Chapter 5 – Damian
Chapter Five
Damian
Music is in my blood.
Hell, I don’t even mind performing, which is weird because I hate people. Crowds freak me out, and I get overstimulated easily.
Being on stage makes it easy to tune all of that out.
Darkest Nights works because we all play multiple instruments. Well, Creed is happy on drums, so he tends to stick back there, but he’s every bit as talented on lead or backup guitar. He and Riot could be fronting their own band, if that’s what they wanted to do. They have the voices for it.
I’m sure, at some point, we’ll lose them as they branch out on their own. Honestly, I pray every day that Cove gets tired of this life and makes the decision to call it quits.
We’re finally picking up traction, but I’m fine with using that to launch Riot’s and Creed’s careers without us.
My sensory issues haven’t adapted well to a life on the road. Coming in, I knew I’d be uncomfortable. I just didn’t realize how consistently miserable I’d be.
The only parts of life that I don’t hate lately are when I’m close to Cove and when we’re on stage. The interviews, the meet-and-greets, and being trapped on the bus are starting to kill my soul.
I don’t understand how my dads did this shit for the better part of a decade. I mean, by the end, they were so well-known that they were able to cut back their schedule significantly, but even doing this for a year or two feels like hell.
Not that it’s all bad.
The rush that comes from hearing thousands of fans chanting our names is extreme, but then all those fans expect our attention offstage, and that’s when I hit my limit.
It’s all part of the game. To be successful, we have to engage with the audience to build the loyal superfans who launch careers into the top ten and buy every version of a record.
There are just so many of them compared to the five of us.
It’s not possible to keep all of them happy, at least not while protecting my mental health, and I’m not a social person by nature. Although, I do love rocking out on stage and producing music that has staying power to be played for decades.
Honestly, though? I’d be as happy working at my mom’s charity, teaching the next generation of musicians.
The press descends as soon as we step offstage.
Declan watches Cove as she gives an interview, and it’s nice to see them focusing on her for a change. It makes me feel guilty sometimes, but with my parents and grandparents being musicians, the press tends to flock to me and Ravvi.
Riot and Creed have their own connection to the music industry through their dads. Reporters always want to lead us into talking about our families.
Cove’s uncle was a musician in his own right, but he’s been gone for so long that they barely bring up Bryan Thomas.
Hell, we named ourselves Darkest Nights after the song my mom and dad wrote to honor him.
All they would have to do is ask about “Darkest Nights and Dirty Habits.” It would give them the perfect lead in to talk about her connection to the industry.
It sucks because this is her dream, and yet, they hardly treat her like the star of the show.
We made her front woman for a reason.
She’s talented as fuck, and it makes me wonder if it’s a gender bias against women in the rock industry. I’d like to think we’ve evolved past that, but I see it playing out in real time.
I barely get my mixers out and hand them to the sound guy before a microphone is shoved in my face.
The urge to take a swing at him is strong, but luckily, Ravvi tosses an arm over my shoulder, guiding me away.
“Maybe later, guys. We need to hydrate,” he says, ever the diplomat.
“I know you hate that shit as much as I do,” I grumble, pushing his arm off me. He’s sweaty, like we all are after finishing a long set, and I have no interest in smelling his armpit funk.
“Yeah, but you’ve got to at least pretend you want to engage, or they’ll pick up a vendetta. Who knows what nastiness they could fabricate in retaliation.” Ravvi laughs and shrugs. “It’s easier to play nice.”
I frown, shaking my head.
If my brother wasn’t always trying to look out for me, I bet he’d be happy with this life.
Cove wants to be a musician.
Ravvi was made for the stage.
The twins fucking eat up every second of fame.
I’m the odd one out.
And, as always, they try to accommodate my needs, but there’s every possibility that I’m holding them back.
Watching a bunch of random guys hit on Cove during our meet-and-greet does not improve my mood.
I’m done with today, but getting back on the bus so we can travel all night to the next city doesn’t sound any more appealing.
Damn.
I’m ready for a vacation.
If I had the opportunity to snuggle with Cove every night, I’d probably be fifty percent less cranky. That hasn’t happened, and unlike Ravvi, my patience is wearing thin. He’s naturally more optimistic than I am, and way better at going with the flow.
A random woman appears in front of me as I stretch back against the couch I’m seated on. She’s cute, with shoulder-length wavy blonde hair and an easy smile. I’m not in the mood to engage with anyone, though.
What my dad said before we left on this tour plays through my mind, and I realize I’m an asshole. The fans pay good money to hang out with us. To them, we’re a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I can make or break whether they leave with a good memory.
My earbuds are in, so I can’t hear what she says, but I pull the black permanent marker out of my pocket and give it a little shake. “You want me to sign something?”
Jesus Christ.
She moves fast, or I’m slowed way down from the blunt I smoked with Riot and Creed before the tour manager dragged our asses over here for this bullshit.
The chick kneels over me, and I slam my back against the couch.
See?
This is the kinda thing that I’m not okay with. I don’t like to be touched by anyone, especially if I’m not expecting it.
I raise my hands, palms out, still holding on to the marker.
“Could you sign right here?” she asks, loud enough for me to hear over the music blaring in my earbuds. She doesn’t wait for me to give her the go-ahead before pulling the front of her tank top down far enough that her entire tits pop out.
“If I do, will you get the fuck off me?” I ask, uncapping the marker.
I follow my dad’s guideline, a quick scribble will do, and fall back against the couch, giving the woman a look that indicates I would like to be left alone now.
She doesn’t remove herself from my lap.
I glance around for assistance, but Riot and Creed have their backs to me as they chat up a group of women.
Ravvi has no hope of noticing my predicament, considering he’s talking to a reporter.
My eyes catch Cove’s, and I beg for help through a look that hopefully conveys exactly how little I want this woman on my lap. She disengages from the guys she’s with and beelines across the room.
The way her eyes narrow and jaw flexes as she moves is kinda hot.
Is it weird to dig that violent energy?
Ehh, probably not.
“Your whole family is musicians, right?” the fan asks with her chest still hanging out.
“Yeah. Did you maybe wanna put your tits away?” I ask, really confused how this is my life.
This kinda thing wouldn’t fly anywhere else, and it makes me wish I was anywhere other than here.
“Oh yeah, you’ve got to go.” Cove finally makes it to us, coming to a stop at the edge of the couch. “You can climb off Damian’s lap, or I can have security escort you out.”
“What?” the chick asks with wide eyes. “I’ve met a lot of musicians, and I’ve never—”
“There’s a first time for everything,” Cove says, grabbing the woman’s arm. “Time is ticking. Maybe go try your luck with the other opening act.”
I grimace.
This is how we get bad press, but fuck it.
I don’t want to disappoint fans…
I just wish they didn’t think they know us personally. It leads to a fair number of interactions where they overstep boundaries. Then we have to accept it, or we end up looking like the bad guys.
The woman finally climbs off my lap, huffing and puffing the entire time.
Cove gives her a gentle shove in the direction of the twins and focuses on me. “You okay?”
I nod, exhaling so heavily that my lips blow together.
I’m supposed to be an alpha, and I begged an omega to save me. My entire designation would hang their heads in shame if they could see me now.
“Wanna get out of here?” Cove asks.
My eyes fly to hers, and I study her face. I don’t want her to only spend time with me out of obligation or, even worse, pity.
“We’ll get bitched at as soon as Simon notices we’re missing…” I say, referencing our tour manager.
“It’ll be worth it.” She shrugs, holding out a hand with black-painted nails.
I place my palm on hers. “Why not? Let’s go.”
Cove and I sit on top of the bus, devouring the burgers and fries the roadie procured for us. There are a few perks of being famous. Getting greasy fast food delivered to your tour bus is at the top of the list.
She groans, drops her empty burger wrapper back into the bag, and grabs her soda. “Dammit, how are you still eating? I’m stuffed.”
I chuckle, downing the last bite of my second double cheeseburger. “I’ve got the crunchies hardcore.”
“You mean the munchies?”
“Yeah, if you want to sound like our parents. Keep up with the lingo.” I laugh, bumping my shoulder against hers.
It takes everything in me to hold myself back from suggesting she try gummies or something. Not everyone wants to smoke, and I get that, but they give weed to cancer patients and people with problems keeping food down for a bunch of reasons.
Her suppressants are killing her slowly, and I don’t say that lightly. She’s getting migraines, having trouble keeping food down, and I’ve noticed she’s more sensitive to light, which is a big problem, considering we’re under burning-hot stage lights five to seven nights a week.
They’re staving off her heats like she wants, but at what cost?
“I don’t get how you guys do it,” Cove says. “I smoke and get paranoid. No way I could hop on stage lit. I wouldn’t recover from the fear I’d forget my lines.”
“That’s valid, but to be fair, it hasn’t happened to me yet.” I shrug, grabbing my chocolate peanut butter shake to take a long swig.
It makes me miss my family.
My mom has a killer sweet tooth. She used to insist we had ice cream shakes before bed a few times a week when I was little.
Half the time, I think I was born the wrong designation. I was meant to be an omega like my mom. Then, I’d have an excuse for all my issues.
It’s normal for omegas to struggle with changes to their routine. They like having a safe place to retreat to, and they’re known for getting overstimulated and having sensory issues.
They’re not looked down on for any of those things because it’s expected behavior for their designation.
Being an alpha means I’m supposed to be aggressive, more dominant, and easily adaptable. I’m none of those things, and I’ve been picked on a lot during my lifetime for my quirks.
It’s bullshit.
Not everyone is going to fit perfectly within the expectations for their designation, but whatever.
Cove laughs. “Even if you did forget your lines, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. That’s the curse of being the lead singer, I guess.”
A gust of chilly air whips through the parking lot where the buses are waiting for the acts to make their way back.
I toss my arm around her shoulder, resting my head against the side of hers.
I’ve seen enough videos to know, my dads played more than a few shows shit-faced back in the day, and no one said anything to them.
But that goes back to how differently the music industry treats male performers versus women.
“I’d cover for you,” I assure her, breathing in her orange creamy scent. She smells like one of those ice cream bars with the fluffy vanilla in the middle. I love those things, and Cove’s scent leads me to believe if I licked her, it would taste like eating one of them.
“Thanks,” she says, visibly shivering. “It got cold fast. Are you ready to head inside?”
Her blue eyes sparkle in the low light of the parking lot.
I’d rather stay up here with her, but I don’t want her to be miserable. “Yeah, we can.”
If only I was confident enough to invite myself into her room to snuggle.