Page 22 of The Rogues

She tries to put her suitcases underneath the bus, struggling to fit them in at the right angle, and I’m suddenly angry, looking around for the roadies who should be helping her. I make my way to her, not realizing how fast my approach is until I’m there, offering a hand.

“Let me help you,” I say, and she squeaks as she turns in surprise. When she sees me, her eyes widen, and they are so pretty and green that my scent spills out. I can tell the second it hits her, as her eyes flutter slightly and she relaxes. My alpha preens in my chest at the sight of her calming at our scent, my ginger beer aroma mixing with her just as equally intoxicating champagne.

We’re one mixed-up cocktail, and I’m ready to drink my fill.

It’s all the confirmation I need, her bubbly scent going straight to my dick when otherwise it would probably slide right over my head without a second thought.

My heart pounds faster as I bend down to rearrange her suitcases, still cursing the people standing around who should have helped her instead of letting her handle it herself. They are heavy, and it takes me a few tries to get them in correctly before I stand back up and face her once more.

She picks up her guitar case from where it rests on the side of the bus and turns to me, a small upwards tilt appearing on her lips. “Thanks.”

“It’s no problem,” I respond, suddenly nervous. What do I even say? How do I tell her everything I feel in this moment, everything thrumming through me? How can I calm my beating heart long enough to express just how much this meeting means?

“I—um, well,” I stammer, and I mentally kick myself. “I’m Lennon.”

I reach out a hand without thinking, then my entire body cringes. Why the fuck am I doing this? She doesn’t want a fucking handshake; she probably wants something more substantial. Something that shows her that I like her, not a distant, blithering handshake⁠—

But then she’s reaching out and wrapping her own hand around mine, and everything freezes. Like two ships in the night finally colliding after a long-winded search. Energy shoots through my body and her mouth opens in a tiny gasp. I’ve never felt so lit up in my entire life, and I let my nervous energy fall away, knowing I am completely at ease when it comes to my scent match.

My fucking scent match.

“Is everything okay here?” We both pull away from each other and turn. Cleo is there, giving us a confused look. Despite her interruption, my endorphins are through the roof, especially with Josie’s champagne scent traveling through my system. Nothing can get me down, not even an appearance from Cleo Del Rossi herself.

“Just helping your bandmate put her stuff away. Everything is peachy.”

I give her a playful wink, but her nose scrunches up in disgust, her eyes assessing me with a narrowed gaze. She turns to Josie and says, “Nicola needs you inside, something about the roadies mixing up your amps or something.”

Josie nods, turning to me one last time to flash a polite smile. “Safe travels,” she says, before turning to head to the bus, and I can’t help but let my eyes trail down her body as she walks away, admiring the way her cute oversized shirt falls over her, and the way her legs pull me in like a siren song.

When I look at Cleo, she is already staring at me, disdain present on her face. “Can I help you?”

I smirk, shaking my head. “No, I don’t think you can.”

“Good, you can fuck off then,” she sneers, her words said in a badly imitated British accent, but I think that was the intention.

Cyrus must have noticed her presence because his dark, bitter aroma falls over me, warning me of his arrival. He steps beside me, his jaw clenched.

“Give my drummer a break, Cleo,” he says, squaring his shoulders.

“Why?” she asks, feigning an innocent smile. “Is he going to collapse on me because of a little curse word?”

I bark out a laugh, but Cyrus is eerily quiet, crossing his arms as he eyes Cleo with distrusting eyes.

“You may know some of our secrets, but you forget that we also know one of yours. Don’t threaten me, Cleo. It won’t be pretty.”

She purses her lips, and I think a tiny glimpse of guilt appears, but then it’s gone in a blink, her face made of steel and indifference. “As long as you keep your mouth shut, so will I.” She starts to walk away, but then turns back with a dark glare. “And don’t talk to Josie. She’s trusting, and I don’t want any of you to even think about messing with her. Got it?”

She leaves before we can answer, and I whirl to Cyrus with a frown. “Was that really necessary?”

“Her throwing your illness in your face was low,” Cyrus says quietly as we move to the bus. “She’s spiraling.”

I’m not offended by her slight one bit, but I can see how the insult could be perceived as a threat. If my team knew of my illness, it could cause issues for us. I mean, they definitely notice my abundance of absences, but they’ve chosen not to say anything. To them, I’m just a little bit flaky, and that’s something they can deal with. But a drummer with a chronic illness? We don’t want them to abuse that; put me on a pedestal and bring it up any time they can. Cleo knows this is dangerous, but I’m not worried. If I can handle my lungs giving out more often than not, then I can handle a few extra people knowing about it.

My brows furrow as I take in his expression, a lightbulb going off as he bites his lip. “You feel guilty for telling her about it.”

“I shouldn’t have… but those first few pretend dates, I thought I could be honest with her. Because we were on the same side, because we both thought what they were forcing us to do was ridiculous.” He shakes his head. “Then I realized that she had a problem and all that credibility went out the window.”

“You can’t blame yourself,” I tell him, patting him on the back. “I don’t blame you, and neither do the guys. We all wish we could be open and honest. There’s freedom in being able to say whatever you want, and we don’t always have that freedom.”