Page 15 of Discover Me
Jordan's scent spikes with distress. "I was trying to help. To give us a direction that would keep the label happy and keep us employed. Do you have any idea how many bands get dropped every year because they can't adapt?"
"Tell me there's no other ulterior motive and I'll leave it alone." I stare at him, searching his face for any sign of deception. "Tell me you didn't see this as an opportunity to push your own creative vision at the expense of the band's identity."
"There isn't anything else, I swear." Jordan's voice cracks slightly as he raises his hands in defeat. "I didn't tell you guys because I wasn't sure it would work. I didn't know Tom would take the songs straight to the label. I thought he'd come back to me first, that we'd have a conversation about whether to pursue this direction as a group."
Liam steps closer to Jordan, still clearly upset. "You should have at least told me, asshole." He hits Jordan lightly on the shoulder, before a small smile forms on his lips. "We'resupposed to be partners in this. You don't get to make unilateral decisions that affect both of our careers, not to mention the rest of the band’s."
"I know." Jordan sighs, his shoulders falling. "I fucked up. I'm sorry."
The apology doesn't make me feel any better. "Cool. Great. I'm going back to my apartment. And Rex?" I turn to look at him. "Get the goddamn note right next time."
Rex's expression shifts to something defensive. "You've been crabby ever since you caught that Beta, you know that? Almost like he meant something to you." His eyes narrow speculatively. "I heard Tom say you even picked out the flowers yourself. Had them sent to the hospital with your money, not the label's. What’s that about?"
The observation catches me off guard. I did pick out the flowers. Spent twenty minutes in a florist shop the day after the charity gala, trying to find something that felt right. White lilies for peace, red roses because they seemed appropriate, greenery to fill out the arrangement. The florist asked who they were for and I couldn't explain it. Just someone who needed to know that what happened mattered. That he mattered.
"It fucked me up, alright?" Revealing any part of the truth, that Micah might actually mean something is off the table. So, I circumvent it as best I can. "I watched a man fall some ten feet in the air. More than that, actually. I was covered in his blood and the first thing Tom really said to me was about how we could spin the media coverage. Not 'are you okay' or 'that must have been traumatic' but 'how can we use this.' I still don't even know how he's doing. I mean, I know he's alive from the news coverage, but that's it. I don't know if he recovered, if his injuries healed properly, if he's back to work or still in physical therapy."
Rex's defensive posture softens. "Shit, sorry, man. I didn't realize it affected you like that."
I shrug, trying to play it off. "It's whatever. Just a bad day. I'll talk to you guys tomorrow," I say, suddenly needing to be alone. "I need to process all of this."
I walk off before anyone can respond, pulling out my phone as I head toward the elevator. My thumbs move almost without conscious thought, typing Micah Davis into the search bar. I tell myself I'm just curious, just checking to see if there are any updates. It doesn't mean anything.
The search pulls up several results. A few news articles from right after the fall, all with headlines about the heroic rescue. Then, buried on the second page of results, I find a small post on a local news site. An update on the recovering Beta.
Micah Davis, the local construction worker who suffered severe injuries in a fall last month, has been released from the hospital and is continuing his recovery at home. Davis sustained bruised ribs, a fractured arm, and significant damage to his scent gland during the incident. Friends and family report that he remains in good spirits despite the challenges ahead.
The article includes a photo. It's grainy, clearly taken from someone's social media, but I can see Micah clearly. He's sitting on a porch, his arm in a cast, a tired smile on his face. Even through the low-quality image, I can see the scar running down from his neck, disappearing under his shirt.
But he’s okay. A smile pulls at my lips as I run my finger over the picture. He's alive and recovering and smiling despite everything. The relief that floods through me doesn't make sense given that he's a stranger, but I can't deny it's there.
Then I frown, shoving my phone back in my pocket. Why the fuck was I smiling? It was a freak accident, a random moment of being in the right place at the right time. Micah and I are just strangers passing in the night. Two people whose paths crossed briefly and then diverged. There's no reason for me to be thisinvested in his recovery, no reason to be checking up on him weeks after the fact.
But for a moment, while I was looking at that photo and reading about his recovery, the pain in my chest eased. That persistent ache that's been my constant companion since the charity gala faded to almost nothing. Just seeing proof that he's okay, that he survived and is moving forward with his life, made me feel lighter.
“Yeah, no, we’re not doing that,” I mutter to myself, jamming my finger into the elevator button as if that will make it come faster. “It doesn’t mean anything. Itcan’tmean anything.”
Kellan
Two Weeks Later
Tired. That's the first thing I feel when I wake up from a cat nap in the back rooms. Not refreshed, not energized, just bone-deep exhaustion that makes even sitting up feel like a monumental task. The pain in my chest is even worse than it was almost two weeks ago, a dull throb that occasionally spikes into something sharper. Furiously rubbing at my chest no longer works to will the sensation away.
Nothing works.
Rex says I need to get checked out and Jordan joked that it was heartbreak. Liam’s the only one who hit on the head but I refuse to acknowledge that. Unfortunately, that just means the pain worsens and I have to pretend that my head isn’t full of chaotic thoughts and growing fantasies that I couldn’t possibly entertain.
Worse, in less than a half hour, we’ll be completing the last stop on our tour before we start working on the new album. We've been practicing like mad. Tom's scheduled extra sessions, extended our rehearsal time, brought in additional sound engineers to fine-tune everything. And through it all, Rex still gets that one note wrong. The same fucking note in the same fucking song, over and over. It's like he's doing it on purpose, testing to see how many times I can hear the same mistake before I snap.
I'm close to snapping. Closer than anyone realizes.
The mistake shouldn't even bother me this much. I know that. Everyone makes mistakes. Even the best musicians miss notes sometimes. But it's become symbolic of everything wrong with this band, with this situation, with my life. Rex can fuck up repeatedly and it's charming, it's endearing, it's just Rex being Rex. I can play perfectly for ninety-nine percent of a song and mess up once, and suddenly I'm the problem.
Which just reminds me how much easier it is for me to get irritated. The whole persona Tom crafted has now become second nature. Lashing out and grunting when I have to acknowledge something have become my go to responses. The guys walk on eggshells around me, Tom shoots me warning looks constantly, and even the sound engineers seem nervous when I'm in the room. But the fans eat it up. Social media explodes with comments about how hot my brooding Alpha face is, how the darkness in my eyes is attractive, how they'd love to be the one to fix me.
I even ended up grabbing another tattoo last week. Along my thumb, a pair of drumsticks crossed like an X. Simple, clean lines in black ink. The tattoo artist asked if I was sure, mentioning how thumb tattoos fade quickly and hurt like hell. I told him to do it anyway. Maybe I wanted the pain. Maybe I needed a different kind of hurt to focus on, something that wasn't this persistent ache in my chest.
Sitting up on the lounge, I rub at my eyes and then push to my feet, stretching enough to let my back crack before moving to grab my drumsticks. It’s a force of habit, needing them in my hand as I beat them softly against the wall, tapping in a rhythm that matches my heartbeat.
