Page 83 of Pack Me Up
I try to smile. “Are you scared too?”
The fake calm he presents to the world melts off his face. “Of course I am. We are both risking exposure, but we have Oli Hartbehind us, and that’s enough to give me the confidence to try. I’ve hidden myself for too long, I want to live, and I want the same for you.”
“What if I screw up?”
He shrugs. “Then you screw up. Nobody dies. I’ll start clapping like a lunatic, and everyone will forgive you for it.”
I want to believe him. I want this as much as he does.
Another knock at the door, and Hunter comes back with a grimace. “It’s time for you two to go on.”
Tommy hops up and heads for the door. I stay where I am, trying to make my legs work until he comes back for me and pulls me behind him.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is plastered to my forehead, my eyeliner smudged, my mouth a thin, bloodless line. I don’t look like a rock star. I look like a girl about to break.
I want to walk out, or hide, or run. But Tommy’s waiting at the door, and I refuse to let him down.
I force my body up and grab my guitar.
I step into the hallway, and the roar of the crowd is waiting.
The hallway is narrower than I remember, every surface glinting with fluorescent bulbs.
Four in. Hold. Six out.
I can’t get past the first three.
Then Fox is there. There’s no urgency in the way he moves, only intent. His presence is a wave of cool water, spreading through the sharp, bright panic.
He doesn’t reach for me right away. He leans against the doorframe, blue eyes flicking to mine, then to Tommy, then back. The way he looks at me isn’t predatory or invasive; it’s an open hand, palm up.
“Hey,” he says, soft and even. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
Tommy gives me a quick look, and I nod, numb, and he melts away down the hallway with a practiced ease. I think he might have set this up, and I’m grateful.
Fox waits until the hallway is clear, then pushes off the door and closes the space between us with a patience I could never muster. He crouches, so his face is level with mine. The smell of apples and cinnamon helps calm me.
He’s the one with no scent blocker on today, and it settles something in me. Even his beta scent is strong and comforting to me.
“You look like you’re about to jump out of your own body,” he says. “You okay?”
I shake my head, and he nods, like he already knew the answer.
“You’ve got this,” Fox says, voice just above a whisper. “Seriously. I’ve heard you practice. You’re going to level this place. We all believe in you.”
His words should bounce off, but they land. They sink in, a slow-burning warmth in the middle of my ribs.
I want to say something. Maybe thank you, or I’m scared, or please don’t leave, but all that comes out is a sigh. My hands are still wrapped around the neck of my guitar, the wood warm and slippery under my fingers.
Fox glances at my grip, then covers my hands with his own. He doesn’t squeeze. Instead, he rests there, his palm over my knuckles, the weight of it enough to make my heartbeat slow.
“Brittney,” he says, and I look up, caught by the depth of his gaze. “You belong here. Even if your brain says otherwise.”
His words trigger something deep and dangerous in me. It’s a flood of hope, or relief, or just the need to keep going.
Four in. Hold. Six out.
This time, I can do it.
