Page 21 of The Rogues

I can only let out a laugh, because the fact that she even knows those two women is hilarious.

“I’m doing what I love,” I argue.

“We’re just saying you would have been a lovely pianist,” my father drawls on. “I used to love watching you play ‘Gaspard de la nuit.’”

I swallow a gag, remembering the song that I used to play constantly until my fingers bled and my butt hurt from the wooden piano bench.

“Well, not anymore. Those tattoos covering your skin make sure of that,” my mother says, her tone permeating daggers. “I mean, I guess some concert pianists have tattoos, but not any respectable ones.”

My jaw tenses, and I put my fork down to look at her. “I was never going to be a concert pianist.”

Not to mention, that was the whole reason for my tattoos to begin with. The first time I came home with one after my eighteenth birthday, I thought my mom would have an aneurysm. She cried to my father for hours that night.

That’s how ridiculous she is, crying over the fact that her dream for me had died by something as silly as a scorpion tattoo. The fact that she couldn’t push me into trying out for the concert line-up anymore because of the mark on my skin, rather than my reluctance to do it to begin with.

“We just want what’s best for you, Josephine,” my father inserts, seemingly unbothered by the tension rising in the air. He’s usually the one with less bite in his tone, probably from the years of practice with his colleagues with opposing views. My parents may be classist, but they’re not dumb. They know the way to get ahead is by putting on a smile and pretending everything is fine, and my resistance to that lifestyle is baffling to them.

“What’s best for me,” I echo, a humorless laugh escaping me. I steel my spine, looking each of them in the eyes. “Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my band is very successful. We have several number one singles. Our first album hit gold status, and our second hit platinum. We have made millions in sales and we do all that while doing the thing we love most, which is making rock music. I don’t see how that can be a failure in your eyes just because you don’t like the aesthetic of it.”

At the heightened emotion in my voice, my mother’s strong violet scent turns sour. “Josephine, lower your voice.”

Some of the staff pile in then, more food in their hands, and I realize this affair was intended to be a long one, but I can’t take it. Twenty minutes of being lectured for my choices is fine, but two hours is a little bit much.

“No, I think this dinner is over.” I throw my napkin onto the table and stand, ignoring my parents’ protests as I turn to the staff in the room and smile. “Thank you for the service, and the hospitality.”

“Josephine, sit back down, now.”

I look at my parents, holding onto the back of my chair for support so I can stand tall. “I have a tour to pack for. Maybe when I get back, we can talk about why you can’t be the unconditionally loving parents that your social circle thinks you are.”

They both balk at that, and I see one of the staff give a soft nod of support as I turn to leave.

I have a job to do, and placating my parents is no longer a part of it.

EIGHT

Before last week, I never really had an issue with my illness.

I’ve had years to come to terms with the fact that I can’t do the things I used to anymore: partying with the guys, being out all day and night, procrastinating house chores like dusting and vacuuming. After my diagnosis, I had to grow up, become more serious about my health so I can keep doing what I love.

But I never thought I’d miss out on meeting my scent match because I had to stay home and nurse a flare-up. Now my chronic illness is enemy number one.

When the guys got back from their meeting, the tension was high. Their faces were ashen and their scents were bitter. When Remi and I asked what was wrong, they told us, and I couldn’t believe it for one second.

The guitar player of Vicious Velvet? Just Cyrus’s fucking luck, and after everything he’s had to do to appease our PR team, you’d think the universe might have tried to make it a little easier on him. Nope.

I felt sympathy for him, but I was also excited. Nervous energy has been thrumming inside my veins since finding out that I might potentially have a scent match, and then anger swirled because I couldn’t immediately seek her out to confirm it.

I had high hopes the night of the club, but the flare was still present and—if I’m honest—kicking my ass, so I had to stay home once more to rest. In my late adolescence and early adulthood, I loved to party. I was probably the most party-forward of the group, always looking forward to hitting the pub and having a good time, but my mid-twenties have been much easier since I’ve started staying behind. I no longer thrive on the chaos of nightlife, or wish for the pumping of loud dance music to make me feel alive. I enjoy a quiet night in, letting my body recuperate from performances and outings so I can do it all over again the next day.

I love being out with my pack, but I love performing with them more.

So, that’s the priority. Do everything I can, missing whatever event I need to, in order to make sure I’m healthy enough to last through another performance or concert. But I was willing to risk it that night, because all I wanted was to meet the dark-haired omega and find out once and for all if she always held my heart in her hands.

Thankfully, I’m feeling better as we’re leaving Los Angeles today, but it’s utter chaos when we get to the parking lot where our tour buses are waiting for us. There are roadies everywhere, mechanics on our teams’ payrolls checking the buses’ safety, and onlookers and paparazzi alike on the other side of the fence to watch our departure.

We park and immediately get thrown into action, especially because we’re a little behind schedule. The guys start pulling out all their stuff and taking it to the bus, especially anything that we’d like to keep private and away from the hands of the roadies. I can’t be bothered yet. Instead, I look around the parking lot, distracted as I try to peer through the throng of bodies, looking for the one person I am most desperate to see.

Through all the calamity, I see her. Her wavy brown hair looks lighter than it does in pictures, shining bright under the California sun. Her tattoos are plentiful and dark, scattering along her arms. Her skin a canvas meant for beautiful pieces of her soul, and I want to see every single inch of them.