Chapter 3
THREE
“We’re on in sixty seconds!” someone calls, and those usual jitters that I feel before an interview start in the pit of my stomach.
I have no problem with performing in front of thousands of people, being sexy in photoshoots, or even being swarmed by fans when we least expect it. But with interviews, talk shows especially, my nerves are always up.
Being a rock star is as glorious an experience as everyone seems to think it is, but it comes with its struggles just like any job.
Mainly, the gig is fun, but there’s a psychological aspect to it that, for me, can be a bit mind-boggling.
I’m the frontman, so there’s a persona that my team wants me to put on in public.
I’m meant to be mysterious, unattainable, and cocky, but in an attractive way.
Apparently I’m good at it, according to my pack mates, but it’s still a nasty pill to swallow.
I’m supposed to remind the public of the good ole days, when rock stars were degenerates who trashed their hotel rooms and ate cocaine for breakfast to get through the day.
That’s the illusion they want to give our audience, and I let them, but that’s not who I am.
So, putting the mask on before interviews and performances is a little bit daunting and anxiety-inducing.
Maybe it reminds me of my days in England, when I was reprimanded for not answering correctly or not sitting properly. Even something as simple as having a cup of tea makes my heart race these days, because it reminds me of a time when I wasn’t my own person.
Being the son of an aristocrat can do that. You are told who you are before you can even form an original thought. How to speak, how to stand, how to walk. It’s all determined for you before you even know what your favorite color might be.
My sister flashes in my mind, her whimsical nature deplored by our parents.
Leaving her behind to pursue the band was my only regret, but I needed to breathe.
Needed to give my parents a valid reason to not expect anything from me anymore, and becoming something shameful like a famous rock star seemed to do the trick.
Still, I hope she’s doing well. She’s more prone to rebellion than I ever was, so I worry about how they are treating her.
I take in a few deep breaths, waiting to walk out onto the set and be bombarded with questions.
Media training was easy for me, but there are always a few unexpected questions that hosts try to sneak in.
It’s not their fault; they have a job to do too, but I’m really not in the mood to be asked something I’m not prepared to answer today.
A hand reaches out, fingers lacing between mine, and my breathing starts to even out.
I don’t have to look up to know who it is.
Serenity pours into me from the bond between us.
“I’m here,” Jamie whispers, and his dark orchid scent hits my nostrils and instantly calms me.
It’s woodsy, rich, and masculine, but also has a note of sweetness that always seems to pull me to my knees.
I still remember the first time I scented Jamie.
Before we were The Rogues, we were just a bunch of kids who grew up together in Bristol.
Most of the time, it was the four of us—Remi, Lennon, Malaki, and myself—but every summer since before I could remember, Jamie would come to visit his father’s family.
He was a part of the group, even if he didn’t live in Bristol year-round, and we stayed in contact whenever he went back to California.
He was the glue, a calming presence to our roguishness, and always kept us out of trouble while also joining in the fun.
It was only a few months every year, but they were the ones I looked forward to the most. The freedom, the shenanigans, and Jamie.
In our last year of school, all four of us had designated as alphas, and I felt powerful in my new body.
I couldn’t wait to see our friend that summer, scent him, and see the look in his eyes when he scented me.
But after Jamie turned eighteen and designated as a beta, I was forced to resign to the fact that I would never know what his scent smelled like.
He had described it to me through his texts, told me that some of his cousins gagged the first time it came out, but I would never know if they were full of shit or if the scent was as glorious as I imagined.
Unless we were scent matches, neither of us would ever scent the other, and that fate felt devastating.
So, when he came back that summer, his scent hit me like a ton of bricks. I still remember the look on his face when he realized he could smell me, too. Pure shock flickered over his beautiful features as he realized the same thing as me: that we were scent matches, fated to be together.
I never expected it, not in a million years.
And I also didn’t expect Malaki to scent Jamie, too, and for the pack bond to officially snap into place between the five of us.
That summer was a magical one. Despite years of being forced to endure systematic abuse at the hands of my parents, I finally had what I always wanted: a pack, a scent match, a family.
“Ten seconds!” I hear behind us, and we turn toward the open space of the set, preparing to hear our introduction, the rest of our pack by our sides.
“Let’s fucking do this,” Lennon whispers, his body thrumming with energy.
“Behave,” I mutter back to him, a slight bark in my tone. He bows his head, a whine falling, and guilt travels through my chest. I shake the anxious thoughts from my head. “Sorry, Lennon. I didn’t mean to project that onto you.”
“I was a little too ramped up,” Lennon admits.
“You and I both know instincts are more powerful than our fears,” Remi cuts in, staring at me. “Stop doubting yourself, Alpha.”
My chest expands, the beast in my chest preening at his words. “Thank you,” I mouth to him and he gives me a nod of reassurance.
I know most packs don’t have a second in command, but I swear, Remi is mine. He’s always there to reassure me, to help keep the others in line. He’s the one with the most control, in every aspect of our lives.
Jamie’s hand squeezes mine again, his thumb rubbing over the bond mark hidden beneath my sleeve. I let out a quiet groan, the cheeky movement overpowering my anxiety for a moment. Malaki chuckles, having felt my jolt of arousal in the link we share, connected by our bonds with Jamie.
He clasps my shoulder. “We’re right in front of you, Cy.”
I nod, knowing it’s the truth, and then our cue starts behind the black curtain, the live audience becoming wild.
“Now, welcome to the show, once again, the members of the rock sensation known as The Rogues: Lennon Bellwether, Remi Ainsworth, Malaki Blakely, Jamie Morrison, and frontman, Cyrus Darlington!”
“Has there been any kind of culture shock since you’ve started living in America?” Renee, one of the hosts, asks. Her smile is kind, her professionalism the most stellar I’ve ever seen.
“Loads,” Lennon nods.
“It’s a lot bigger,” Malaki jokes, then motions toward Jamie. “But Jamie is from California. We used to come visit every now and then before starting the band, so it’s not entirely new to us.”
“Right, you’re from Kiss Cove,” she recollects as she looks at our beta, her smile somehow bigger. “There’s been quite a few stars from that little town of yours.”
“A few, yes.” Jamie nods.
“There must be something in the water,” the other host, Byron, comments. “But you spent your summers in Bristol with the guys, is that correct?”
I breathe easy for a moment, knowing they are talking about Jamie’s upbringing and dual citizenship rather than asking me stupid questions about possible hook-ups and implying I’m a man whore.
I wish I could flash the bond mark on my wrist. I wish I could shout to the world that I’m in love, that we’re a pack.
Malaki and Jamie are out, their relationship public, but they had different plans for me.
They want to sell the story that I’m obtainable, that anyone could run into me at a pub and convince me to take them home.
Although I understand, it gets harder and harder every day to keep up the facade.
Most days I wish we hadn’t signed that contract agreeing to keep our pack life a secret.
“Well, I’m sure you’ve heard that Vicious Velvet are going back on tour,” Byron says, bringing me back to the present. His eyes are on me, watching for any type of reaction, but I just give a lopsided smile.
“I don’t know why. Their last tour went on for ages,” I say. “Is the world really ready to endure that again?”
It’s a low blow, one that I’ll probably panic over later, but it holds a bit of truth. Six months is the average, but ten months? That’s too long to be on the road, even for someone like me who loves to perform.
Their question isn’t really about the tour though. What they really want to know is: did I hear about the tour from everyone else or did I hear it directly from the source?
“I’m sure their lead singer wasn’t too keen on the idea, either,” Renee ignores him, her eyes suddenly slit-like, a viper waiting in the grass.
Damn, Renee. I thought you were nice.
“Cleo is a firecracker,” I respond vaguely. “If she dislikes something, she isn’t going to shy away from saying it.”
I try not to snort at my own words. Despite being forced to continue on this lie, my words are very true. Cleo Del Rossi is someone you don’t want to mess with. She is moody, disorderly, and—dare I say it—vicious, just like their band’s namesake.
“Has she voiced that to you? When was the last time you saw the dark angel of rock ’n’ roll?”
I grit my teeth, wondering why I even try with those “do not ask” lists that are given to our teams. I always put Cleo and Vicious Velvet on there, and yet my team always ignores my requests. They want people talking about our past relationship, our fake relationship.