Page 22 of Pack Larsen

But what-the-fuck-ever. Let them think I’m a little rich girl with ‘little rich girl’ problems. I don’t have to prove myself to them. They can think what they think, so long as they show up to the fundraiser benefit.

Swallowing my hurt, I clear my throat and nod slowly, gradually coming to the conclusion that my money could be playing a part in the animosity I’ve felt from pack Larsen. It’s clearly a heated topic for a few of them, apparently. More evident in the way they welcomed Juniper so thoroughly and welcomingly, whereas I have had nothing but a cold shoulder, polite platitudes, and an attempt at friendship by the omega of the bunch.

Since there isn't much I can do about the glaring difference between me and them, I shuffle away from them all, feeling somewhat dejected and more alone than ever. A house now filled with life, and it’s more lifeless than it was to begin with. I almost miss the emptiness that was here before they moved in. At least that didn’t hurt my feelings with a few sharp words.

With the shitty acceptance that I’m a problem for them despite my offering to help, I mutter, “Thanks for agreeing. Send me your sizes and I’ll order your outfits. If you have a preference, then let me know before I order something you don’t like.”

“Silver, baby, wait, he didn’t—” Aero starts, but I shoo him away. I want to go to my studio, lose myself in my music, and bury the weird feelings now floating around in my chest until I can’t feel them anymore.

“Don’t sweat it. Not like it matters anyway, right? It’s one night of pretending. You can all go back to whatever the hell it is you’re doing as soon as the clock strikes midnight,” I tell him, sending him a half-assed smile that makes him wince before he turns an omega-worthy scowl on his alpha.

I grasp that moment of opportunity to escape with both hands, crossing my arms over my chest while leaving them all behind in the living room. Before I leave, I hear the slap of skin against skin, and I’m sure Rage grunts in pain. A hiss follows while Aero snaps, “Nice one, idiot. I’m trying to get her to fucking like us, then you go an open your stupid mouth. A whole day of progress wasted because you can’t bottle your hangups.”

“I’ll apologize,” Rage mutters, actually sounding remorseful. I know better, based on how snippy he’s been over my monetary status.

“You better, because I’m not having you ruining this,” Aero warns, and I hear Munro scoff.

I linger for only a moment longer, catching Munro’s words, “What even is this? Since when were you two close enough for you to be holding her damned hand like it was tethering you to Earth?”

“Jealous? Wish it was you?” Aero volleys, and there’s only silence that follows.

I disappear to my studio a moment later, blocking out any other pieces of conversation I might overhear that I don’t want to. The last thing I want to hear is how my mere presence pisses the beta off, or how he can’t stand to be around me. Hell, the jack-off spent enough time avoiding me any time I was with Juniper before she was attacked.

Yeah, no thanks. I’m not into self-inflicted torture, and hearing Munro gripe about me currently sits beneath that umbrella. What I heard was enough to leave me zooming through the house and toward my studio, my thoughts racing with me. Why is Aero trying to get me to like him? And why is Rage at my throat about money any chance he gets? And what the fuck is Munro’s problem? Pace and Haze are just as confusing, but at least it doesn’t seem like they hate me as much as their beta.

I’m up the stairs quickly, shutting the door firmly before turning to face the only room of solace I have that isn’t my nest. I don’t even want to go in there right now, because I know Aero’s scent will still linger in the blankets and pillows.

Taking a deep breath, I decide that working might be what I need to escape this rotten mood I’ve found myself in. So, sitting at my keyboard, I start up my PC, slip my pastel-pink headphones on, and spend the next three hours compiling a set list for work, working on a couple of songs that need perfecting, and searching for tuxedos on my cell phone in between bouts of inspiration.

By the time my eyes start crossing from staring at the screens too long, my leg has started bouncing with restlessness, a weird sense of anxiety clawing at my psyche. I try to ignore it, immersing myself further into composing the base track of a song I’ve been working on forforever, but it doesn’t work. The longer I try to sit still, the worse my leg starts shaking, and with the shaking comes thoughts of pack Larsen, invading my mind as though they have a right to be there.

“This is your own fault, Silver. You and your bleeding heart. Should have left them to find a place themselves. Damn Juniper Baines for dragging me into this shit,” I grouch to myself, slumping in my seat at my keyboard.

Scrubbing my hands over my face, I groan into my palms, feeling frustrated and antsy. So, instead of sitting here dwelling on all that is currently my existence, I opt to do something about it. If I’m going to suffer with an energy overload that won’t disappear here in my studio, then I’ll find something that will steal it effectively and quickly.

Reaching for my cell, I find my boss’s number and press dial, tucking my phone between my cheek and shoulder while I wait for him to answer. As the phone rings, I head down the stairs and to my nest, picking at my chipped nail polish while beelining to my walk-in closet. I’m peering at clothing options when Tanner finally answers, the steady pumping of music blaring from the speaker before his smooth, dulcet tones croon oh so sweetly to me from the other end of the line.

“My little Pixie Dust. To what do I owe this honor?” the zesty man ten years my senior asks, and I release the first genuine grin I’ve had since stepping into the house.

“Hey, Tan. Do you think you could add me on the roster tonight? I’m a little amped and studio work isn’t helping,” I explain, pulling out one of my favorite work outfits.

“Oh my god, you’d actually be doingmea favor. The guy I hired for tonight is a flop, and the place is dead. A group of betas are literally escaping right now as we speak. Do you have a setlist ready?” the alpha asks mindlessly, like he’s forgotten who he’s talking to already.

Huffing a laugh, I answer, “Of course. I always have one ready.”

“Sweet. I’m going to give this guy one more song before switching to my own playlist. Set up as soon as you get here. Your stuff is in my office. You’re my hero, Dusty Girl,” he drawls overdramatically, disconnecting the call before I can voice a response.

Chuckling, I place my cell on a dresser and go about fixing my outfit quickly. I’m encased snugly in a pair of high-waisted jean shorts over a pair of torn-up, grungy, pastel-pink fishnet tights. My shirt is a white-sequin number that always catches the strobe lights when I’m on stage, strappy on the back but modest on the front with only a small dip in the neckline to reveal a smidge of cleavage. Well, as much cleavage as can be for a girl who is considered an honorary member of the itty bitty titty community.

Stuffing my feet into a pair of white, chunky platform Doc Martens with pink laces, I check myself over in the floor to ceiling mirror in the closet and nod my approval. I go through the rest of my routine quickly, painting my face with heavier makeup than I would normally wear, and fixing my hair into two pigtails with pastel pink extensions woven throughout.

After spritzing myself with a scent masker, taming my sugary-sweet scent to a more subtle aroma that will have the alphas leaving me alone while I’m working, I gather my pink mini-backpack and old jean jacket that has more tears in it than my tights.

I’m striding out of my nest only minutes later, already in higher spirits and anticipating the heady atmosphere at Raverz I’ve grown addicted to. There’s no high quite like that of people dancing and singing along to setlists and remixes you’ve made of club favorite songs, hyping you up while you shred a DJ deck like it’s your sole reason for living. What’s even better is that none of them know it’s me.

Which reminds me, I should check if Tanner still has my mask at the club. Otherwise, I’ll have to take my backup.

Retrieving my cell phone from my back pocket, I’m calling my boss again, only waiting a few short rings before he answers, “I beg of you, please don’t cancel on me. I just broke the news to DJ Floppy that he’s got to go, and he didn’t take it well. Can you hear that? His last song he decided to play?”

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