Page 11 of Discover Me
The rehearsal space echoes with the final notes of our set, Rex's bass hanging in the air just a beat too long. I watch from behind my kit as he dances across the stage, his fingers sliding across the frets in what's supposed to be the closing riff. Then he hits the wrong note. It's subtle, the kind of mistake most people wouldn't catch, but I hear it. We all hear it.
Jordan twists around from the microphone, his delicate features pulling into a grimace. Liam, our other guitarist, doesn't miss a beat. He just plays a little louder, his fingers flying acrosshis own guitar to overcome Rex's mistake and carry the song to its proper conclusion. The Alpha energy radiating off Liam helps smooth over the rough edge Rex created.
Tom starts clapping from his position near the sound booth, the slow, deliberate applause of someone who's already mentally writing notes for the post-practice meeting. I lay my drumsticks down on the snare and sit back, watching the familiar scene unfold.
Tom steps up onto the stage, making his way to Jordan and Liam first. He leans in to discuss something with the “leaders” of Lunar Ransom. Probably praising Jordan's vocal control or Liam's quick thinking to cover Rex's mistake. Then he turns to Rex, his expression shifting to something more understanding.
"Maybe tone it down just a little," Tom states as he folds his arms across his chest, but there's no real bite to it. "Save the showmanship for the actual concert."
"Fans love me!" Rex grins, completely unbothered by the critique. He sets his bass down and stretches, his Alpha confidence filling the space. "They come to see the performance, not just hear the music. That sometimes takes a little practice, bossman."
I quietly grab my sticks and my bag before slipping off the drum stool. The conversation continues without me, Tom now gesturing toward the setlist and discussing transitions. I head toward the door, wondering if they'll even notice my absence. Probably not. They rarely do these days.
It's gotten worse over the last few weeks, ever since I saved that local Beta just before the charity gala. Micah. His name surfaces in my mind, along with the memory of dark eyes and his whiskey-vanilla scent and blood on my hands. Tom ran that whole 'hero' thing into the ground, milking every drop of positive publicity until the news cycle moved on and I became the brooding bad boy all over again.
Everyone oo'ed and ahh'ed over my tattoos and piercings during those hero interviews, commented on the permanent snarl on my lips like it was something attractive instead of just my resting face. But that's all they wanted from me. Bad behavior. That's the image Tom crafted years ago, and I fell into it easily because it was easier than trying to be something I wasn't. The problem child. The lone wolf. The Alpha who doesn't play well with others.
But that image also sets me apart from my bandmates in ways that didn't used to bother me but do now. There's Rex, the Alpha everyone wants. He has a whole pack at home—two Omegas, a Beta, and another Alpha who all worship the ground he walks on. He loves to flaunt that shit, constantly on video calls with them during breaks, posting photos on social media of his perfect pack life. Look how balanced I am. Look how well-adjusted. Look how I can have it all.
Then there's Jordan and Liam, part of the same pack. Their Beta and Omega come around on tour sometimes, visiting for a few days at a time. I've met them both. They're nice enough, clearly devoted to their mates, and watching Jordan and Liam light up when they arrive makes something in my chest twist uncomfortably.
It had been fun being the lone wolf. The unattached Alpha who didn't need anyone, who could focus entirely on the music without the complications of pack dynamics or mate bonds. I used to take pride in it, used to think it made me more dedicated to the band.
But now I feel odd about it, like I'm missing some fundamental piece that everyone else has figured out.
The feeling started around the same time everything else began falling apart. Maybe even right after the paramedics pulled Micah out of my arms, his scent fading on my skin. Now that feeling’s progressively getting worse, like a pain in my chestthat I keep ignoring because acknowledging it means dealing with it, and I don't knowhowto deal with it.
Watching my bandmates basically get praised for everything they do, even when Rex keeps fucking up that damn guitar solo, pisses me off more than it should. That solo isn't even that hard. I could play it in my sleep. But Rex is the golden boy, the Alpha with the perfect pack life and the charming smile, so nobody cares if he misses a note or two. He's being entertaining. He's engaging with the performance. He's giving the fans what they want.
But when I hit the wrong cymbal or I'm off beat even a little, it's the end of the world. Social media blows up with concern, trolling, and criticism. "Is Kellan overworked?" "Does he seem tired to anyone else?" "Maybe he needs to practice more?" "The rest of the band is so tight, but Kellan seems off."
None of this shit ever bothered me before. I used to scroll past those comments without a second thought, secure in my abilities and my role in the band. But it bothers me now. Every criticism feels like a personal attack, every comparison to my bandmates feels like proof that I don't belong here. That I'm the weak link. The problem child dragging everyone else down.
I get to the door of the rehearsal room, my hand on the handle, when Jordan's voice stops me.
"Hey, where are you off to?"
I snort and turn around, taking in the scene. Tom is standing in the middle of the stage with his tablet, already making notes, Rex sprawled on one of the amps, as Liam carefully sets his guitar in its stand. Jordan is just watching me with those big eyes that see too much.
"Shame," I say, keeping my voice flat. "Thought I'd at least get into the hallway before you guys were done wiping each other's asses."
Liam straightens up, his calm expression shifting to something more defensive. "That's uncalled for, Kel."
"No, what's uncalled for is that we've been playing together for years, but ever since we were in that cozy little town or whatever, things have gotten weird." The words come out sharper than I intend, but I'm too tired to soften them. "Everything's different now, and nobody wants to talk about it."
Tom looks up from his tablet, his expression morphing to that particular blend of irritation and calculation that means he's about to spin this into something for the brand. "That's because I gave you a chance to embrace something different. The hero angle was working. People were seeing a new side of you."
"Embrace being a hero?" I shake my head, gripping my bag tighter against my side. "I didn't even do anything. I yelled to someone else to call 911 and told him not to pass out. That was it. I didn't do shit."
"You saved someone's life," Jordan says quietly. "That's not nothing."
"And as for the whole hero persona?" I continue, ignoring Jordan's attempt at an intervention. "You know I fucking hated every second of that. Every interview, every press conference, every goddamn question about what it felt like to be a hero. And now, since everyone has moved on to the next story, I'm just the bad boy Alpha who plays drums. I get it, okay? That's my role. That's my brand. But Jesus Christ, don't throw it in my face that I'm different from you guys. Don't make it so fucking obvious that I'm the outsider."
"What's gotten into you?" Rex sits up, his casual demeanor slipping slightly. "You've been off for weeks, man."
I grit my teeth, trying to hold back the anger that wants to spill out. It doesn't help that I'm also the youngest member of the band. Rex is thirty-two, Liam is thirty, and Jordan just turned twenty-nine. At twenty-seven, I'm the baby, and every time Iact out or push back or express any frustration, everyone just attributes it to my age. To my inexperience. To my inability to handle the pressure of fame.
"He's just going through something," they'll say to each other when they think I can't hear. "He'll grow out of it." "He's still figuring himself out." As if my feelings aren't valid because I'm younger. As if I haven't been doing this job just as long as they have, paying my dues, and putting in the work.
