Chapter 40
FORTY
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
I jolt awake, a sharp shock to my system as I look around for what pulled me from my slumber.
My phone dings rapidly, tiny sounds echoing in the air like the square tech can’t keep up with the information being sent to it.
I must have forgotten to silence it yesterday, and being a celebrity means you should always silence your phone.
I groan, wiping my eyes and grabbing it. I’m submerged into quiet once more when I flick the sound off, the hotel room eerily silent as I come to.
With squinted eyes, I look around and notice the absence of all of my scent matches, who were definitely in this bed with me when I fell asleep last night.
I can still smell all of their scents, the aromas lingering together in one big hearty sensation that causes relaxation to settle into my bones.
I peer to the end table, where a handwritten note sits, a pretty scrawl that could only have been from my beta’s hand.
New York Show Fittings. We will see you later.
Love you, x Jamie
I smile, the gesture simple but effective.
I’m glad Lennon is starting to feel better and that his team—now privy to his condition—are starting to provide the necessary accommodations for his health.
He had to sit out the last few shows due to his intense flare-up a few days ago.
They used a proxy drummer, which he had mixed feelings about, but he knew it was the best thing for his well-being.
His team has promised less drastic measures in the future, though, promising him less studio and rehearsal time, and providing him with the best medication for his joint pain.
He may have been unhappy about missing the past few concerts, but with these new amenities, I think he’s going to see so much improvement that he won’t have to consider missing more concerts in the future.
Plus, I think he’s relieved that they’re not going to replace him completely. Apparently, according to Cyrus, their label said he is indispensable. Just like me, Lennon shed a few tears after hearing that sentiment from the usually heartless execs.
Of course, nothing is linear and flare-ups can be unpredictable, but I’m glad they are finally going to help him manage this hand that life has given him. Just like me, music and performing are his life, and he deserves this dream as much as anyone else.
I shake my head of the thoughts, coming back to the empty bedroom. My arms come up and out as I stretch, and then I get up to start my day.
I decide to enjoy the quiet, even though I wish at least one of my mates were here, but it’s a blessing in disguise as I take a shower and get dressed.
Then it’s a nuisance when I’m trying to figure out the fancy coffee maker in the kitchen.
I’m worried about breaking the damn thing when it starts to work, water trickling out onto the cloth to mix the elixir that my body is desperately craving.
My phone vibrates on the counter as I sit to drink my coffee.
I realize the badgering amount of messages I was getting this morning had nothing to do with our usual social media blowing up or getting comments, but because of a post that has gone viral from ZMT.
The gossip blog is known for its brutal harassment of stars, constantly waiting for them outside of gigs and parties to film them without permission, all legally under the scope of “journalism,” when really it’s just fucking bullying.
They even publish articles announcing celebrity deaths before their families can be contacted. They’re just all-around bad guys.
Normally, I would ignore it, but the texts I’m getting are all freaking out, words blurring together to alert me of the post. There are thousands and thousands of mentions and comments on my social media, a lot more than usual, the blatant disrespect so abhorred that I flinch.
viciousrogue5678: that boyfriend stealing wh*re
therogueishfan_: this is the wildest thing i’ve ever heard. aren’t they supposed to be best friends? who fucking does that?
osewoodlover98: I don’t think we’re getting the whole story here. Josie is the least problematic of the entire group. Things don’t add up
punknrogue202: lol cyrus just goes around doing whatever he wants, doesn’t he? wicked
xxxrockangel: I guess we all know who Rosewood is about now lol
When more expletives start to show up and less speculation, I gulp and pull up the ZMT website.
When I click the link, a video pops up; Cleo stands there in the night hours, illuminated by the light of the cameras as the pap says, “Cleo, what do you think about your best friend stealing your boyfriend? Have they been fucking under your nose this entire time?”
I choke, coffee spewing all over the counter.
My lungs constrict at the movement, willing me to expel the liquid that just got lodged as I cough to reverse my mistake.
The moment gets taken over by my complete shock, and when I’m finally able to take steady breaths again, I look back at my phone that I paused in a knee-jerk reaction.
What the hell? Cleo hates paparazzi, especially ZMT.
I clean up my mess, thoroughly making sure there are no leftover stains from my coffee incident, but if I’m honest, it’s a stalling tactic.
When everything is clean—and probably more spotless than it was before—I sit back down and stare at my phone where the still image of Cleo on the city streets is paused mid-frame, showing her red eyes and tilted smile.
I take a deep breath and press play, knowing I need to watch whatever is waiting for me on the video.
Cleo laughs at the pap, shrugging her shoulders. “It is what it is. I guess some people aren’t meant to be your friends forever.”
My heart cracks at the casual way she says it, so callous and undermining. As if I chose to find my scent matches. As if she actually dated Cyrus, when they hated each other the entire time.
“Were there any signs?” he asks her.
“She was distant, always making excuses not to hang out.” She laughs, seemingly buddying up to the pap, unbothered by their intrusion.
The New York streets are busy, and I think I recognize what club they are outside of when a flash of black hair enters the frame, a cigarette idle between her two fingers.
Raven.
“Yeah, so she could go blow them in their hotel rooms,” she snickers, bringing the cigarette to her lips. My blood boils.
“So, what does this mean for the band then?” the man behind the camera asks. “What does the future of Vicious Velvet hold?”
“We’ll keep performing. I love my job, love our music. She can do what she wants. She’s still my bandmate.” Her last words crack a little and Raven laughs beside her, inhaling her cigarette.
“She’s always been a sneaky one,” she adds. “Come on, the taxi’s here.”
Raven pulls Cleo after her, leaving the pap behind, but the video ends on Cleo’s face, hurt flashing over her features.
My blood is boiling. For the first time in a long time, I feel unfiltered rage toward Cleo, and it’s so foreign, but it radiates from the inside out.
How dare she do this? Even after our team got together to form a solution, how dare she go out on her own and make a new narrative? I know she took the news of my connections with the guys hard, but I never thought she would do this.
I look at my texts, but there are too many to decipher besides the group chat sitting there.
Lark: what the hell, Cleo? we had a plan! why did you do that?
Lark: this is literally worst case scenario
Nicola:
Lark: I hope Donna fucks you up!
But there is no response from Cleo, and I realize I can’t wait for her to pull her head out of her ass to give me one.
I run to the room and slide on one of Cyrus’s T-shirts, his bittersweet scent doing its best to lull me, and slide on my jeans from last night.
Then I’m marching out the door, prepared to deal with this issue between Cleo and me once and for all.
I’ve never felt this hot before, red fuming beneath my skin, boiling and sizzling to the touch.
I can’t help the way my feet practically stomp to Cleo’s hotel room that she shares with the other girls.
Technically with me, too, but I haven’t stayed in my own room since I first moved to the guys’ bus.
I’m hoping Lark or Nicola will be here as a buffer, but that dream is futile when the door opens and Cleo is standing there, her expression bored and her lip curled.
“Why are you banging on the door? I haven’t had my coffee yet.”
She turns and walks into the suite, her feet dragging her along. I just barely resist the urge to slam the door shut as I follow her in, completely not in the mood for the nonchalance she is showing me right now.
“Are you serious?” I ask her, my eyes bugging. “You did what you did last night and you’re wondering why I’m banging on the door?”
Something akin to confusion flashes over her face before she shrugs. “I’m just saying, I thought you had a key on you. Just because you’re not staying here doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have an access card.”
My fists tighten by my side. “Stop trying to make this a normal conversation. I need you to tell me why the hell you said those things. Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she says, her tone so indifferent that it makes me see red.
“You’re trying to make me the villain, Cleo!” I scream. “You do know that I couldn’t control this, right? They are my mates.”
She looks at me, her brown eyes glassy. “I just have to continue the narrative, Josie. It’s nothing personal.”
My hands go into my hair as I have the urge to pull on the strands, my body completely at a loss for words. “Nothing personal? The narrative? Our team was going to tell the truth for once and you went and fucking ruined it.”
She avoids my gaze as she sits on the cream colored sofa. “Well, a guy was asking me questions. I answered them. End of story.”
Her words slur a bit, and I narrow my gaze at her. “Are you fucking drunk?”
A dark laugh tumbles out of her lips. “Hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere, right? Which means you can go fuck your slimy rock star and his pack, and leave me the fuck alone.”
Her words hit their mark, but it’s not the thing that hurts the most. It’s the fact that she’s been falling back into that pit just like our last tour. She is sinking deeper and deeper, and I was too busy with my own shit to prevent it.
Still, the self-loathing of that never comes, because I have done more for this girl than anyone, and yet she still has the gall to throw my relationship under the bus to the press, to get control of the narrative when she had no fucking right.
“I can’t believe you right now. This has royally fucked things up.”
She ignores me, instead focusing on picking lint off of her pajama pants.
“What the hell do you want me to do, Cleo?” I question in exasperation. “Like, seriously. If you think I’m some monster and I did this to specifically hurt you, what would you like me to do to fix it?”
“Break up with them.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
I must not have heard her right, because there’s no way she just asked me to—
“Break up with them,” she repeats.
“Cleo.” My eyes are bugged so far out of my head, I think they may pop out. “They’re my scent matches.”
“And they HATE me!” she roars, her skin turning red. “Since the moment I showed up and fulfilled our label’s request, that alpha has looked at me like I am scum beneath his shoe. And if you’re my best friend, you won’t make me suffer through this. You won’t make him a part of our lives forever.”
There’s nothing I can say or do except stare at her, utterly speechless for the first time since we met. Is this even the same person I shared secrets with at twelve years old? She looks like my best friend, but she doesn’t sound like her. Not one bit.
“No,” I say softly, the word quiet and defeated. The fire has extinguished and all that’s left is inconceivable disappointment. I can’t fight with her about this anymore, not when she wants to take everything good from me just so she doesn’t have to sit with the uncomfortable reality of it.
“Fine. Then you made your choice.” She nods, pulling out a flask that was hiding behind one of the decorative pillows. “You can let yourself out.”
She takes a hearty gulp, and the wedge between us breaks even further. “There didn’t have to be a choice, Cleo.”
“Yes, there did.”
I cross my arms, feeling tempted to leave as she asked, run away from this, but I can’t. My feet are frozen in place, sinking deeper into the hotel floor beneath me. “I thought… I thought we could conquer anything, Clee.”
Something flickers over her face, but it’s gone before I can desperately grab hold of it. “You’ve always thought that. Your savior complex is a powerful force, Jo.” She hiccups, her eyes growing heavy.
“I don’t want to save everyone, just you!” I scream at her. “You are falling apart, Cleo. With all the drugs and the drinking. You need serious help, and I don’t know how to provide it for you. If you could just talk to me about—”
“I don’t want to be saved,” she cuts me off, speaking matter-of-factly. “Please stop trying.”
Tears well up, my chin quivering. I can’t fathom this person in front of me, how different she is from my best friend. She looks so wilted, so unlike her strong self, that it breaks my heart. I take a step forward. “Cleo—”
“No,” she snaps at me, the word laced with an omega force.
“Stop it. I don’t want you around me. I want you to go away.
From this moment on”—she points a weak finger, her features hardened—“we aren’t anything but coworkers.
We perform together, we go to events together, but we are not friends. Do you understand me?”
I flinch. “What?”
She grits her teeth and picks up a glass bowl from the coffee table, some decoration planted there from the hotel, and throws it at the wall. It shatters in a million pieces, and I sidestep to avoid getting hit by the shards. “Go. Away!”
My body obeys the command, immediately locking up and forcing itself from the room. I barely contain the sob coming up my throat. My last glance of Cleo is her pulling a bottle to her lips and chugging it down in one go as my body moves on its own.
Because now I know, she is lost. I may have had the chance to lead her back, lighten the burden, but for some reason, she wants to carry it. She needs this, needs the hurt.
As I leave the room, I finally let the tears fall, clutching my stomach as it aches. My best friend is still in there, still understands me, but I’m not the one meant to pull her out.
This is officially above my level of expertise. She needs serious help, and it can’t come from me.