Chapter 10
TEN
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
“Cleo?!” Ruby yells as she comes into the dressing room. We all freeze, dumbfounded as she looks over us. “Where is she? She missed the microphone check.”
My stomach sinks. “What? She left the dressing room twenty minutes ago for it.”
“Well, she never showed up. Tom and I have been scouring the venue for her.” She puts her fingers between her eyes, breathing a heavy sigh. “Can you send her our way if you find her? We can’t get behind schedule.”
We all nod and she rushes out to keep searching. I stand, urgency putting me into motion.
“Are you going to look for her?” Lark questions while Nicola fiddles with her hoodie strings.
“Yeah, you guys stay here in case she comes back,” I say, wanting nothing more than to get out of this room and search for her.
Cleo may be erratic and a little bit angry at times, but she has never purposefully missed something work-related, and that’s what drives me toward the door.
“She’s probably just having a smoke or something. ”
“Yeah, probably,” Lark repeats, but there’s a lack of conviction that is clear as day. I try not to think about it as I head out into the corridor and look around, having no clue where to start.
Lark and I have never outright talked about the issues in the band.
There have been signs from both of us that we understand the unit is in a fragile state, like an unspoken link between us that we should look out for Nicola and Cleo, protect them from the world they are dipping their toes into.
I’m not even sure which of us first made sure the acknowledgment remained unspoken.
I know it seems ridiculous, but I like keeping it under wraps. I have an unconscious fear that if we say the words, speak them out loud, that something worse will happen. That the situation will grow dire and we will be forced to face it head-on.
If it stays in my head, it isn’t real. It’s just my usual anxious personality clutching onto something less than perfect, not the very possible idea that Cleo could be way deeper than I ever anticipated.
It’s been easier the past few days to believe in that fantasy, to delude myself into thinking everything was going to be okay.
We’ve all been happy, joyful. Even after that initial night when Scarlet Decay showed up, everything seemed to be fine.
Cleo’s anger had dissipated, and I thought maybe things could finally go back to normal.
But I don’t think there is a “normal” for us anymore. There’s just “before fame” and “after fame,” and both of those times have been distorted by bullshit.
Without thinking, I wander toward The Rogues’ dressing room, looking around corners and checking random supply closets along the way.
My anxiety ramps up the closer I get, my heart a wild beat in my chest. Deep down, I know she wouldn’t be in this direction.
If something happened or she wanted to step away for some breathing room, doing so near the source of her stress wouldn’t be ideal, but I can’t stop myself.
It’s like I’m holding my breath, my lungs full of chalk, desperate to see them for any kind of relief.
And when I do, the hesitation disintegrates, and my feet take me right to them without any voluntary signal from my brain.
Malaki and Jamie are standing in the corridor, talking casually with their bodies leaned into each other.
It’s simple, two bonded mates interacting with a gleam in their eyes, but it hits me right in the chest. Their lingering eyes on each other’s faces as they listen intently, their scents curling around each other in the tiny corridor.
The other night with Jamie comes to the forefront, causing my stomach to flip.
I’ve tried pushing the memory as far back as I can, to keep myself from showing up to their hotel room like an omega in heat, but it’s been futile.
Everything about that night is scorched into my brain: the easy way we talked about anything and everything, the way we laughed together, the way he understood everything without me having to utter a single word.
It was like having a crush and a best friend in one, and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head every day since.
In fact, it’s made it even harder to stay away, my omega pining for another stolen kiss with the sweet-smelling beta.
Not to mention, getting an insight into the lives of The Rogues has been confusing for me.
Before meeting them, I always thought they were stuck-up assholes with the way they would rib on Cleo to the press or flash those arrogant fucking smirks any chance they got.
But watching the way they interact, not only with each other but with the staff, and with us on occasion, it’s hard to believe that they are mean-spirited in any way.
They are charismatic, kind, and considerate, and it makes my omega send fluttery feelings all through my body.
Now having experienced time with Jamie one-on-one, I know just how wrong my original assumptions were. It makes me even more confused about how Cleo got on their bad side and how we all got tangled up in this mess in the first place.
My footsteps echo in the corridor and their gazes collide with mine. Upon seeing me, their smiles grow—genuinely happy to see me—and my stomach sours.
“Josie,” Jamie greets me, but his joy falters when he sees the panic on my face. “What’s wrong?”
“We can’t find Cleo,” I confide in them.
“Okay, okay.” Malaki motions, his hand coming to my arm. Even the briefest touch of his skin against mine does wonders, helping to quiet my thoughts and ease my growing nerves. It’s almost magical the effect these boys have on me.
“We’ll help you, Bubbles,” he says, the nickname sticking out like a sore thumb. It temporarily immobilizes me with confusion before he starts talking again. “She has to be somewhere, okay? I’ll go get the rest of the guys and we’ll split up to find her.”
I nod, feeling slightly emotional. I’ve always battled things alone, but suddenly it doesn’t feel so heavy. Like they are physically holding it up for me, unable to let the weight crush me.
“Thank you,” I whisper so quietly that the word barely exists, just a soft brush of sound in the air. I let him press a kiss to my forehead, and then both he and Jamie are off to get the guys, preparing to scour every corner of this building for my best friend.
I venture upwards, wondering if the roof is accessible, and find myself at the highest possible door there is.
My instincts drive me forward as I march through the door, positive that this could be the place she is hiding.
The outside air hits me, warm but breezy, as the sky opens up on the other side.
A lingering hint of cigarette smoke meets my nose, along with the woodsy sweet saffron that I love, but there’s no one around.
No footsteps or even a bird calling, but then I hear it.
The softest bristle of noise from around the corner, a quiet sound that punctures right through my breastbone.
A cry that I’ve only ever heard after a big fight with her mom or after she wasn’t allowed to eat dinner yet again as punishment.
I find myself tiptoeing closer, like I’m in danger of cornering a wounded animal.
I don’t know when this anxiety spawned, but comforting her nowadays feels foreign, like the sting of rejection is only seconds away.
It almost feels like we’ve entered some kind of twilight zone where we know each other’s history and all of our past likes and dislikes, but every other aspect of our relationship has completely disappeared from existence.
Evaporated into a pile of dust that’s swept under a rug and forgotten about until it’s embedded itself into the rotted wooden flooring below. Just… Poof.
Cleo’s hand covers her mouth as she tries to silence her sobs, probably because she just heard me come through the heavy metal door. When my shadow falls over her, she looks up, her eyes wide with horror, but then she lets herself crumble at the sight of me, her cries becoming vocal once more.
“Josie,” she hiccups, her arms opening for me.
I move to sit beside her, my arms moving of their own accord as they wrap around her petite figure.
Her scent is a blazing inferno of saffron and wildflowers, like a lawn catching flames with a strong accelerant.
Once I am tangled in her, she clutches me like I am the only thing grounding her to Earth, her nails digging in slightly and her tears soaking into my shoulder as she cries.
My heart breaks with every choked-up noise, and my grip gets a little bit tighter, wanting to be her anchor as much as I want to breathe.
“I’m here,” I tell her softly as my hands rub her back. “Let it out.”
And she does. I don’t rush her; I let every bit of angst and frustration and sadness rush out of her until she is breathing less heavily and easing her tight hold on me little by little, her scent becoming dull rather than a beacon of tension.
By the time she is done, my shirt is soaked and my heart is sore, but she is a little bit more present than before.
“I’m sorry,” she says, still gathering herself. “I—I think that’s been bubbling up for a while.”
“It has to come out sometime,” I reassure her, petting her back. “Did something happen?”
She speaks between strangled breaths as she vaguely points at her phone lying beside us. “Ever since the tour was announced, the internet has been awful to me. More awful than normal.” A broken sob escapes her. “I can’t even go on my own Instagram without people spouting bullshit at me.”
“You know you’re not supposed to look at those,” I chastise her, grabbing the phone from the ground. “Internet trolls are a subspecies. They don’t speak for the entire collective.”
Cleo huffs, frustrated. “I know, but sometimes I can’t help it. They just pull me in and it fucks me up.”
I look at the one currently on the screen, likely the one that caused such a meltdown.