Page 10 of The Omega Verse

I ignore the shiver that creeps over my skin, because I have bigger problems right now than some rockstar wanting to get his rocks off. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Jett gives a barking laugh, but Silva leaps to his feet. “You get motion sickness, sugar?”

“That’d be fucking perfect since we’re on a bus.”

I claw my way to the edge of the seat, gripping my rolling stomach. “I don’t know what it is…”

My voice trails off as River Ryder appears from the back of the bus, his cloudy grey eyes fixed on me. But Jett just snaps his paper and takes another slurp of coffee. “Second lesson of rock school, Sterling. Wrap it up, unless you’re planning a music dynasty.”

My stomach lurches again, and I heave myself off the couch. “I’m not a fucking groupie, you arsehole! I’m Steven’s sister!”

There’s a shocked silence and then Jett is on his feet, the newspaper crumpled in a fist. “What the fuck did you say?”

I ignore his furious growl, stumbling past a frozen River. I lurch towards the nearest door and shove it open, almost weeping at the sight of a toilet. Throwing myself onto my knees, I slam the lid up right as a wave of watery bile bursts from me. It hurts, it’s gross, and I wish I wasn’t doing it five feet from a trio of rockstars.

But in another way, it’s a relief, because everything is churning inside me, bubbling and boiling like poison.

When I’m done, I glance over my shoulder, seeing their circle of shocked and distrustful faces – and kick the bathroom door closed.

Fuck them. Fuck everything.

My brother died, and there’s nothing anyone can say that will change it.

Silva

Jett’s been pacing like a lunatic for half an hour, his glasses mashed so tightly in his hand he’s popped a lens out. River manages to rescue it before he grinds it into the carpet, but Jett doesn’t even seem to notice. Could be the bourbon he’s been guzzling all night, but he doesn’t just smell drunk. He smells sour. As if the turmoil inside him is starting to rot.

I don’t know a lot about grief, but this guy has it bad. Fuck knows how he even made it through the tribute concert, because from what I’ve heard, he and Steven Rain were closer than brothers. They started the band together in their late teens and then spent a decade making music and touring the world to sell-out concerts. For most of us, that’s just a partnership, a business arrangement. But for Jett and Stix, it was a match made in music heaven. So, yeah, you have to admire Colter for getting up there and delivering what will probably be one of the most gut-wrenching concerts in rock history.

But even with red-rimmed eyes and what must be the beginning of an insane hangover, ninety-nine percent of his focus is on the bathroom Steven Rain’s sister just disappeared into.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around that. Did I believe her story about the stolen VIP pass? Hell, no. In my five years of playing arenas, I’ve seen every kind of crazy stunt to get backstage, so of course I had my doubts. But the split lip was real, and the lost look in her eyes…? Yeah, I recognised that, too. And I figured if she wanted her shot at a night with a rockstar, who the fuck was I to leave her alone and bleeding in the rain?

“It has to be bullshit,” Jett mutters, completing another lap of the kitchen. The bus is luxury on another level, but it’s still a box on wheels, which means he’s already worn a tread into the plush black carpet. “Just another fucking groupie milking Steven’s death.”

I prickle, ready to lash back at him, but River gives me a subtle shake of his head. “Ease up, Jett,” he says with a hint of warning in his voice. “We don’t know enough about her to say that yet.”

Jett grumbles something under his breath and River folds his arms, watching him with his huge grey eyes. We move in different crowds, so I don’t know River Ryder very well. There’s not much about him in the press, either, but other musos talk about him in hushed whispers. A musical prodigy who studied at the Sydney Conservatorium, he has the pedigree of a top-shelf omega. Rich parents, a fancy education, but he’s never mated, and as far as I know, never even been courted by a pack. Which is freaking unbelievable, because he’s the perfect mix of angelic choirboy and rumpled rockstar, with an arse that should be illegal in the leather pants he wears onstage.

“Maybe we should know more,” Jett mutters. “You’ve checked her for ID?”

I shoot him a filthy look. “We’ll, I wasn’t gonna frisk her …”

“Why not? She’s on our bus, she plays by our rules.” He grabs his phone out of his pocket and starts texting someone. “I’ll get Mike to come do it while one of his guys checks her out online.”

He can’t be fucking serious! This girl is either who she says she is – which would be mind-fucking-blowing - or she’s messed up and seeking attention in all the wrong places. And who the hell hasn’t been there?

Either way, I’ve had a gutful of his paranoid crap. “No one is fucking frisking her! She’s passed out three times in ten hours. Are you really going to risk a lawsuit by shaking her down while she’s unconscious?”

Instead of taking a breath and actually thinking about that, Jett’s eyes narrow to suspicious slits. “Don’t you think it’s convenient that she keeps passing out? The damsel in distress routine got her into the arena, then onto our bus, and now she’s holed up in our only damn bathroom. Next thing you know, she’ll be begging to use one of our beds.”

Jesus Christ. Five minutes ago, he was propositioning her with his group activities bullshit, and now he’s clutching his pearls like he’s in fear of being violated.

“If she wants my bed, she can have it,” I snap. “But I’m betting she’ll be off this bus like a shot after the way you’ve treated her.”

“She has his eyes,” River says quietly, killing whatever retort Jett was about to make. “Did you notice? They’re a lighter colour, but they’re the same shape as Steven’s.”

Jett has stopped his pacing, but he grips the edge of the table. “River…”

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