“Wanna get out of here?” Cove asks.
My eyes fly to hers, and I study her face. I don’t want her to only spend time with me out of obligation or, even worse, pity.
“We’ll get bitched at as soon as Simon notices we’re missing…” I say, referencing our tour manager.
“It’ll be worth it.” She shrugs, holding out a hand with black-painted nails.
I place my palm on hers. “Why not? Let’s go.”
Cove and I sit on top of the bus, devouring the burgers and fries the roadie procured for us. There are a few perks of being famous. Getting greasy fast food delivered to your tour bus is at the top of the list.
She groans, drops her empty burger wrapper back into the bag, and grabs her soda. “Dammit, how are you still eating? I’m stuffed.”
I chuckle, downing the last bite of my second double cheeseburger. “I’ve got the crunchies hardcore.”
“You mean the munchies?”
“Yeah, if you want to sound like our parents. Keep up with the lingo.” I laugh, bumping my shoulder against hers.
It takes everything in me to hold myself back from suggesting she try gummies or something. Not everyone wants to smoke, and I get that, but they give weed to cancer patients and people with problems keeping food down for a bunch of reasons.
Her suppressants are killing her slowly, and I don’t say that lightly. She’s getting migraines, having trouble keeping food down, and I’ve noticed she’s more sensitive to light, which is a big problem, considering we’re under burning-hot stage lights five to seven nights a week.
They’re staving off her heats like she wants, but at what cost?
“I don’t get how you guys do it,” Cove says. “I smoke and get paranoid. No way I could hop on stage lit. I wouldn’t recover from the fear I’d forget my lines.”
“That’s valid, but to be fair, it hasn’t happened to me yet.” I shrug, grabbing my chocolate peanut butter shake to take a long swig.
It makes me miss my family.
My mom has a killer sweet tooth. She used to insist we had ice cream shakes before bed a few times a week when I was little.
Half the time, I think I was born the wrong designation. I was meant to be an omega like my mom. Then, I’d have an excuse for all my issues.
It’s normal for omegas to struggle with changes to their routine. They like having a safe place to retreat to, and they’re known for getting overstimulated and having sensory issues.
They’re not looked down on for any of those things because it’s expected behavior for their designation.
Being an alpha means I’m supposed to be aggressive, more dominant, and easily adaptable. I’m none of those things, and I’ve been picked on a lot during my lifetime for my quirks.
It’s bullshit.
Not everyone is going to fit perfectly within the expectations for their designation, but whatever.
Cove laughs. “Even if you did forget your lines, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. That’s the curse of being the lead singer, I guess.”
A gust of chilly air whips through the parking lot where the buses are waiting for the acts to make their way back.
I toss my arm around her shoulder, resting my head against the side of hers. I’ve seen enough videos to know, my dads played more than a few shows shit-faced back in the day, and no one said anything to them. But that goes back to how differently the music industry treats male performers versus women.
“I’d cover for you,” I assure her, breathing in her orange creamy scent. She smells like one of those ice cream bars with the fluffy vanilla in the middle. I love those things, and Cove’s scent leads me to believe if I licked her, it would taste like eating one of them.
“Thanks,” she says, visibly shivering. “It got cold fast. Are you ready to head inside?”
Her blue eyes sparkle in the low light of the parking lot.
I’d rather stay up here with her, but I don’t want her to be miserable. “Yeah, we can.”
