Chapter
Sixteen
RYDER
The auditorium at Rejoice is one of the finest examples of the advancements in acoustics I’ve had the pleasure of utilising. I’ve performed all over the world, but this stage remains one of my favourites.
When they started construction, I don’t think anyone expected the space to be anything more than a stage for the attending Omegas to practice on. Supposedly, a twist of fate at the eleventh hour saw the original construction crew replaced by another team. And the second team were all sound engineers and music industry professionals who had been unable to tour because of travel restrictions. They spent the entire lockdown building the best fucking auditorium they could.
Getting any opportunity to stand on this stage is near impossible because of the number of musicians, actors and the like, clambering to use it. Rejoice Collegiate could make good money leasing the space out, but their focus is, and always will be, its students.
And the opportunity to use the stage is not my onlymotivation for helping at Rejoice. Sharing what I’ve learned is by far a rewarding experience, but it also keeps me humble.
Having to slip another ‘mask’ on is easy enough to do, and I have no issue pretending to be someone else entirely for a few hours. The Omega Mother who runs the performance arm of Rejoice is an old performer herself who understands the industry. She’s also aware of the lengths artists have to go to protect themselves from living a life in the public arena.
The only people who really know me are Hendrix and Dominic, and I like it like that. Judging by the slightly unhealthy obsession I have with SinDaBella, I suspect I’ll be adding her to my circle as soon as I get the chance.
I can only hope she’s not disappointed I’m not like some of the other singer/songwriters/musicians around. What you see on stage is only a small part of who I am as a person.
Thinking of how she’ll react when she discovers the real me keeps me up at night. So does trying to catch her online. Time differences are a bitch, but I need to hear her voice soon. Hopefully listen to the sweet melody of her pleasure too.
Shuffling through my presentation for a final time to make sure everything is in order, I connect the laptop to the projector then wait for the first slide introducing me as Benjamin Franklin to appear.
There was actually a time when I was Ben Franklin, now I prefer to use my second name—Ryder—and I’ve adopted Torres as my surname. The huge fucking smile and happy tears I got from Hendrix when I told him I was taking his name as mine made up for the shade my parents threw my way when I dropped theirs. It was the first thing I did to put distance between us, but their hate-filled method of parenting gave me nothing but angsty as fuck lyrics.
“Are you ready, Ben?” Omega Mother Layla asks from near to the door. “The crowd is getting restless.”
“I bet they’ll all be quiet as mice within the first five minutes,” I joke before sitting on the edge of the stage waiting for the participants to enter.
Public speaking rates in the top three fears people have. Since I suffered from it myself, I offer to help out whenever I can and share what worked for me.
While the mostly female crowd take their seats, I maintain eye-contact with the more curious ones while also scanning the room in case I have any attendees who need some friendly reassurance even before we start.
Most of the girls at Rejoice are already on their way to being able to hold their own since it is a performing arts Collegiate but there’s something about public speaking that can make even the strongest wobble.
Once the girls take their seat, the other guests find a spot to sit, and my nerves take root. There’s nothing like the focus of an entire audience staring at you. Half of them will be judging me by what I wear. The rest will be eyeing the tattoos that are on full display, and/or the obvious Alpha bite scarring on my throat. Instead of fighting the flood of self-consciousness, I let it wash over me. Then I let it go altogether; I honestly don’t care about what these people think of me. What is important to me is how I view myself.
Collectively, the rows and rows of attendees quieten.
Looking at the crowd, I keep the tone of my voice even and the volume on the softer side so they all have to concentrate on me and only me.
“I promise you by the time you walk out of here, you will be well on your way to overcoming public speaking. And yes, that does mean I will be asking each and every one of you to stand on the pink dot on the stage and say a few words in front of everyone.” I always start the sessions the same. Throwing in their faces the reality of why we are here.
The reactions I get are textbook: gasps of shock, sinkinginto their seats to avoid being seen, exchanging wide-eyed glances with their friends. All pretty standard responses. Even mine is typical. But for an Alpha, the hardest thing is scenting an Omega’s distress and not responding. “But only if you feel up to it.”
The morning session passes without issue. It always does because I talk about my own experiences, altered to protect my identity, before we watch a video of some of the most famous people in the world talking about their own fear of public speaking. Before we take a break, I have Omega Mother Layla also come to the stage to talk about her experiences. The girls are always surprised one of their teachers had the same issue they have; it certainly helps them relate to the course.
For the lunch session the girls are given the choice of working with other students or working on their own. Instead of looking petrified by the very concept of getting on stage to introduce themselves, the majority look brave enough to give it their best shot.
Bar one. A blonde who has not moved a muscle since she first sat down. I only got the barest glimpse of her eyes before she completely shut down. And as concerning as that is, what she’d inadvertently sparked to life—deep seated Alpha urges to fuss over her—is what I was more thrown by.
I’m not sure she even recognises that we’re alone in the auditorium now. Even though I had previously said I’d call Hen on my break, I can’t even think of leaving while I’ve got these wildly magnetic surges shaking my very foundations.
Making as much noise as possible, I sit back on the stage’s edge, purposely dialling back my designation and intently ignoring all the instincts screaming at me to somehow comfort her. I take a small, centring breath, making sure my voice is almost listless. “Are you okay?”
Even with dialling down my designation and talking asquietly as possible, she still flinches. Watching her reaction nearly ruins me.
Her mouth moves like she’s talking with herself, but then her lips stop moving and her focus shifts. Not at me, but it’s an easy sign to read that she’s waiting for an answer.
