Page 23 of Hunted Omega: Part Two

Aria turns, probably looking for a seat, and our eyes meet. Her expression shifts from surprised to cautious, her body tensing like a deer ready to bolt. She’s holding a to-go cup, her fingers gripping it so tightly her knuckles have gone white, and the scent of her anxiety hits me like a punch to the gut.

“Aria,” I rasp, the word scraping out of me rough and unsteady. “I… Hi.” Smooth, Dash. Real smooth.

“Dash.” Her voice is guarded, a wall of ice I used to know how to melt. She takes a small step back, the cup clutched close as if it’s some kind of shield. “What are you doing here?”

I rake a hand through my hair, the familiar nervous gesture doing little to calm the storm inside me. “I’m… I’m here for a meeting. AA,” I admit, the confession slipping out before I can think better of it. So much for anonymity.

Well, there goes my rock star image, but hey, at least I’m not passed out in a gutter somewhere. Again.

Aria’s eyes widen, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of something softer—maybe respect—but it’s gone before I can be sure, like a mirage in the desert of our broken relationship. “Oh,” she says quietly, her voice just above a whisper. “That’s… good, Dash. That’s really good.”

We stand in awkward silence, the weight of unsaid words pressing down on us like a physical thing. There’s so much I want to say—apologize, explain, beg for another chance—but the words stick, lodged painfully in my throat. The background noise of the café seems to fade away, leaving us in a bubble of tension and unresolved feelings.

“I should go,” Aria says finally, inching toward the door. “Good luck with your meeting.”

She moves past me, and her scent wraps around me, tugging at my senses. It takes everything I have not to reach out and stop her from leaving. The alpha in me howls in frustration, but I force it down. I don’t have the right. Not anymore.

“Aria,” I call out just as she reaches the door. She pauses, glancing back with an unreadable expression. “I’ve been a Grade A asshole, Aria. I’m trying to tune myself to a better frequency.”

She nods slowly, the barest hint of a smile ghosting her lips. It isn’t much, but it’s more than I deserve. “I hope you succeed, Dash. Take care of yourself.” Then, with a flash of that spirit I’ve missed so much, she adds, “And maybe next time, give a girl a heads-up before ambushing her at her favorite coffee spot, yeah?” She tucks a strand of pink hair behind her ear, a gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache.

Then she’s gone, leaving me standing in the middle of the coffee shop, feeling like I’ve been sucker punched by fate itself. I sink into a corner table, my hands trembling as I wrap them around my coffee. The ceramic is rough against my palms,grounding me in reality. For the first time in weeks, the urge to drink hits hard and fast, like a freight train barreling through my resolve.

“One gig at a time, Dash. You’re still the frontman of your life,” I mutter under my breath, repeating the mantra my sponsor drilled into me. The words feel hollow, but I cling to them like a lifeline.

When the AA meeting finally starts, I’ve managed to tamp down the worst of the craving, though it still simmers at the edges of my mind like a pot about to boil over. I take a seat in the familiar circle, the quiet hum of the room settling around me like a well-worn blanket. The plastic chair creaks under my weight, and the smell of stale coffee and desperation hangs in the air.

As I listen to others share their stories, I’m struck by how similar we all are despite our different backgrounds. The guy to my left, with tattoos covering his arms, talks about missing his daughter’s recital. The woman across from me, her designer purse a contrast to her haunted eyes, shares about almost losing her job. We’re all just trying to climb out of the same hole one day at a time.

When it’s my turn to speak, I clear my throat, feeling the group’s eyes on me.

“Hi, I’m Dash, and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Dash,” the group responds in unison, their voices a soothing chorus.

“I… I saw someone today—someone I hurt badly when I was drinking.” The words are tentative at first, but once they start, they spill out in a rush. I talk about Aria, the pack, and the mistakes that haunt me. I leave out details like being an alpha and mate bonds—that’s not what this meeting is for—but I bare the raw core of my guilt and the wreckage I’ve caused.

“I want to rewrite this messed-up song I’ve been playing,” I say, my voice cracking under the weight of the admission, “but I don’t know if I even deserve the chance.”

After the meeting, Mike, my sponsor and one of my bandmates, pulls me aside. His expression is kind, his eyes steady and sure in a way that makes me feel like maybe I’m not as lost as I think I am.

“What you shared tonight was good,” Mike says, squeezing my shoulder. The warmth of his hand is comforting. “Thinking about staging a comeback tour with Aria? Just remember, no pyrotechnics this time.”

I nod, twisting my sobriety chip between my fingers. “I want to, but I’m terrified of making things worse.”

Mike’s grip tightens, a steady anchor in the churning sea of my thoughts. “Making amends isn’t about making yourself feel better, Dash. It’s about owning up to your actions and giving the other person the choice to forgive or not. That’s their decision, not yours. Just think about it, okay?”

I leave the meeting with a sense of relief, the cool night air waking me up to the reality of my choices. The city is alive around me, a cacophony of car horns, distant sirens, and the low murmur of pedestrians. I pull out my phone and open the pack group chat. They should know I saw Aria, but as I type, my fingers hesitate over the screen. How much do they need to know?

Me: Saw Aria today. She knows I’m in AA now. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t terrible either. I’ll explain later.

I hit send, the message feeling like it’s too much and not enough. Almost immediately, my phone buzzes with responses.

Malachi: No rush, rock star. We’ll be your backup singers whenever you’re ready to belt it out.

Quinn: Holy shit, man. You okay?

Zane: …

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