Page 39 of The Rogues

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.

FOURTEEN

OKLAHOMA CITY, OKLAHOMA

“Are you from that band?” a beta asks me, practically screaming in my ear so I can hear her over the music. Even so, her accent is strong, a perfect mix of Southern and Midwest that makes a unique sound with her alto vibrato. Her blonde hair is almost silver, and she has so much glitter covering her skin that I’m afraid it will get on me if I stand too close. She smiles kindly, or maybe she’s just really good at playing coy because her friendly demeanor seems earnest. Sincere.

Still, I don’t really want her here. She could be the most likable person in the world, and I still wouldn’t care.

“Sorry, I don’t know what band you’re talking about,” I tell her. “In fact, I don’t like music. I think music sucks.”

Her brows shoot up into her hairline. “What? You don’t listen to anything?”

“Just the abrasive stillness of pure sorrow and misery.”

She takes a step back, almost like my words frighten her, and I flatten my lips to keep myself from laughing. She isn’t the first person to talk to me tonight, but after a while, hearing the frustrated huffs and sideways comments from your rejections gets old. Turns out, weirding them out is much more effective, with a lot less guilt.

“Okay… I think I’m going to go.”

“Alright, have a good rest of your night.”

She watches me for a few more seconds, her eyes squinted with confusion. She can’t tell if I’m a madman or not, and it’s fucking hilarious. When she walks away, I turn back to my surroundings, feeling safe to brood once more.

Across the club, Vicious Velvet are sitting in an oval sitting area, their table littered with liquor bottles and empty shot glasses. When they first arrived, my alpha nearly shot out of my chest with excitement, but then Josie’s absence was obvious when only the three other omegas sauntered in, their bodyguard in tow.

Looking at them now, I question how Josie fits in. The blonde bassist is chugging a handle of clear vodka. She doesn’t come up for air for a solid forty seconds, and I wonder whether or not she might get alcohol poisoning. Cleo is sitting on the lap of some man, his long hair coming down to his chest. I can’t tell his designation from here, but she is looking at him with big eyes, her lashes fluttering as he pulls a tiny baggie out of his wallet. He uses his pinkie nail to scoop up a bump of the white powder, his lips curling creepily as he angles it. She snorts it without any hesitation, her entire aura lighting up from the drug as it enters her system. She wipes her nose, ecstasy falling over her expression, and my stomach churns at the sight. The last member, the redhead, is speaking with their bodyguard, her lips curved into a hardened frown. She points at her friend, spitting out heated words just before the large man goes to get the drug dealer and remove him from their midst. I brace myself, thinking it’s going to turn into a violent scene, but the guy stands and puts his hand up in surrender, not wanting any issues with the bodyguard. Cleo’s face changes from doe-eyed to pissed in two seconds, and she makes it known by arguing with the security.

I roll my eyes and turn away. I wonder if Josie is aware of what her bandmates do when she isn’t around. Maybe she is. Maybe she’s okay with it. I can’t sit here on my high horse and claim she has any qualms over it when I don’t really know anything about her yet.

Still, my instincts tell me that she wouldn’t be okay with this. Another small part makes me question if it’s the reason she isn’t here to begin with.

I sigh and turn to walk back to the section the guys are sitting in. Normally, being out with them helps to take my mind off things. The loud music, the thrum of bodies, the illusion of privacy with the flashing laser lights; it’s usually distracting enough to pull me out of my head, but not tonight. Tonight, all I can think about is the last time I was in a crowded club. A sweet melody moaning in my ear, champagne bubbling across my taste buds as I sucked my fingers clean.

The secret rendezvous with Josie is becoming a memory that I keep replaying, over and over again, both to soothe and torture myself. It usually ends with an angry, frustrated wank or me cuddling Lennon until we both don’t feel so alone anymore. Being the only two in the band without an attachment has left us to find comfort in each other, bonding over our mutual love for anime and old rock music so we don’t feel romantically alone.

It doesn’t hurt that he’s also very talented with his mouth.

Our drummer doesn’t come out with us anymore. He’s much more content to lie low so his symptoms don’t worsen before the next performance. He’s probably sitting in our tour bus, snacking and scrolling on his phone, waiting for us to get back so we can crash and wake up in a new city.

I’d rather be hanging out with him than wallowing in this pathetic misery a moment longer.

I seek out the exit, looking for the easiest way to escape this hellhole when Cyrus comes up beside me, his arm loosely hanging around my shoulder.

“You going to head out?” he asks, and I fight a grin. Even without a bond, he can read me like a book. There might as well be a link between us with the way he can see right through me, right down to the sore spots that I usually keep under lock and key.

“Yeah, I think I’d rather be with Lennon right now.”

He nods, expecting that answer, before he muses, “You’ve turned down half the club for a dance.”

I shoot him a warning glare. It’s not an accusation, just an observation, but my lips pull into a snarl anyway. “Dancing with someone else doesn’t feel right.”