Chapter 4
FOUR
When Donna and her team called this emergency meeting, I knew it wouldn’t be good. But now, sitting across from her in silence, her hands firm on the table as she looks each of us in the eyes like a predator ready to pounce, my stomach twists in knots.
“Why are we here?” Lark asks, getting to the point before the tension in this room can explode. Our manager, Ruby, got here a few moments ago, her blonde hair slicked back and suit completely clean. However, her face is pinched in a nervous expression that makes me raise an eyebrow.
Donna smiles and the excitement in it is frightening. “We found your other act. We signed contracts the other day and thought it was time to let you girls in on the plan.”
“Let us in on the plan?” Cleo echoes, her dark, decked-out nails digging into the varnish of the table.
“Yes, precisely,” Donna continues without missing a beat. “This upcoming tour is going to be a big one. Sales are already going through the roof, but we’re hoping to sell out once the news hits the public later today.”
The hair on my neck stands up, something prickling under the surface at her words. Which opening act could do that for us? Unless…
“Are we—” I pause, my mouth suddenly dry. “Are we the opening act? Are we the support instead?”
Donna chuckles. “No, of course not! This is still your tour.”
“Then I’m not understanding, Donna,” Cleo grits. “Why would an opening act potentially sell out our tour?”
“Because there isn’t going to be an opening act,” she announces. “The tour is changing. You will be co-headlining with another band.”
Lark jolts, gripping my arm for support, as if Donna’s words had hit her in the sternum. I spin, seeing the tension in her jaw, and scrunch my brows.
What the hell is going on? Why does she look like that?
“What band?” Nicola asks from the end, and I flinch at the bite in her tone.
Nicola has always been good at hiding how she feels.
It might be dissociation, or she might genuinely not care at all, but she doesn’t look cut off from reality at this moment.
No, she is staring the overseer down, giving her the look of an angry coyote.
“I know this isn’t ideal—” Ruby starts, but Cleo cuts her off.
“What. Fucking. Band,” she grits out, her eyes throwing daggers at the exec.
But Donna doesn’t back down. She steels her spine, clears her throat, and says, “You will be going on tour with The Rogues.”
The air is sucked from the room.
“What did you just say?” Cleo asks, scary calm, but I can feel her fury swirling in the air, her saffron scent instantly burning at the edges.
Lark’s hand falls away, and I almost let a whine come up my throat as the warmth disappears. I need the support, the anchor, but I can’t voice that as my words get caught.
“We thought this would take some of the load off,” Donna adds, almost patronizingly.
“We know going back on tour this soon is a big ask, so instead of being the headliner, we’ve divided the time slots and responsibilities.
Besides, think about the ticket sales. There’s going to be thousands of people going out of their minds at the idea that they could see both Vicious Velvet and The Rogues perform at the same time. ”
Silence falls over us, but it’s loud. There is so much emotion coursing through the air that I suddenly can’t breathe, my hand flying to my chest. Even the interns in the corner seem to flinch away from the growing wrath of my band mates, their faces wincing at the uncomfortable stillness in this room.
Everything feels like it’s going to explode.
My body runs hot, my skin flushing. I don’t notice right away, but I’m panting as I feel the uncomfortable atmosphere way too keenly.
Someone is going to start screaming any moment now, and I can’t take it.
The anger pulsating in the air feels like it’s going right to my thrumming heart.
I stand abruptly and make for the door.
“Josie?” Lark says, her eyes wide and brows furrowed.
“Where are you going?” Donna demands. “We have important things to discuss, and The Rogues are—”
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I say in a rush.
But I don’t hear her response. I leave the room and take off down the corridor, trying to catch my breath.
My hand slides to my chest, feeling the beating sensation thrum harder and harder.
When I get to the bathroom, I lean against one of the sinks and try my best to take in deeper breaths, focusing on the sensations I can feel around me.
I can smell the cleaning products they used to scrub the porcelain toilets, feel the sudden rush of A.C.
from the fan above. It slides right over the sweat on my forehead.
I wipe it off, embarrassed and ashamed that I just lost my cool so easily.
High emotions have always triggered me. I remember being a child, witnessing argument after argument between all the adults in my life. Between my parents, them and the staff, my mother and the nannies.
My father and Uncle Vaughn.
Screaming matches that would do nothing to resolve the underlying issues.
Just voices trying to speak louder than each other so they can be the martyr in the disagreement.
There were never any hugs afterwards, never any apologies, just a lingering tension that made my bones feel crushed beneath its weight.
That pulsating anger is absent now, and I can breathe steadily once more.
I come back to my body in waves, realizing my hands are clutching the ivory sink with a tight grip.
I relax my fingers, feeling the blood start to flow through them once again, and practice a few more breaths before looking in the mirror.
My hair is fine, but my face is pale. I turn on the sink and splash myself with cold water, trying to rejuvenate the feeling in my skin. When I have nothing else to help postpone the inevitable, I head out of the bathroom.
I don’t want to go back in there. The energy is too intense, the conflict too out of control. There’s nothing that can sedate Cleo’s wrath once it’s started, and I fear everyone in that room is going to be caught in the crossfire.
I slow my stride, keeping my eyes to the ground as I try to prepare myself to go back and resume this horrible meeting. It’s inevitable. I finally muster up the courage to go back when a strong sensation takes over.
The scent strikes me, halting me in my tracks.
Holy fuck.
Deep, deep chocolate. Dark and bitter and decadent. It overtakes me, sending goosebumps over every inch of my skin. My own scent flares in response, swirling champagne bubbles coursing through the air to meet its match, intertwining with the delectable cocoa.
A tiny piece of me begs to keep my gaze to the floor. An astute, uncanny feeling falls over me as I take in this incredible scent, bathing in it for a few glorious, ignorant moments.
An audible gasp escapes my lips, because when I look up to see where that delicious scent is coming from, it’s none other than Cyrus fucking Darlington.
Everything ceases to exist. My body freezes, and I urge my own scent to curl back in, but it doesn’t. It continues to seep out in droves, alerting the lead singer to the assortment of feelings happening inside of me. Arousal, surprise, confusion, sadness, embarrassment…
Happiness.
His feet are planted in place, his slanted eyes trailing over me with a dark knowing. His features are pulled tight with some kind of emotion that I can’t decipher.
Is it hatred? Does he hate me because of my proximity to Cleo? Is he angry that I’m the one standing across from him right now in this hallway?
We breathe in each other’s direction, unsure of what to do, or what to say. My skin breaks out in a sweat once more, and I realize that even if I wanted to speak, nothing would come out but panicked babble.
The door to the conference room opens abruptly, and I take an instinctive step back from the towering alpha.
Donna’s intern appears, her eyes wide when she sees me.
“Donna just sent me to retrieve you,” she says, then her eyes find Cyrus, his lips still turned in a mean scowl.
“Oh, good. You’re both here. We can get started. ”
She sidesteps, leaving the door open for our arrival. My throat bobs as I swallow, panic rising and swirling in my gut. Cyrus’s gaze flickers to me once more. His azure pupils are hard and sear right into me as he steps through the doorway, leaving me to question everything on my own.
What the fuck?
The intern is still staring at me, so I neutralize my features as best as I can (the way my media coach has tried to instill in me since we were first signed) and give her a nod of thanks before walking into the room.
Whatever freak out this is activating will have to wait until I can properly digest the wild turn of events that has just occurred.
I have a fucking scent match and, to everyone else, he is my best friend’s ex.
Fuck.