Blowing a kiss at the cluster of beta girls outside the club, I smirk as they giggle. My eyes slide over them, lingering on a pretty little brunette who tosses her hair back, her smile a touch nervous. As I open my mouth to call out to her, my cell buzzes in my pocket. Her face falls when I break eye contact to pull it from my jeans, the summons from Tristan making my heart thump. With a wink, I hit the throttle on my bike.
“Maybe next time, sweetness.”
The wind runs cool fingers through my hair as I weave in and out of the city traffic. Dozens of beat-up, second-hand vehicles with the odd flashy model thrown in zoom past me, blurring as I increase the speed and lean over my handlebars, my heart racing as I feel the speed gradually ticking up.
I could ride like this forever.
The turn-off for our pack house comes up much sooner than I’d like, and I shove back the curling dissatisfaction in my chest as I take the turning, my wheels spinning as I push my bike to the max. Guilt tickles the back of my neck, and I blow out a breath as the mansion comes into view.
It’s not my pack’s fault that I feel so fucking restless.
Day after day of doing the same thing, singing the same songs, playing to the same crowds. Navarre is a small place. There’re only so many times you can play before the anticipation becomes a little less, the buzz dropping just a little until your pre-gig high becomes… nothing at all. Just a job.
I hate feeling like that about my music. Restricted. Like I’m playing in a box, and every time I open my mouth, the box squeezes just a little tighter until I’m clawing at the walls, gasping for breath.
Tristan lights up my phone again, and I silence the call, jogging up the steps and pushing open the main door to the marble entrance hall.
Look at what you’ve got, Jax. No point pining over things you can’t have.
Tristan calls out from the study. He turns his eyes to me as I wander in, grabbing a glass from the side and helping myself to some of his liquor. He frowns at me, his future Council leaders’ hat firmly in place.
“Jax,” he says, a frown lining his forehead. “It’s a bit early, isn’t it?”
Slouching into my chair, I raise the crystal tumbler to him mockingly, squinting at his warped reflection in the glass. His eyes stare back at me disapprovingly, the green and blue combining into one.
“Come on, brother,” I grin lazily. “Live a little. Besides, you’re the one that called me back here and away from a delightful little beta bit. What’s up?”
The disapproval slides from his face, replaced by a hint of excitement that has me sitting up in my seat. Tris is just as jaded – if not more so – than I am.
“Did the Council discuss the wall coming down?” I ask, a thread of hope in my voice.
The fucking wall separating Navarre from the mainland, Herrith. The wall preventing me from being anything more than a pretend star, playing to the same couple of hundred adoring fans until I’m old and gray and my balls shrivel up like dates.
Tristan shakes his head. “Sorry, Jax,” he apologizes. “I couldn’t get anywhere with it. I tried.”
I shrug away my disappointment, looking over to the door. “No harm, no foul. Only a matter of time before you’re in the hot seat, right?”
His face tightens, but he nods. “Right.”
Logan stalks into the room, closely followed by Gray. They both nod at me before collapsing into chairs, Logan snatching the tumbler and downing half my drink before I can blink.
“Don’t,” he grouses at me when I open my mouth to complain. “I need it more than you do.”
“Still no muse?” Tristan asks, and Logan grunts. “At this point, I’d be happy to paint a basket of fruit. A brick. A fucking flower. The well has well and truly dried the fuck up.”
Sympathy fills me. Writing the music isn’t my issue. It’s the audience that doesn’t change.
Tristan turns to Gray next, his eyes sliding over his rumpled suit. “Rough day?”
Gray shrugs. “Looks like all the muses have packed up and fucked off to Herrith. They want a new design for the Council chamber, and they won’t even look at the designs I put in for new housing in the sticks.”
Gray’s been pushing for better quality housing in the beta area of the city for years. It’s little more than a slum, the glamor and beauty of Navarre ending abruptly at the city limits where poverty takes over. Wages are low and the beta population barely has enough to scrape by. Tristan’s dad has been trying to persuade the Council to implement minimum wages and better conditions for years, but they won’t have it. Even the Beta representative, Erikkson, is more concerned about lining his own fucking pockets than the people he’s supposed to represent.
Tristan frowns. “Did you show Dad?”
“Yeah. We both know it won’t make it past the rest of them, though.”
“Why are we here, Tristan?” I interrupt them, done with the pity party. We sit here most nights moaning about our shitty luck unless I’m out on a gig, so I’m not keen to do the same thing again.
