Chapter 8
EIGHT
Before last week, I never really had an issue with my illness.
I’ve had years to come to terms with the fact that I can’t do the things I used to anymore: partying with the guys, being out all day and night, procrastinating house chores like dusting and vacuuming.
After my diagnosis, I had to grow up, become more serious about my health so I can keep doing what I love.
But I never thought I’d miss out on meeting my scent match because I had to stay home and nurse a flare-up. Now my chronic illness is enemy number one.
When the guys got back from their meeting, the tension was high. Their faces were ashen and their scents were bitter. When Remi and I asked what was wrong, they told us, and I couldn’t believe it for one second.
The guitar player of Vicious Velvet? Just Cyrus’s fucking luck, and after everything he’s had to do to appease our PR team, you’d think the universe might have tried to make it a little easier on him. Nope.
I felt sympathy for him, but I was also excited. Nervous energy has been thrumming inside my veins since finding out that I might potentially have a scent match, and then anger swirled because I couldn’t immediately seek her out to confirm it.
I had high hopes the night of the club, but the flare was still present and—if I’m honest—kicking my ass, so I had to stay home once more to rest. In my late adolescence and early adulthood, I loved to party.
I was probably the most party-forward of the group, always looking forward to hitting the pub and having a good time, but my mid-twenties have been much easier since I’ve started staying behind.
I no longer thrive on the chaos of nightlife, or wish for the pumping of loud dance music to make me feel alive.
I enjoy a quiet night in, letting my body recuperate from performances and outings so I can do it all over again the next day.
I love being out with my pack, but I love performing with them more.
So, that’s the priority. Do everything I can, missing whatever event I need to, in order to make sure I’m healthy enough to last through another performance or concert.
But I was willing to risk it that night, because all I wanted was to meet the dark-haired omega and find out once and for all if she always held my heart in her hands.
Thankfully, I’m feeling better as we’re leaving Los Angeles today, but it’s utter chaos when we get to the parking lot where our tour buses are waiting for us.
There are roadies everywhere, mechanics on our teams’ payrolls checking the buses’ safety, and onlookers and paparazzi alike on the other side of the fence to watch our departure.
We park and immediately get thrown into action, especially because we’re a little behind schedule.
The guys start pulling out all their stuff and taking it to the bus, especially anything that we’d like to keep private and away from the hands of the roadies.
I can’t be bothered yet. Instead, I look around the parking lot, distracted as I try to peer through the throng of bodies, looking for the one person I am most desperate to see.
Through all the calamity, I see her. Her wavy brown hair looks lighter than it does in pictures, shining bright under the California sun.
Her tattoos are plentiful and dark, scattering along her arms. Her skin a canvas meant for beautiful pieces of her soul, and I want to see every single inch of them.
She tries to put her suitcases underneath the bus, struggling to fit them in at the right angle, and I’m suddenly angry, looking around for the roadies who should be helping her. I make my way to her, not realizing how fast my approach is until I’m there, offering a hand.
“Let me help you,” I say, and she squeaks as she turns in surprise.
When she sees me, her eyes widen, and they are so pretty and green that my scent spills out.
I can tell the second it hits her, as her eyes flutter slightly and she relaxes.
My alpha preens in my chest at the sight of her calming at our scent, my ginger beer aroma mixing with her just as equally intoxicating champagne.
We’re one mixed-up cocktail, and I’m ready to drink my fill.
It’s all the confirmation I need, her bubbly scent going straight to my dick when otherwise it would probably slide right over my head without a second thought.
My heart pounds faster as I bend down to rearrange her suitcases, still cursing the people standing around who should have helped her instead of letting her handle it herself. They are heavy, and it takes me a few tries to get them in correctly before I stand back up and face her once more.
She picks up her guitar case from where it rests on the side of the bus and turns to me, a small upwards tilt appearing on her lips. “Thanks.”
“It’s no problem,” I respond, suddenly nervous. What do I even say? How do I tell her everything I feel in this moment, everything thrumming through me? How can I calm my beating heart long enough to express just how much this meeting means?
“I—um, well,” I stammer, and I mentally kick myself. “I’m Lennon.”
I reach out a hand without thinking, then my entire body cringes. Why the fuck am I doing this? She doesn’t want a fucking handshake; she probably wants something more substantial. Something that shows her that I like her, not a distant, blithering handshake—
But then she’s reaching out and wrapping her own hand around mine, and everything freezes.
Like two ships in the night finally colliding after a long-winded search.
Energy shoots through my body and her mouth opens in a tiny gasp.
I’ve never felt so lit up in my entire life, and I let my nervous energy fall away, knowing I am completely at ease when it comes to my scent match.
My fucking scent match.
“Is everything okay here?” We both pull away from each other and turn.
Cleo is there, giving us a confused look.
Despite her interruption, my endorphins are through the roof, especially with Josie’s champagne scent traveling through my system.
Nothing can get me down, not even an appearance from Cleo Del Rossi herself.
“Just helping your bandmate put her stuff away. Everything is peachy.”
I give her a playful wink, but her nose scrunches up in disgust, her eyes assessing me with a narrowed gaze. She turns to Josie and says, “Nicola needs you inside, something about the roadies mixing up your amps or something.”
Josie nods, turning to me one last time to flash a polite smile.
“Safe travels,” she says, before turning to head to the bus, and I can’t help but let my eyes trail down her body as she walks away, admiring the way her cute oversized shirt falls over her, and the way her legs pull me in like a siren song.
When I look at Cleo, she is already staring at me, disdain present on her face. “Can I help you?”
I smirk, shaking my head. “No, I don’t think you can.”
“Good, you can fuck off then,” she sneers, her words said in a badly imitated British accent, but I think that was the intention.
Cyrus must have noticed her presence because his dark, bitter aroma falls over me, warning me of his arrival. He steps beside me, his jaw clenched.
“Give my drummer a break, Cleo,” he says, squaring his shoulders.
“Why?” she asks, feigning an innocent smile. “Is he going to collapse on me because of a little curse word?”
I bark out a laugh, but Cyrus is eerily quiet, crossing his arms as he eyes Cleo with distrusting eyes.
“You may know some of our secrets, but you forget that we also know one of yours. Don’t threaten me, Cleo. It won’t be pretty.”
She purses her lips, and I think a tiny glimpse of guilt appears, but then it’s gone in a blink, her face made of steel and indifference.
“As long as you keep your mouth shut, so will I.” She starts to walk away, but then turns back with a dark glare.
“And don’t talk to Josie. She’s trusting, and I don’t want any of you to even think about messing with her. Got it?”
She leaves before we can answer, and I whirl to Cyrus with a frown. “Was that really necessary?”
“Her throwing your illness in your face was low,” Cyrus says quietly as we move to the bus. “She’s spiraling.”
I’m not offended by her slight one bit, but I can see how the insult could be perceived as a threat.
If my team knew of my illness, it could cause issues for us.
I mean, they definitely notice my abundance of absences, but they’ve chosen not to say anything.
To them, I’m just a little bit flaky, and that’s something they can deal with.
But a drummer with a chronic illness? We don’t want them to abuse that; put me on a pedestal and bring it up any time they can.
Cleo knows this is dangerous, but I’m not worried.
If I can handle my lungs giving out more often than not, then I can handle a few extra people knowing about it.
My brows furrow as I take in his expression, a lightbulb going off as he bites his lip. “You feel guilty for telling her about it.”
“I shouldn’t have… but those first few pretend dates, I thought I could be honest with her.
Because we were on the same side, because we both thought what they were forcing us to do was ridiculous.
” He shakes his head. “Then I realized that she had a problem and all that credibility went out the window.”
“You can’t blame yourself,” I tell him, patting him on the back. “I don’t blame you, and neither do the guys. We all wish we could be open and honest. There’s freedom in being able to say whatever you want, and we don’t always have that freedom.”
“Still, I should have known she wasn’t a good person.”
My lips flatten. “There’s a good person in there somewhere, Cy.”
“Yeah, maybe. Beneath all of the stimulants and narcotics,” he grumbles.
The bus is bigger than our last one, and a lot more luxurious.
The walls and floor are a beautiful red and velvety to the touch, and our bed slots are at least a few inches wider than our last ones.
There’s a full pullout table before the tiny kitchen and built-in appliances, and the further back you go, the more homey it feels as it opens up into a bedroom with a full bed with black pillows and layered sheets.
“Oh my god,” I say after falling onto the bed, the mattress sinking below me. “It’s so fucking soft.”
“Yeah, there’s definitely been an upgrade,” Remi says as he comes up behind Cyrus.
Jamie and Malaki stroll up a second later. They give each other conspiratorial glances before hopping on the bed with me, laughing at the way the mattress bounces them back in the air before settling. I take a pillow and hit Malaki in the face, earning myself a playful groan.
“Looks like they wanted us to travel in style,” Jamie comments. “I mean, velvet walls? What a rock star way to roll out.”
Cyrus grins. “It’s probably easier to last all nine months when you’re living somewhere comfortable.”
“Not to mention, Vicious Velvet has a much bigger budget than we do. I’m sure they tried to at least even it out when it came to the buses.”
Silence falls over us at the mention of our supposed rivals, and Jamie turns toward me with a curious look.
“I saw that you met her.” He doesn’t specify who he’s talking about because I already know. We all know.
“Yeah,” I respond, my hand still tingling from the contact between our skin. “She’s… gosh, she’s everything.”
Nervous energy crackles in the air, but there’s something buoyant floating around us, too. Something hopeful as everyone’s faces betray their deepest worries, and their lips tilt at my words.
“Yeah, she is,” Remi agrees before turning to our prime. “How are you feeling, Cy?”
Cyrus is silent, almost broody. He hasn’t been very vocal about the situation. I think he is really taking this new development to heart, especially with all the obstacles we’ll have to jump over for things to go smoothly.
“I’m feeling mixed emotions,” he says earnestly. “I feel bad about the predicament this leaves us in. Instead of us being able to normally feel this out, there are perimeters we have to be wary of.”
“Because the entire world thinks you dated her best friend,” Malaki points out, sucking the air from the room.
Yeah, that’s definitely not going to make pursuing this any easier.
“Exactly. And Josie deserves better. I mean, everyone dreams of that scent match moment, right? And she was stuck with this complicated, convoluted situation instead of what she deserved, which is an instant ‘fuck everything else, we’re doing this’ situation.”
“We can still give her that,” Jamie rationalizes. “And we don’t know exactly how she feels about it, so maybe we should wait to see how she feels before falling into the rut of it. We should be ecstatic.”
“I certainly am,” I say, staring at my hand.
“We can feel several things at once,” Remi points out. “Obviously, we all feel a connection toward her. We can feel those beautiful initial feelings and also recognize that the situation is shitty.”
“Our team can’t know,” Cyrus says, his tone leaving no room for discussion. “If they knew, they would use it. They’d want to get on top of it, and Josie deserves a chance to say how she feels and to figure out how we proceed.”
“So, we’re going to keep it from everyone besides each other?” Malaki asks.
“Yes.” He nods his head, the conclusion solidifying further in his mind.
“We have to keep this quiet for now. We need time to do this properly. To court her, without any influence or outside expectation. She deserves that. Just because she’s one of the most famous guitar players in the world doesn’t mean she should have her world turned upside down by force. ”
We all nod in agreement, the anxiousness settling the tiniest bit. Then the door to our bus opens and in walks Mac, our tour manager Izzy trailing behind him. “It’s time to head off, boys. We’ll see you at the next stop.”
“Thanks, Mac,” Cyrus replies, and we all get a wave from Iz. When they’re off, the bus starts in an electric roar that sends shocks of energy all the way to my toes. We’re really doing this, leaving Los Angeles behind and spending the foreseeable future on this bus.
And there’s no one else I would ever want to experience this with.
“So…” Malaki starts as the bus takes off, mischievousness gleaming in his eyes. “What courting gesture should we try first?”