Page 2 of Hidden Fates

Matt mutters something about telling Joey she’s shit-talking him. Our bassist is chronically offline. So much so that I doubt he knows where his phone is.

“I need you at the label tomorrow at two o’clock. Do not be late.”

Our schedules are usually plotted out pretty far in advance, so I’m curious what this last-minute meeting is about.

By the time we make it to the apartment, the thought of eating makes me nauseous. I waited too long, and now my body is making me regret it.

The guys give me worried glances when I leave them in the kitchen, muttering that I need to shower. I feel bad for worrying them, but I can’t force myself to eat when my stomach has decided I’m no longer hungry.

Hot water pelts against my back as I stand and stare at the faded cream shower tile. I was happy once, wasn’t I? This emptiness eating fragments of my soul wasn’t always there, but it’s been so long that I don’t remember what it felt like to be whole.

When was the last time the weight of depression wasn’t crushing me?

One corner of a grin flickers through my mind. The briefest memory of lips I used to kiss. Of the woman who once owned my heart. Things haven’t been the same since we went our separate ways.

Slamming the water off, I step into the steam-filled bathroom and swipe my palm across the mirror. I’m no longer the boy-next-door she remembers. Tattoos cover the majority of my body. Colorful macabre swirls of ink that work better to keep me afloat than my monthly therapy sessions. My once dark brown hair is shaved on the sides and bleached on top. I’m taller, thicker, and bulkier than I ever was back then.

Would she recognize me if I passed her on the street?

Fuck, I need to get out of my head before I spiral.

Throwing on shorts and a cut-off shirt, I grab my gym bag and slip back to the garage. A good workout will exhaust my body and force my thoughts to stop running long enough for me to make it back home and pass out.

I hope.

Pounding on my bedroom door startles me awake. Tossing the blankets aside, I roll over and curse when I see my alarm clock. How the hell is it already one in the afternoon?

Scrubbing a hand over my face, I let them know I’m getting ready. Throwing clean clothes on, I take a moment to finger-comb my unruly bleach-blonde curls before rushing out the door.

Soulbound Echo Studios is housed in a large, red brick building. The exterior is pretty nondescript, matching the neutral-toned interior. It isn’t until you get into the offices or studios that personality shines through.

Like the manager’s office, which is a cluttered, chaotic mess. Old band posters cover one wall, and four desks are crammed around a small conference table.

Descenters work in overdrive, but they still cannot remove the faint pineapple coconut scent that comes from our Omega manager. As hot as Bea may be, her scent is too sweet, making my nose itch with an impending sneeze.

I’ll suffer through it, though, because she’s proven to us how great at her job she is. Genuinely caring about us instead of the money we could make her.

“Take a seat.” She claps, standing up from her desk by the window. Brown curly hair piles on her head in a messy updo, the kind where every loose strand looks intentional. Dark blue eyes connect with ours as she slides papers onto the table and takes a seat.

“I’m sure you’re all aware of the horrifying things that happened in the Montgomery cult, and that the FCDA is still dismantling it. Part of their investigation led them to rescue dozens of Alphas and Omegas who were being experimented on and tortured by the cult members.”

A low growl builds in my chest imagining what those people went through. I know firsthand how dangerous anti-designation rhetoric can be, but our small town never witnessed it on a scale as large as what happened in New Hampshire.

Grant Montgomery, the cult leader who paraded as a pastor, was arrested in August after his hidden Omega daughter confronted him in a nationwide livestream. Her bravery revealed his horrific abuse and delusions of power, destroying his carefully cultivated image as a man of God.

The guys voice their disgust, and Bea nods sharply. “Exactly. To help those affected by that bastard’s bullshit, the label plans to run a two month long charity tour. All proceeds will go into a fund to get the victims the care and support they need to recover.”

“We’ll join,” I cut in. “We want to help.”

Bea’s dark blue eyes sparkle as she hands us each a paper from her stack. “I was hoping you would. Most slots are already filled by other bands, but I picked these three for you. They’re all East Coast, and they aren’t back to back, so it won’t be as hectic as your tour with Primordial Covenant over the summer.”

“Are they joining?” Matt asks. He’s a huge fan of the masked rock band, and getting to open for them over the summer was a dream come true for him.

Shaking her head, Bea stands and brushes her hands down her high-waisted teal slacks. “With several high-level cult members still unaccounted for, the label decided it would be best for them to sit this one out.”

“Because Omen is their mate, their shows could become targets,” I surmise. Omen was our tour photographer. She is also Bea’s best friend, Primordial Covenant’s Fate-matched mate, and Grant Montgomery’s daughter.

She’s dealt with enough danger for one lifetime. The rest of us can take the risks and help the other victims.