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Fitz stomps over to the couch, tossing himself down on it and bringing me to rest over his lap. He smells like rich coffee. I breathe in deep hits of it as my shoulders slump.
“I’m really sorry,” I whisper, refusing to meet his eyes. “It’s your first show with your new band and—”
“Enough,” Fitz says. “You didn’t do anything wrong. There were some issues with security and them not having enough guys to provide decent coverage.” His skin is warm as his hand wraps around the side and back of my neck simultaneously. His fingers run through the hair at the base of my skull. It’s normally an excellent way to calm me down, but I’m still frazzled. The way his forearm of bright tattoos bulges draws my attention. His veins poke out, likely from the workout of playing his guitar during the show. “Tell me what’s going on in your head. If you want me to hire security…”
My head shakes. That would cost a lot of money. “I think we both know I’m not cut out for this,” I whisper, burying my face in his shoulder. “I panicked. I always panic when there are crowds.”
“You’re one of the most talented photographers I’ve ever seen. Don’t let those thoughts sabotage you.” He cuddles his sweaty cheek to the top of my head. “If you want to hear about freaking out—I hard-core panicked. I tossed my guitar at some guy, who may or may not work here, and started scouring the entire backstage area.” He squeezes my hip. “Remember our deal?”
I snort, cuddling deeper into his shirt. He made a promise to me in ninth grade that, should I ever do anything truly embarrassing, he would see my embarrassment and raise it so that he would be the one everyone was talking about.
“Thank you.”
“Nah, don’t thank me. I need you to explain why Warrick’s scent is all over you.”
“Everyone was pushing and shoving. I got moved back from the stage. When you guys exited, the crowd got a little crazy.” I sigh. “I tried to find a path away from everyone. I ended up jammed against a wall, and then Warrick was there. It was really kind of him to step in.”
“Yeah, he’s a helpful guy. Sounds just like him.”
“I hate that I missed most of your first performance. How was it?” I ask to change the subject. He seems kind of tense, but I’m sure some of that’s because he’s still hyped up from being on stage.
“The crowd had good energy, but it’s a pain in the ass with two lead guitarists.” He runs his hand up and down my spine. “It’s only to ride out this fill-in contract.”
Donovan Lee is one of the owners of Ruined Records. He bonded with Fitz’s mom earlier this year. It’s kind of a weird situation. They met through the music industry, since Fitz’s dads used to be pretty well-known in the UK back in the day, but it’s still strange to add an alpha to a pack so late in life.
I mean, they aren’t ancient or anything, but they are all in their late forties, and Donovan joined an already-established pack.
It’s how Fitz started doing fill-in work for some of the bands on the Ruined Records label. Back when I was taking photography classes, he was flying across the country to do shows with bands who needed a last-minute replacement.
I don’t like thinking about all those chances he had to hook up with random groupies.
I grunt, snuggling deeper into his sweaty chest. He’s never dated that I’ve seen, and delusionally, I’d like to keep it that way. Sometimes my system gets confused and thinks of him like he’smyalpha, even though my brain knows better.
“They’re lucky to have you.” I tilt my head, giving him a reassuring smile.
“And we’re lucky to have you and your amazing photography skills.” He bends low, kissing my forehead, and my stomach bubbles with butterflies that feel exceptionally dangerous.
That brain-body disconnect is such a pain in the ass sometimes.
ChapterTwo
Warrick
“What the fuck is Jamen thinking?” I growl, pacing the gravel parking lot.
“That you’re under contract for at least a few more months?” Gavin says with a laugh.
Jamen Jacobs is the main owner of Ruined Records. He’s also an alpha. He should know better than to put an unbonded omega on a bus full of alphas.
I spin around, glaring at our tour manager. It’s difficult to remind myself I normally don’t hate the guy. Gavin is a damn good manager, and he visited me every day while I was in the hospital recuperating.
My hands fist at my sides. I hate thinking about the attack. It was a cheap shot, or several, but they successfully ended my career as a vocal artist.
I’ve spent the last few months doing vocal training twice a week. It didn’t do shit to get me back to where I’m supposed to be.
It’s been almost a year and a half since that fucking riot, but my physical scars are still wicked to look at, and my voice will never be the same.
Not that I particularly care.
