Page 39 of Knot Just A Fan

I raise my hands. “I don’t want to cause trouble. But I do want to get over them—especially Grayson. Ash, please. I’m not trying to cause trouble, I swear it.”

He stares at me, and I stare back. Finally, he looks down at his hands and cracks his knuckles. Cami winces—she hates that sound. Then he says, “I know I’m going to regret this.”

He leans over, rifles through his bag, and pulls out two pieces of paper. He signs his name on them, then hands them to me.

“Two tickets to the Nice gig, opening night. Assigned seating at that venue, third row, on the end. Not close enough for them to notice you. Willow will be in the wings, backstage. The only thing you’re likely to see is them throwing her looks. But if that’s what you need to move past this?—”

“And for you to assuage your guilt, I assume,” snaps Cami.

He nods. “Yes. And that. Here.”

He holds out the two pieces of paper and I take them, staring. We’d need to get plane tickets. We’d need to make sure Cami’s okay with leaving the country for a couple days. I certainly have no prior obligations.

I’ve never seen him even in the same city as Willow at the same time. If he’s acting relieved, relaxed, different than I’ve ever known, I’ll know. And that will be enough.

This could be my ticket to freedom. Or, it could be a chance to show them what they’re missing.

Now I decide what kind of Omega I need to be to survive.

CHAPTER 19

Grayson

Wakingup with a pinched nerve in my fucking shoulder is never a good sign. Being squashed in that airplane seat for an hour and a half on the runway before even taking off—before the sun even rose—was a rubbish start to this European tour.

Enzo’s endless stress of jabber on-board, which usually keeps my mind off shooting through the sky in a metal tube, only grated on my last nerve. As did Ronan’s inarticulate grunts when asked yes or no questions. I just assumed the answer was always no.

He’s always the moody one. He’s taken that role to heart. But since this Briella thing’s blown up, he has been the grumpiest bitch. And I know I need to talk to him in private. I need to be the one to get us all on the same page, even if it’s one we want to tear out.

Then we stood in the longest customs queue I’ve ever seen thanks to some malfunctioning software at the Nice airport. I’ve spent about four times as long not moving on a plane and not moving in a queue today than I have on the actual journey.

Which is why, getting up from my power nap in the hotel, seems to require me pushing myself onto my side beforegrabbing the headboard to pull myself into a sitting position. With much grunting and grimacing.

“Fucking A!” I shout.

“All right in there, Sleeping Beauty?” calls Enzo from the lounge chair.

“Dude, what the bloody hell are you doing in my hotel room?” I ask, groaning as I stand, arching my back with my hands on my hips.

Enzo sits with one ankle resting on his knee, his tablet device on the chair arm and headphones around his neck. He waves a hand lazily in the air and makes a face. “Your door wasn’t pulled shut all the way. I thought it unsafe, but when I opened it to check you were actually in here and saw you dozing like a beautiful princess?—”

“Fuck off,” I say good-naturedly as I find I can at least stretch with some degree of freedom.

“—I realized you had a better view than me so I thought I’d just hang out in here.”

“Help yourself,” I say. He’s pulled the armchair closer to the window, but it was already facing out over the promenade and the white-capped waves coming in. I’ve been to Nice on holiday but never played a gig here.

A sudden burst of energy and excitement sparks inside. I walk over to the coffee maker on the counter, above a well-stocked fridge and beside a sink. It’s a decent-sized suite for a smaller European hotel. We specifically asked Ash to not choose super-spendy accommodations. Save the money for the bank accounts. I’d rather spend my money on luxury hotels when I’m on holiday. Whenever that actually happens.

All it takes is bending over to grab milk from the fridge for me to yell out in pain again. Dammit, I do not need this kind of restriction when our first proper gig on this tour starts in seven hours.

“You all right, Grandpa?” asks Enzo, looking over from his window seat. A raised brow but some concern—he’s aware too how important this gig is. All the promoters for the rest of the tour will be eyeing our transition to European shores, and how we fare live with the fans here. And there are lots of fans. They’ve never seen us live unless they caught us in our beginning stages in the UK, or crossed the Atlantic to catch us there.

The media will be ready.Socialmedia will be watching, fingers on the record button.

“Let’s just do our best tonight, despite my stiffness and pinched fucking nerve in my shoulder.”

Enzo snorts and looks back to his tablet. “Not worried about your knob, there, mate. Just try not to make it obvious.”

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