I wrapped my fingers around myself and gave a slow, tentative stroke. A shiver crawled up my spine. My breath hitched. Every part of me screamed to go faster, harder, but I held back.
She shifted in her sleep, her hand falling across her stomach, grazing the hem of her shirt. The fabric lifted just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. The curve of her waist. The hint of her hip.
I froze.
She was so fucking beautiful.
I couldn’t stop now. My strokes quickened, each pass more desperate than the last. Shame and need tangled in my throat like barbed wire. She breathed softly, completely unaware that she was driving me insane.
“You’re killing me,”
I whispered, the words catching against my teeth.
Another pass of my hand, slower this time, teasing the sensitive head of my cock with my thumb. My hips jerked, chasing the pressure, and still—I watched her. Completely fixated. Utterly ruined.
And then she said it.
“Alpha…”
Barely a whisper, soft enough that I thought I imagined it.
I stilled.
My gaze snapped to her face—eyes still closed. Lips curled faintly, almost like a smile. Breathing even.
Still asleep.
“Alpha,”
she murmured again, curling into the pillow, her voice so sweet it nearly fucking broke me.
Was she dreaming about us?
That did it.
I came with a guttural groan, spilling hot and fast over my hand. My body trembled, my thighs shaking as I braced myself against the wall, forehead dropping forward. Ragged breaths filled the silence, my lungs burning, my mind a fucking mess.
When I looked up, she was still there—peaceful, untouched, unaware.
“You’re fucking perfect,”
I breathed, voice rough with whatever the hell this was.
I should’ve moved. Cleaned up. Put myself back together. But I couldn’t. I was too caught in her, drowning in her presence while she slept.
And maybe I was a bastard, but I lifted my hand, still slick with cum, and brushed a fingertip along the seam of her lower lip. Just a trace. Barely there. But the heat of her skin and the sight of it—it nearly undid me all over again.
Then her tongue darted out, licking her lips in her sleep, and I choked on a sound that might’ve been a groan, might’ve been a plea.
Fuck.
She looked so innocent, so sweet—and yet the sight of her tasting me, even unknowingly, had my cock twitching with renewed need.
I dropped my hand and stared, guilt and desire warring in my chest like a storm.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,”
I said, barely audible.
She shifted again, her head turning toward me, like she felt me even now. Like her body sought mine without thought. The ache in my chest twisted tighter.
I wanted to kiss her.
Wake her.
Mark her.
But not like this.
I dragged my fingers down my jeans, wiping away the worst of the mess, but I didn’t move. I stayed there, caught between restraint and obsession, staring at her like a man starved.
“What the hell are you doing to me?”
I muttered, my voice more broken than I cared to admit.
And then, right on cue, she let out another soft moan.
Fuck.
I was in so much trouble.
◆◆◆
Waking up felt like getting hit by a truck.
My mouth was dry and my head was pounding. I groaned and rubbed my eyes, still half-buried in the bunk with my blanket tangled around my legs like some kind of drunken trap.
The memories came back in pieces—fuzzy around the edges, like an old film reel stuttering to life. The fighting, the storming off, the shots… too many shots. Wandering the streets like a damn idiot. And then… her.
The image hit me hard now, even worse than the hangover. Guilt twisted low in my gut. Fuck, I’d taken things too far.
Dragging myself out of the bunk, I shuffled into the lounge area, still foggy, hoping no one would talk too loud or breathe in my general direction.
Zeph and Kage were already up, sitting at the little built-in table, half-eaten breakfast sandwiches between them. The smell of eggs made my stomach turn, but I sat across from them anyway, tapping my fingers on the table, trying to ground myself with the rhythm.
“Rough night?”
Zeph smirked.
I gave him the finger.
Kage snorted, sipping his coffee. “We’re heading out after the show tonight. Thinking of hitting that rooftop bar across from the venue.”
“Yeah, sounds good,”
I muttered, bouncing my leg under the table, my knee knocking the wood. My thoughts flickered between Phoenix, the show, my headache, and the one thing I didn’t want to think about.
Today.
My mother.
I didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to feel it. I just wanted to get through the show, hit a bar, maybe lose myself in a bottle or a body or both.
The soft clink of ceramic met my ears before I saw her. I turned toward the small kitchenette, where Phoenix stood.
She looked… soft. Messy hair, eyes still caught somewhere between dream and waking, her body lost inside an oversized sweatshirt. The mug in her hands trembled just a little as she held it to her chest like armor.
“I actually… um,”
she started, voice barely above a whisper, “I organised something for you. After the show.”
All of us stilled. Even Zeph stopped chewing mid-bite.
Phoenix stepped closer. “I thought it might be good for your pack,”
she said, then slid a folded flyer across the table. Her eyes locked onto mine. “I’ve got a driver picking the three of you up after the show. It’s… just a thing. Something I thought might be nice.”
She hesitated, then gave a half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re getting one night without me hovering over your shoulders. Don’t make me regret it.”
And just like that, she turned and stepped off the bus, leaving silence in her wake.
I stared down at the flyer.
A community lantern memorial.
Soft lights, floating flames, people gathering to release lanterns into the sky in memory of lost loved ones. A night for grief and hope and everything in between.
“She’s doing this for you,”
Kage said quietly.
I looked up, and he gave me a small, almost apologetic shrug. “For your mum. I mentioned it to her yesterday—just to explain why you were being a dick. I didn’t think she’d actually… you know. Do something.”
My throat tightened. I didn’t know what to say.
We hadn’t exactly made her feel like she was part of the pack lately. And yet, here she was—thinking of me. Doing something thoughtful. Quiet. Personal. Not because she had to, but because she wanted to.
Because she noticed.
I swallowed hard and looked away, biting the inside of my cheek. My chest felt too full.
Zeph cleared his throat. “Damn. Guess we’re the assholes, huh?”
No one disagreed.
I looked down at the flyer again, my fingers brushing over the image of floating lanterns against a night sky.
“Yeah,”
I said finally, voice rough. “We are.”