Jay scans the bios, already bracing for impact. Zef Viento. Omni Fuller. Words blur as he takes in the diagnosis and the prognosis. The weight of it settles low in his stomach—cold and leaden. These kids weren’t just sick. They were fighting for every goddamn breath.
“Fuck Gid. These kids.”
Gideon doesn’t look over—just grips the wheel a little tighter. “It’s good, alpha. The rest of this plan might be shit, but this part of it? It’s good.”
“Yeah. I guess so.” And itisgood, but there’s so much bad going on in the world. So many people are just trying to get through the toughest times. It pisses him the fuck off that Carnell has to create even more.
The sun disappears from the Buick as they head down the street between high-rises and office buildings, and it’s not long before Gideon says, “We’re here.”
WRBY 88.1 Indie Rock Radio sits on the eighth floor of a high-rise, and as they drive past, Jay can already see fans out front in the hundreds—maybe more. Phones are pointed at their vehicle, posters raised in the hope that he’ll see them.
“Holy shit.”
Gideon closes his window, and even then it can’t block out the noise. “What did you expect? You haven’t been seen since before Christmas, and Margot has done her level best to make sure Carnell knows we’re here. I’m going to park around the back. Check to see if our contact can meet us?”
They park in the staff lot behind the building, and Gideon turns the car off. The absence of the A/C means Jay can hear the engine ticking in the silence. Before he can say anything, Gideon opens his door and steps out into the Florida sunshine.
Fine. Jay had said everything that mattered. Gideon wouldn’t thank him for a maudlin goodbye—or a “good luck.”
Their contact, Melody French, is a spunky thirty-something with a big smile and bright black eyes. Her dark hair is tied up high in a red bandana that matches her t-shirt, one emblazoned with Jay’s face, and a grunge-inspired red rose tattoo winds along her forearm. “Fuck me! Jay Rhodes, thanks for coming.”
Jay’s smile slots easily into place as he shakes her hand. “Thank you so much for having us. This is Gideon Carnell.”
Jay turns on his celebrity image like a switch, protecting the Were community and his mate’s identity with an overabundance of charm—because he’ll be damned if he refers to his beloved mate as staff.
Gideon manages his most officious smile and nods once.
“Well, we hadn’t expected to get a call from your team this week, that’s for sure, but the kids are here already. You got the kids’ bios?”
“We did. Looking forward to meeting them.”
“I gotta ask, neither of you are sick, right? The kids are immunocompromised, and while they’re willing to risk it all to meet you, I am not.”
Jay likes her even more.
“We aren’t. I appreciate you asking, though. This is supposed to leave a positive impression, not a dangerous one.”
Yes, Jay recognizes the irony of his words.
“Great! Let’s get it, then.”
They take the elevator to the eighth floor and walk through reception to a conference room just off the main lobby. It’s a small station, given radio budgets are shrinking in every market.
“Give me a minute to prepare them, okay? Your team expedited all kinds of merch, so if you wanted to give gifts at the end, you can.”
Bless Margot for thinking of everything.
“That’s great. I can sign some stuff, too. Whatever.”
“I think Zef brought his guitar if you wanted to play something for them…” Melody says, and Gideon snorts.
“I’d be delighted.”
“Great. Give me a second to let them know you’re here, okay?” she says, and slips inside the room.
“A guitar? When was the last time you played?”
“Don’t ask. I’ll manage.”
