Page 35 of Wicked Truths

I’m going to go with no, considering the guys never seem to experience these pre-show shakes, definitely not to this degree.

“You’re looking a little rough.” Hawk comes closer until he’s just a foot away. “They’ve still got two songs left before they’ll call for you. Are you doing all right?”

My head shakes as my eyes dart around desperately trying to find something else to focus on or somewhere I can hide. Ohmigod, my impulses are ridiculous. My eyes meet Hawk’s, and I admit, “I’m not. I’m having major stage fright tonight.”

“It is a big venue,” he agrees, nodding.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I whisper.

Where is Marcus?

I need my pre-show fuck to keep me busy and help fight these never-ending panic attacks. It’s helped the last few shows, and I need him right now.

I don’t even think it’s the sex, it might be the way he keeps my mind preoccupied, so I don’t obsess about accidentally making a fool of myself in front of thousands of people.

How the hell did Angel Rae do this? She’s one of the few female singers to front a rock band. She got up there every night with Damian, Jamen, and Donovan and put on a show like she was on their level. Maybe she was, and I’m just the one swinging out of my depth.

Marcus rocks every show like he’s meant to be on stage. Of course he does, he’s rock royalty.

Liam carries us with no problem because he’s been a frontman before.

Sullivan actually has it the easiest of all of us because he’s on the drums and he doesn’t sing.

I’m the one dragging them down.

Hawk stands, carefully studying me.

A whine escapes my lips. It’s a sound distinctive to omegas, but Hawk likely figured it out when Love gave birth. If not then, I can’t imagine he’s missed it after being trapped with me on the bus.

Not that we’ve talked about it.

We don’t talk about anything anymore.

My head shakes involuntarily as my eyes ache. I don’t have the first clue how to fix this mess I’ve gotten into.

I’m going to let everyone down.

Jamen took a chance on signing me. Omegas don’t tend to have long or prolific careers. I’m going to owe a lot of money when I have to break this contract.

“All right,” Hawk says in his deep, growly tone. He takes the last step toward me, and I unceremoniously chuck myself at him. My skirt is tight as hell, but it rides up around my thighs as he lifts me.

I burrow into his throat because that’s where his scent will be the strongest.

He walks us over to the leather couch and takes a seat, pulling me to rest over his lap. I haven’t been this close to Hawk since Love gave birth. I think it had negative consequences when I forced my system to release soothing pheromones. The suppressants haven’t worked right since then. Not to mention, right after the paramedics took her and the adrenaline wore off, my system crashed hard.

There’s something so familiar about Hawk’s musky sandalwood scent and the way he runs his hand over the back of my head. It’s hard to remember I’m furious with him. Okay, so I’m actually more hurt than anything, but still. There’s no reason I should want him cuddling me, but for whatever reason, he soothes my nerves.

The audience isn’t really here for me, or even Wicked Truths. I know that when my system isn’t freaking out, but right now, it’s hard to focus on Trigger Finger or any of the opening acts being part of the show. It feels like the weight of the entire concert is sitting on my chest.

“I can’t go out there and perform. No one should pay money to see me on stage. Imposter syndrome hit hardcore,” I say more to myself than to him.

“You’ve got amazing talent.” Hawk teases his hand over my back while the other cradles my head. “The guys got caught up with one of the backstage reporters, but Marcus asked me to check in on you. I’m starting to think he really is serious about you.”

I sigh. There was a time not too long ago when that would have meant a lot coming from him. Now it sounds kind of like a backhanded compliment, or maybe I’m overly sensitive because I’m having a literal freaking panic attack.

I huff against Hawk’s throat. He’s always got something between a stubble and a short beard. It scratches against my cheek as I breathe in hits of his pheromones. We might not be anything but employer and employee, but we are compatible.

My system craves his scent, but reality catches up pretty quickly.

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