Page 33 of Knot Their Opening Act

For the first time it occurs to me, they could turn on us on a dime, too. For having her on board, or for any reason at all. Fans are just normal people. And normal people can be truly terrible.

Maybe I subconsciously transferred my anger at Nyah to the next Omega to come into my life, via the music industry. And maybe that’s really the only thing I hold against her, is a completely irrational belief that any other Omega I might find beautiful, talented, and irresistibly confident—could be my downfall.

It hits me like a bolt out of the sky. And not just because I scented her and knew she was our match three years ago, only to be reaffirmed last night. It’s because I do find her beautiful, talented, and irresistibly confident. And always have.

Fuck me.

No one knows what I know, not even my pack mates who won’t get off their suppressants, because we’re not supposed to want this. It was my idea in the first place.

She’s our scent match. She’s in the industry. We nearly destroyed her career. And now, it really is our job to give her everything she needs. Safety, security, protection, pleasure. Us.

She may have gotten use out of Thomas, but she’s not going to want us. Or she’ll never admit she does.

And now I have to fucking pine again for another Omega musician who will push me away, laughing and scoffing as she disappears down a path I can’t follow.

* * *

We get through the set but I’m not having fun despite the grin and sweat-soaked hair plastered on my face as we burn through our fan-favorite bridge onAcross the Isle. Holden’s drumming is on fire tonight, and his shirt’s off even before the encore. The crowd’s raging and dancing in the steam drifting across the lights, and I’ve never seen such an atmosphere for a chilly evening, but on stage it feels like a million degrees.

Our own scents are filling up the stage and there are two additional enormous fans blowing air around, which I requested for tonight. I hate to make last-minute demands but it adds to the atmosphere—and maybe shifts at least some of Jez’s scent away from the stage.

But its soaked into the floor. Every night on this tour, this is how it will go. She’ll spread her scent all over the stage I have to then spend two hours singing and playing my heart out on. And act like my body doesn’t notice that the Omega who should be ours is backstage without the slightest clue.

Thomas throws me a look as we segue into the next number. He’s been doing that all night—that one-raised-brow look, wrinkling his nose to push his glasses back up on his face.

He knows what she feels like. And fucking hell, she should be all of ours. But I can only be glad, really, that of all the people to be there for her when she’s stuck in the shittiest place—full of anxiety and heat, simultaneously, with a bunch of guys she hates and yet wants to impress—it was Thomas. He would’ve been gentle, and empathetic, and kind. And I’m glad. The Omega in me is glad.

Because I would’ve been a fucking mess.

Maybe it was meant to be. Thomas can keep her satisfied, safe, and calm. And after the tour ends, we can go our separate ways. I can’t endanger my band.

I haven’t been on them since my early twenties, Thomas. I’m allergic. There. I’ve said it.

When I’d told him that earlier, he’d given me a blank look, but a look that said so much. It accused me of knowing she was an Omega who could use our help.

To my knowledge there are no other unmated Alphas on the crew—only us. So it’s our duty as Alphas whocare.I only knew she was in heat last night though. It’s not like being off suppressants gives me super powers and the ability to forecast it.

Ash will have known Jez was in heat, too, but he’s too much a gentleman to breathe a word of it. Though certainly he didn’t know she’d be in heat or he’d have said something. All working Omegas tend to be on suppressants unless they’re trying to catch. I wonder what happened with hers.

This tour is in so much trouble.

Just before we start on the penultimate song before the encore, Thomas does it again—sending me that look with the waggling eyebrow. Is he having some kind of fit or something?

But then Holden smashes a cymbal three times in a row, hard, and I look over at him. He gives me the same face and shrugs his shoulders in aWell?way. And then I realize: I’ve forgotten.

Shit.

I grimace and step toward the mic, then back up to stage left, remembering the tech has to change me out. Jan hands me my Jazzmaster without blinking and I return to the mic stand.

“Hey guys, hey, thanks so much for coming out. It means a lot, and it means a lot that you got to hear and see the beautiful Jez Jacobs who was gracious enough to join our tour and give us the warmest opening—uh?—”

Fuck. What the fuck am I saying?

Hoots, hollers, cheers, laughter, some boos, and some maniacal whoops follow this. I can just see Ash’s face now.The WARMEST OPENING, Kai? Fucking really?!?

I swallow and smile sardonically as though this was meant, all the while moving the mic around and claiming a pic off the stand, flicking it between my thumb and index finger.

“She’s put on an amazing show for you guys, so we want to hear you make some noise for our tour mate, Jez Jacobs.”

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