“Fuck,” I repeat in full agreement, because now that we’ve started, I can already tell we’re never going to stop. We’ve reached the finish line, and now we have the rest of our lives to celebrate.
THIRTY-TWO
Kit and I walk into the bar side by side, our hands grazing as we move under the dim lights and take in the air that smells like craft beer.
I haven’t been to a bar since that traumatizing date, but I’m doing fine with Kit and his pack by my side. The familiar atmosphere doesn’t feel as scary when there are three men and my entire friend group standing around for protection. My omega and I both feel safe, which is a relief.
My hormones have been so unpredictable since my last flare-up. I’m having more and more issues with my migraines, and I find myself taking naps at the most random times. A part of me is aware that it might have something to do with the environment that I’m in. It’s possible that being around my scent matches like this could be expediting the process to my next heat, and that thought scares me. It’s not unreasonable by any means, either. Just meeting Sam last year tossed me right into my first heat despite being on blockers. It’s now been a little over three weeks since I moved in, and it’s causing mysymptoms to go haywire. Not to mention, hooking up with Kit and kissing Sam probably didn’t help either.
My gaze falls to Sam, who has dressed casually for once in a dark T-shirt and jeans. It’s such a good look on him that I almost feel hypnotized, my attention falling to him yet again to get another peek.
Sam sneaks me a look while I’m staring, and I dart my eyes away, not wanting to see the indifference on his face. I know he feels anything but apathetic towards what happened between us last weekend, but my nerves like to twist that truth. My scent match is an expert at pretending like everything is okay when it’s not, so things have seemingly gone back to normal.
Still, the night left me feeling sour. Half the things I said were unwarranted, and guilt bubbled inside me at the fact that he was left in the dark about who I am to him.
He and I still spend our mornings together, but it’s quiet, and I don’t know how to fix it. He still uses the lychee mug, thanks me for breakfast, and tries at small talk. But the guilt is eating me alive. I don’t know how much longer I can go without telling them the truth. The clock is ticking down, and with it goes my sanity and ease.
“Hi guys,” Uriah greets us as we fall into the group to the side of the tiny stage. “I’m glad you could make it.”
I grin at him, and Sam gives him the same pleasantries, thanking him for inviting us. Stacia’s mate is a very private person, and he usually doesn’t allow anyone to come see his band play. From what I heard, his pack only started going to gigs last year after they met Stacia. So, it’s an honor to be here, and I think Sam and Thatcher feel the same way, having known Uriah for years.
“I’ll get us some drinks,” Thatcher offers, and as he walks away, a flash of blue hair pokes out through the crowd. Rory makes her way to us, smiling with her mates behind her.
“I’m so fucking stoked to be here!” she exclaims, looking around the group.
Kendall laughs. “We are, too.”
Uriah playfully rolls his eyes before turning back to Rory. “Thank you for coming.”
Her face falls as she looks at him. “Why the long face?”
I raise a brow. Does Uriah look sad? I think he looks the way he always looks.
“This is his last gig,” Ciro announces, and for the first time since I met him, he sounds a little bit sad.
“What?” Rory’s eyes widen as she turns to the alpha in question. “You’re not going to be a part of Sacred Sound anymore?”
Stacia nods solemnly and answers for him. “Uriah decided it’s time. He needs to let them find another bass player because we’ll be moving whenever Atlas gets signed anyway.”
“I’m sorry it’s not going to work out, Uri,” I tell him. It’s obvious he loves being a part of it and loves the band, but I understand why he made this tough call. Sometimes, things aren’t meant to be.
Cindy flashes through my head, and I blink away the image. I don’t want to think about any of that right now.
He shrugs, looking appreciative. “These guys are going places. They need someone with them who wants that, too. I’ve never wanted to be in the spotlight.”
Thatcher comes back then, drinks in hand. When he doesn’t produce one for me, I let out a gasp.
“What? You didn’t get one for me?” I say dramatically and the group laughs around me.
“You’re not twenty-one,” Thatcher supplies. “And they’re really strict here.”
“I am twenty-one,” I reveal to them.
They all turn to blink at me.
“But your birthday isn’t until May,” Stacia says.
“And you’re the same age as us,” Rory argues, narrowing her eyes at me.
