“Yes, we know, Mac.” Tray rejoined us, dropping back onto the sofa. His voice was sarcastic at first, but then his tone shifted, becoming uncharacteristically serious. “It’s not like we can just wish a perfectly, made-for-four Omega into existence though. I’ve brought chicks home. At least, I’ve tried. You all seem content to rot into mad dogs.”
I wasn’t content. Not by a mile. I would never be content unless I could capture that feeling again. Was it fucking insane to ruin your life over fifteen fleeting minutes with a stranger? Yeah. But, goddammit, it was hard to let her go.
I closed my eyes, the phantom scent of her washing over me again. Bright, piercing blue eyes. A halo of dark curly hair. Those ruby glossed lips. I'd spent nearly a decade chasing that feeling, trying to recapture it with groupies, with fans, with anyone who might come close to sparking the same fire. All I’d gotten was a long list of meaningless encounters and a couple STD scares.
“Just give Catalina and this Eros thing a little more time,” I finally breathed out.
“Your mystery girl isn't magically walking through that door, Ryder,” Mac dropped the atom bomb, the one that always brought me to heel and reminded me that I was the one holding us all back. If I’d just let go of her, then maybe we’d successfully find an Omega. I didn’t agree though. Holding onto her wasn’t keeping us from scent-matching. The winding, infiltrating weed of her in my brain and soul didn’t change the fact that every Omega we’d tried to bring into the fold just hadn’t fucking fit.
Mac's words stung, but they were nothing I hadn't told myself a thousand times before. I leaned forward, scrubbing my hands over my face, feeling the stubble I hadn't bothered to shave in three days.
“I know, alright? I fucking know.” My voice came out rougher than I intended. “But there's something about her that I can't shake. It wasn't just a scent, or a look, or even that kiss. It was like... finding something I didn't know was missing. You guys don’t get it. You didn’t meet her.”
Dixon stalked back to his chair, clutching another tonic. “We've all heard this shit before, Ryder. But your little blue-eyed angel isn't fucking real anymore. She was a moment. A fucking moment almost two years ago. And we're all paying for it now. You’ve got to let that shit go before one of us really goes feral. And then? Oblivion Haze doesn’t mean shit anymore.”
Instead of sitting down, Dixon turned away from us all and left ourrehearsal space. I could hear him lumbering down the hall, the ding of the elevator button. I was screwing everything up, for all of us. Why couldn’t I just wipe the slate clean and accept the fact that she wasn’t ever coming back into my life?
I couldn’t even argue that it was worth it anymore. We'd had this conversation too many times, usually with alcohol and shouting. I'd chase that ghost to my grave if I had to, but I was dragging my brothers down with me. We were supposed to be a unit. We were supposed to follow our group decisions, like finding one perfect Omega. Each time I realized that I was the weak link—the busted puzzle piece, the toxic fucking element—it hit me like a physical damn blow to the gut. It knocked the wind out of me. Yet that still wasn’t enough for me to change my mind.
“Remember when we used to make fun of other bands?” Tray’s joking tone was half-returned, though the normal trickster glint in his eye was dulled.
When Mac and I didn’t respond, he continued.
“All these famous groups letting one thing destroy them. Breaking up, disappointing fans, ruining the way they could have skyrocketed to new heights if they’d just gotten their shit together.” He gave a little shrug. The movement was boyish, despite his wrestler-thick frame. “We’re that now, Ryder. And it kind of blows.”
Tray got up again, seemingly unable to sit still today. He shoved his hands into his pockets in such a way that his forearms pushed a loose, color-splashed button-down shirt back to reveal a torn ribbed tank beneath. He gave me a sort of wistful look, like I was a disappointment, yet he still hoped I’d do better soon. Then he left like Dixon. I waited, not hearing the elevator’s sharp arrival ding. Tray preferred the stairs.
“We all love you, man. Never doubt that.” Mac leaned forward, one hand coming to rest on my leg. “You’re the one who has to finally let go so we can fix our group.”
“You guys act like finding a scent match for all four of us is easy. It’s still a needle in a haystack. No girl has ever matched with more than two of us,” I grumbled the words, still warring with myself.
“Then maybe it’s time to consider changing our plan. More than one Omega wouldn’t be the end of the world, Ryder, but not having a single one just might be.” He squeezed my knee then sat back against his chair.
I knew it was reasonable. I knew it probably was the right thing to do. Packs who went that route weren’t as close as our group though. Inevitably, bonding with more than one Omega would mean dividing our attention. The hierarchy had to shift; it’s why large, upper-echelon packs had a lead Alpha and Omega to organize and control group machinations. We couldn’t be together the way we were if we were each building our own family units with individual mates.
“We’ve still got the Eros Institute,” I said halfheartedly. I’d already brought it up once, as if it was the cure-all for our diseases instead of this tenuous hope that likely wouldn’t bear fruit.
It had been months since we’d signed the Eros contract—ridiculously the mate matching branch was coined The Cupid Company—paid the ridiculous retainer and gone through scent sampling. Catalina had found Eros. Not by magic, or out of the blue. She’d been on a mission. Enough shit had gone down with Dixon, with all of us really, that the label had grown wise to our floundering Alpha control. With our renewal on the horizon, we needed to fix our pack. We’d worked too damn hard to fuck it up in our prime.
Cat had been convinced Eros was the answer. She’d given us hope. Even me. For a bright, shining moment, I thought I could move past my hang-ups and help the band.
Yet, all we’d gotten so far was a canned brush off.“Patience is key throughout this process. Finding one perfect match for a pack will take time.”So much for their advanced fucking technology. If they couldn’t help us, they’d likely deny a refund too. They’d been sure to legally cover their asses about how illicit drug use and copious amounts of alcohol could mess with scent sample purity and affect results. It was snake oil, I was beginning to suspect.
“Sure, Ryder. Maybe that will work out.” Mac gave me a sad smile before standing. Heleft too.
And then I sat there alone, feeling like the biggest damn failure in the world.
Oblivion Haze couldn’t exist in our current state. Everything we’d worked so hard for was imploding. I knew it was my fucking fault. Just like it had been my fucking fault almost a year ago, sitting in that tour bus feeling sorry for myself.
I needed a drink. Or two. Or maybe I’d just drink myself to the point of booking a fast, one-way trip to six feet under.
18
RYDER
1 DAY AGO...
The next morning,I woke up face down on the giant, curved sectional in our main living room. My head throbbed from yet another night of binge drinking and self-loathing. Feeling like death warmed over, I didn’t care if I suffocated against the cushions. The birds were chirping too loudly, which meant someone had opened the patio door to the pool. I hoped whoever it was hadn’t ended up taking a late-night swim in the deep end. We’d had too many close calls.
