Chapter 7
SEVEN
As seen in Rock ’N’ Magazine
“This past weekend, it was discovered that Vicious Velvet and The Rogues will be uniting for a joint tour starting later this month, shocking fans everywhere. After the announcement, both bands were photographed hanging out at Crowded Aura, a nightclub located in East Hollywood. A few witnesses noticed the tension between the two bands, stating that there was ‘unease’ between them. One patron at the club even said that Cleo Del Rossi and Cyrus Darlington exchanged uncomfortable words at the bar…”
My eyes roam over the various pictures that the magazine was able to get their hands on, hoping none of them are too incriminating.
Someone happened to get a shot of Remi and me before he pulled me into the bathroom, but I think they must have run after they got their shot because there’s nothing else in the article implying a relationship between us, which makes me sigh in relief.
Nicola and Lark seemed to keep their distance, because the only shots shown are between the guys, Cleo, and me.
There’s a shot of Jamie and me speaking at the bar, and then a blurry artistic snapshot of Cleo glaring at Cyrus from across the dance floor.
Remi is only present in the one of us, and Malaki is shown dancing with Jamie.
The last member of the band was not in attendance, it seems.
I look back at the picture of Remi and me, relieved that it looks innocent enough, even if the flush on my face is telling as I look at the tall alpha.
Not to mention, I can still feel his hands grazing my skin, his talented fingers strumming me in the same way I bet he plays that expensive bass of his.
A shiver wracks through me at the memory, my omega stirring at the thought as she fills me full of yearning.
I wish for his lips to touch mine once more, for his syrupy-sweet scent to cover me completely until I can feel the illusion of sticky goodness all over my skin.
Then Jamie enters my thoughts, the sweet beta with the floral scent that I only got glimpses of in my haste to avoid any of them. His sweet smile is scorched into my retinas, our conversation playing over and over in my head.
“You’re drinking champagne.”
“It’s all I have a taste for today. I can’t seem to satisfy the craving.”
An audible gulp echoes in the empty room. He said just a few words, but they boiled me from the inside out.
A sudden, hard knock on my door welcomingly pulls me from my thoughts.
I throw the magazine onto the kitchen counter and head to the door, so sidetracked that I don’t even look through the peephole before pulling it open.
Dark hair moves past me in a blur, the familiar sweet woodsy scent of saffron filling the air.
“Cleo?” I ask, exasperated.
She strolls into the kitchen and places down a brown paper bag, and my mouth waters. The aroma of the best breakfast burritos in all of Los Angeles fills my apartment and I have to stop myself from groaning.
“Chorizo and egg?”
“Yeah, I thought we could eat our favorite hangover breakfast,” Cleo finally says. “And I wanted to see you. I hope it was okay that I stopped by.”
I’ve already forgotten that the visit is impromptu and wave my hand at her. “Of course! You’re always welcome, you know that.”
The smile that forms on her lips is bright and sappy, and suddenly I feel sixteen again, confiding in my best friend because she always knew what to do and how to make everything better.
“Good!” She starts to pull the items out of the bag.
“I was thinking we could talk about the tour, really figure out when we can all—”
She stops short, her eyes going to the magazine sprawled onto the counter, its face opened to the story about the club. My body tenses.
“I was just seeing what shots they got,” I comment, my voice smaller than usual.
She lets out a low huff. “It’s just getting started. It’s going to be a lot worse by the end of this god-forsaken tour.”
Her fingers trail over the magazine as she looks at the pictures, the memory of that night seemingly playing behind her eyes. “What did you and Jamie talk about?”
I raise a brow. “What?”
“Jamie Morrison,” she clarifies. “He’s the keyboardist. Probably the best damn key player I’ve ever heard play besides you, but nonetheless. You were talking to him at the bar, laughing.”
The way she says it sounds accusatory, but I don’t see any malice in her eyes, only curiosity.
I try to give a casual shrug. “We just exchanged pleasantries.”
“Hm,” she murmurs. “You know he and Cyrus are bonded.”
My head snaps to her. “What? I thought he was bonded to the guitar player.” I just barely stop myself from saying Malaki’s name, worried that she might read into it if I knew his name so quickly.
“He is, but he is also bonded to Cyrus. No one else, though, just those two. But they can’t tell anyone because their band relies too much on the idea that Cyrus is ‘available,’” she says with air quotes. “I suspect they’re all a pack but can’t let the public know.”
I purse my lips in amusement. “How did you know, then?”
“Well, I signed an NDA, so,” she looks at me conspiratorially. “Don’t go telling any gossip blogs, Miss Loose Lips.”
I actually laugh, because she knows I’m the last person who would ever go tattling on her for breaking her word, much less out someone to the world.
Then she looks at the photo of Remi and me, her eyes dancing over the image. “I see you met Remington.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I just shrug. “He’s nice.”
“Don’t go falling for him now,” Cleo tries to joke, but I can hear the seriousness in her tone. “He is the heartbreaker of the band, after all.”
“Heartbreaker?” I ask, diverting to something more comfortable.
“Well, yeah. He’s hot,” she says so blatantly. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t sleep with him?” She picks up the magazine, flashing the picture of him and me once more.
I bite my lip. I’m not sure what to say here, but I can’t admit the truth: that not only does he look incredible, but he smells even better.
His crystal-blue eyes are enchanting, even more so when they are peering into your soul.
His hands, steady and powerful, planting his heart at your feet and waiting to see if you’ll stomp it out or cradle it into your arms.
“No, not really,” is what I settle on, turning so she can’t see the red flush taking over my face.
I pick up the burrito so I can have something to do with my hands, and she grabs her own as well.
“Are you doing anything to prepare for the tour?” she asks, unfolding the foil. I watch as the steam falls out as it opens. “I wish I could ask for a halt on rent for my studio.”
“But you can afford to leave it unattended for the tour,” I point out and chuckle.
She laughs with me, shrugging. “Old poor habits die hard. That money would just go to ridiculous stuff anyway. No point in moving out or anything. But Lark has to give Rox to her parents until we come back, and I know she’s probably sad about that.”
I think of the cute German Shepherd, who is more cuddle-bug than guard dog, just like Lark herself. “At least he’s being babysat by people who love him and treat him as their grandchild.”
She chuckles as she grabs a packet of picanto salsa. “That’s true.”
She hands me an extra packet, and I open the corner so I can pour some on my burrito to take a hearty bite. When the savory potatoes and spicy chorizo hit my tongue, I let out a satisfied moan, completely content in this moment.
When I swallow the bite, I turn to her. “I’m not doing anything except going to my parents later for dinner. You know, to see them before we head out.”
Cleo turns serious. “What do you mean? Are they not in New York?”
I shake my head. “They’re at their place in Beverly Hills, so I’m going to stop by for dinner.”
“And you want to see them?” she questions. “You haven’t been guilt-tripped into seeing them?”
I bite my lip, the lie sitting on the tip of my tongue.
The truth is, my mother definitely used certain words to convince me to come over.
Specifically, “You’re about to go gallivanting around the world doing god knows what, making it easy for your father’s competitors to use your hobby as a way to undermine him.
The least you can do is see us before you go waste the year on this silly venture of yours. ”
Instead of lying to my best friend, I just slightly bend the truth. “It’ll be nice to see them before we get onto the road. And who knows when I’ll be able to see them after? We’ll be gone for over a year this time, I’m sure.”
She nods despite looking like she still wants to protest. Instead, she reminds me, “You don’t have to see them at all if you don’t want to.”
I nod. “I know.”
Consciously, I know it’s true, but—deep down—it doesn’t feel that simple. They are my parents. They might be less than ideal in a lot of ways, but they’re the only family I’ve got. The idea of leaving them behind just because they’re different from me makes me feel guilt twist in my stomach.
Even though being around them feels a little bit like pulling teeth right from my gum sockets, I’m going to go. Because that’s what family does.
The vacation home that my parents own in Beverly Hills is significantly smaller than the mansion I grew up in, but still just as polished.
Gold pillars and tiled flooring welcome me, and I purse my lips at the too-clean material beneath my feet.
It feels like it needs to be washed after succumbing to my combat boots that have trailed through the downtown muck.
The air reeks of powerful descenter, scrubbing the natural scents from the air in favor of an artificial summer breeze.
Our butler must have been invited on their vacation because Stanley is there, his hair white and fluffy and his suit a size too small as he greets me.
“Good evening, Josie,” he says, and I smile at his use of my nickname. “Your parents are already in the dining room. Please make yourself at home.”
“Thank you, Stanley.”