Page 12 of Discover Me
I blow out a deep breath, forcing myself to unclench my jaw. "I'm just asking for a little fairness. Rex messes up on a note and everyone's like 'oh, he's being funny, he's engaging with the performance.' I hit the wrong beat or false start and everyone gets mad at me. Social media tears me apart. You guys look at me like I'm letting the team down. Tom schedules extra practice sessions. It's bullshit and you all know it."
Rex laughs, the sound grating against my already frayed nerves. "If it's so fucking easy, then you do it. Play my part. Show us all how it's done since you're such a perfectionist."
I know I shouldn't take the bait. I know this is exactly what Tom wants, some drama he can spin into content or use as a reason to schedule more practice sessions or reshape my image again. But I'm so tired of being the problem. So tired of being the one who has to prove myself over and over while everyone else just coasts on their established reputations.
I stalk forward, crossing the rehearsal space in a few long strides. Rex's guitar rests against the sound system, a beautiful custom piece that probably cost more than my first car. I played guitar before I played drums, back in high school before Tom convinced me the band needed a drummer more than another guitarist.
Muscle memory takes over the moment I grab the guitar and start playing through the entire song, the one Rex just butchered. My fingers find the frets without any consciousthought, the progression as familiar as breathing. The solo that Rex can't seem to nail flows from my fingers flawlessly. I play with more technical skill than Rex ever has, the happy memories of high school moving this from showing off to just feeling the notes flow through me.
It feels like… freedom.
My lips curve up in a small smile as I lose myself to the music, only donning my manufactured personality when I finish and set the guitar back against the sound system. The silence in the rehearsal space is deafening.
While my bandmates are wearing a mix of shock and uncertainty, Tom's face has gone carefully blank, which is never a good sign.
But I made my point and staying here is only going to get me in trouble so I just walk out, pushing through the door into the hallway. Tom's footsteps echo behind me, my shoulders falling in defeat. Of course, I can’t even get my own little mic drop.
"We need to work on your fucking attitude."
I stop but don't turn around. "No, you need to stop using me like a fucking pawn. I get it, I'm twenty-seven, still trying to figure out what to do with my life, and you're holding all the cards. You control the image, the schedule, the narrative. But Jesus Christ, let mebreathe. Let me be apersoninstead of just a brand."
"Your attitude is the problem here," Tom says, coming to stand in front of me. "Not Rex's mistake. Not the praise the others get. Your inability to be a team player."
I'vealwaysbeen a team player. I've showed up to every practice, every interview, every meet and greet. I've smiled for the cameras even when I wanted to punch someone. I've played the bad boy role Tom crafted because it was good for the band. I switched from my favorite instrument because that’s what theband needed. And this is what I get? Accusations that I'm not pulling my weight?
"You've got an hour," Tom continues, checking his watch. "Then we're back to practicing. I've got some ideas for your next album that we need to discuss. Some image adjustments that might help with the disconnect you're feeling."
He walks away before I can respond, heading back toward the rehearsal space. I hear the door open and close, the sound of voices rising as Tom presumably tells everyone else what a problem I am. How I'm being difficult again. How they need to be patient with me because I'm young and temperamental and clearly going through something.
I head toward one of the lounge rooms, the ones set aside for band members to decompress between sessions. My chest aches with that weird pain that started a few weeks ago and hasn't gone away. I rub at it absently, trying to ease the discomfort. It's probably stress.
The lounge room is empty when I enter, which is a relief. I drop my bag and collapse onto one of the couches, my head falling back against the cushions. The pain in my chest pulses a little stronger, the dull ache moving until it seems to be centered right over my heart. I press my palm against it, willing it everything to just go back to normal.
But what is normal anymore? Before the charity gala, I knew who I was. Or at least I think I did.
Now I don't know who I am. I just know that something shifted the day I held Micah in my arms and breathed in his whiskey-vanilla scent. Something clicked into place that I've been trying to ignore ever since because acknowledging it means everything changes.
Mate. The word surfaces in my mind but I shove it down immediately, refusing to examine it. I don't know anything about mate bonds and never wanted to learn. I always assumedI'd settle down with some cute Omega eventually, someone soft and traditional who'd fit into my life without demanding too much. Someone who'd make me look good for the cameras while staying out of the way when I needed space.
But Micah wasn't soft.
He was all muscle and calluses and hard work. He wasn't an Omega, either. And his scent—god, his scent.
I haven't been able to get him out of my head and worse, it feels like I did something wrong by not visiting him before we left. I never even followed up after that initial moment of connection.
Because acknowledging that connection means dealing with it. It means admitting that maybe I'm not as unattached as I thought.
The pain in my chest pulses again, and I rub at it more vigorously. Stress. Ithasto be stress. Too many rehearsals, too much pressure, too much time spent trying to be something I'm not while simultaneously trying to prove I'm exactly what Tom wants me to be. The contradiction is exhausting.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see a text from Sarah, the band’s PA.
Schedule for next week. Practice Monday through Thursday, 10am-6pm. Press junket Friday morning. Concert Friday night. Meet and greet after. Saturday morning interview with Rolling Stone. Saturday night private event. Sunday off. Please confirm receipt.
I stare at the text, the words blurring together. Another week of the same grind. Practice until we're all sick of each other, smile for the cameras, play the show, sign autographs for fans who only love the version of me that Tom created. Rinse and repeat until... what? Until I burn out completely? Until I finally snap and do something that even Tom can't spin into good publicity?
I type back a single word:Received.
Another buzz, this time from the band group chat. Rex has sent a gif of a guitar being smashed, captioned "When Kellan gets moody." Liam responds with a laughing emoji. Jordan sends a concerned face emoji but doesn't actually say anything.
