Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
As seen in Rock N’ Magazine
“Vicious Velvet and The Rogues seem to be putting aside their differences for the sake of their fans. From our inside sources, things have been pretty amicable behind the scenes, and the rival bands have been staying out of each other’s way.
There’s been no confirmation on any interactions between the two lead singers, Cyrus Darlington and Cleo Del Rossi, since their heated exchange before taking off on their co-headlining tour.
Fans and paparazzi who were present that day claim that the two had a standoff before getting on their individual buses, but there hasn’t been a peep of animosity since.
It seems these two ex-lovebirds are still not over their mutual past, so we can only wait to see what happens next… ”
HOUSTON, TEXAS
I click off my phone with a huff as I lie in my bunk.
The bumpy movement of the tires on the unpaved road is doing nothing for my already sour mood, and I have to grit my teeth to keep myself from blurting my frustrations.
If I had my own room, like we do at hotels, the anguish I feel would be much easier to contain.
But instead, we’re jam-packed in this fucking bus, with no way to silence every tiny sound that filters through the space.
I miss the fan in my apartment. My beautiful white noise.
It doesn’t help that my omega has been unsettled ever since I made the decision to distance myself from the guys.
The grief feels prolonged because I don’t even have the space to properly mourn.
It’s just one big suffocation of emotion every single day.
A longing so heavy and deep that I can’t even pull myself out of the bunk unless it’s time to go do something I am contractually obligated to do.
Then, I crawl right back into this cubby, attempting to hide away and nurse this broken heart until any kind of relief shows itself.
It’s seemingly futile, though. There is no exit, no light at the end of the tunnel. Just one long, endless battle that I am losing terribly.
It would feel more worth it if Cleo’s and my relationship was still improving, but the trajectory between us has come to a screeching halt.
It’s been a month since I sat beside Cyrus at the hotel bar in Tucson, bearing our hearts and then saying goodbye.
The look in his eyes when I left still haunts me, but I kept thinking of why I made that choice.
How Cleo was turning a new leaf, and how everything seemed to be going well with her for the first time in years.
That was the only way I could get my feet to move away from him, the only way I could depart while scenting the distress in his otherwise usually vibrant chocolate fragrance.
But that was a few states ago, and nothing has gotten better. Cleo has gone back to being cold and distant, and I’ve gone back to going through the motions on autopilot. I’ve lost my scent matches and my best friend, and it doesn’t feel like there’s any way to get either of them back.
Luckily, things have been too hectic for me to think about it much. The first month is always about adjusting, but we’re still not completely steady.
“Gosh, it’s always so fucking hot here,” Lark grumbles. “Texas isn’t real, I swear. We have the best AC money can buy on this bus, and I’m still fucking boiling.”
“At least we won’t be here very long,” Nicola points out. “People aren’t really gung ho for us here.”
I sigh, because it’s true. Our Texas shows are always the emptiest shows of the tour.
I pull back the curtain to my bunk and poke my head out, spotting the two of them on the couch. “I wish our ticket prices were much easier to manage. I bet there’s plenty of closeted punk fans waiting to come out of their shells around here.”
“It has nothing to do with ticket prices. We haven’t had a sold-out Texas show since we started performing with a label, but suddenly, a bunch of attractive Englishmen show up, and it’s a packed house?
Please.” Lark rolls her eyes and continues to braid Nicola’s mismatched hair.
“Their music is very similar to ours, so it’s not the genre either. Just an old-fashioned double standard.”
At the reminder of said Englishmen, I frown. “Don’t forget though, their band isn’t as popular as ours. They joined our tour because of the publicity it can bring for them.”
“Well, yes. I wonder why,” Nicola ponders. “They’re really good. A bit arrogant, maybe, but they should be flying way higher in the charts.”
“Probably because they look like an established pack,” our drummer adds.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
She looks up at me and shrugs. “Well, at our level, there’s always some kind of parasocial relationship with the fans, right? I’m sure them presenting like an established pack tarnishes that fantasy a bit. Two of their members are bonded, and the rest of them are alphas waiting for their omegas.”
Huh. I don’t think I’ve ever thought of it that way.
I guess it’s true. A part of our job is to sell a fantasy.
I think back to what Cleo told me about Cyrus and Jamie, how they’re bonded but can’t tell the world about it.
On top of that, they don’t just present like an established pack.
They are one, so it’s not unreasonable that people have picked up on that energy.
The thought that their label is seriously relying on Cyrus’s availability makes me sad.
“They’re doing just fine,” Cleo utters as she opens up her bunk. Her black hair is sticking up in every direction, and her eyes are half-mast as she tries to wake up from her nap. “Do we have any granola bars?”
The change of topic gives me whiplash, but I know they are Cleo’s least favorite topic.
I draw the curtain back over my bunk and pull the magazine back out, admiring the snapshots of the guys from our concert a few days ago.
One picture shows Jamie and Cyrus, their arms wrapped around each other as they walk through the corridor, probably taken by one of their publicists.
It’s an innocent picture, but being privy to their relationship, I can see the little details others might miss.
The way Cyrus’s teeth dig into his lip from his beta’s touch, the slight pink on Jamie’s cheeks.
They are in love. It’s obvious to see, but they’re not allowed to show it.
I wonder if they’ll ever be allowed to scream their love from the rooftops, or if this is how it’s destined to be their entire career.
And—if this thing between a frontman and his keyboardist is a threat to their empire—what will happen if I join the picture? What will happen to both of our careers if we bond? How will both of our labels schedule around my heat cycles? I might need to do some research on that.
At the end of the day, any reason not to pursue this would just be an excuse.
Every night, my omega yearns for them, begs me to fling caution to the wind, but I can’t.
I thought distancing myself from them before getting to properly know them would make it easier, but it’s been so much worse.
I find myself wanting to know mundane things.
What kind of toothpaste do they use? Do any of them have a shellfish allergy?
What movies do they like to watch together?
What does their nighttime routine look like?
And it doesn’t help that they are a source of light everywhere we go.
No matter where we are, people worship the ground they walk on.
Not because they are gorgeous, or because they are rock stars, but because they are kind and generous.
There are more smiles when they are around, more positivity, and I can’t help falling in love with that light even from afar.
Anytime I think of letting go and falling face first into their midst like I want to, I see Cleo’s face. I see her wrath.
I see my best friend hurting, and I never want to be the cause of that.
Not to mention, how would the world see this? How would our publicist handle it? To the world, Cyrus Darlington is Cleo’s ex. He is hers, and that makes my belly rumble with something more than guilt. Something green and nasty and…
Vicious.
I rub my finger over the word on my arm, the same one we all have displayed on our bodies. Mine is out for the world to see, right above the crook of my elbow. Nicola’s is the first thing most people see, the word stamped proudly on her throat. A small smile prickles at that.
These girls are my life, but my omega needs more.