Page 67 of The Rogues

My hands move to hers on instinct, needing to touch her, needing that connection. I’m speechless, though. There’s nothing I can respond with that won’t make me crack and show the emotions that I’m feeling beneath the surface.

There’s a tiny space in my chest that closes up, fulfilled and happy and appeased after so long in this pit of despair. I am a positive person, but sometimes my patience runs thin, and rage rears an ugly head. Sometimes, I feel angry that the universe cursed me with this disease, played games with my ability to do my job.

But then again, the universe also gave me her, so I can’t find it in me to not be a little bit grateful for the mystery that is fate.

“I am not worthy of you, little vicious.”

“You are.” Her finger moves in circles over my thumb, soothing me. My chest rumbles the smallest amount, the beginnings of a purr showing itself. Josie meets my eyes. “So, your team doesn’t know?”

“No. I don’t know how they would take it. I’m afraid they’ll suggest the band gets a new drummer. I’m always hidden, and I don’t get photographed much. I’m nervous my lack of popularity would make them send me packing.”

“They can’t do that,” Josie argues, angry on my behalf.

“Unfortunately, they could. We signed a dumb contract.” I shake my head. “We were young and thoughtless. I’m surprised they even let Malaki and Jamie be open about their relationship.”

She’s quiet for a moment, pondering. “Why do you—” she starts, but then stops abruptly.

“It’s okay,” I tell her, my finger moving over her cheek and down to her chin. “You can ask me anything, remember?”

She nods, but still looks sheepish. “Why do you do this with your condition? Touring, being in a band, it takes a lot of energy. I don’t understand how you go out there every night and don’t fall apart.”

It’s true. This job is hard for anyone, let alone the immunocompromised. Our schedules are busy and fast, and there’s barely enough time in the day to get everything done, but I love it more than anything else in the world. The rush, the excitement, being with my pack. I couldn’t see myself doing anything else.

“This was always my dream, ever since I was young. I’ve always wanted to be a rock star. The next David Bowie,” I confess, which earns me a small smile. “When I got my diagnosis, there was a beat when the guys and I wondered if we should continue, if I would even be able to continue. It wasn’t until we started making real changes that I realized it might be possible. I started feeling better, and performing started to feel like it used to. I realized that I didn’t want to give it up. I’d had a taste of this life, and staying on top of my symptoms felt worth any crumb I could continue to get of it.” He sighs. “Any risk felt worth it to be able to experience this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I love my job, I love the band. Even if I had to one day wear an oxygen machine, I would push it on stage so I could keep drumming alongside my best friends.”

Her eyes are glossy, her lips upturned with genuine happiness. “That’s beautiful, Lennon.”

“It is,” I agree. “Partying used to be my life. Bristol’s nightlife is a fucking blast, and I miss it, but if I had to choose, it would always be this. I’m able to do this every night because I don’t expend any other energy. When the guys go out, I stay in. I make sure I replenish my energy and get plenty of rest for our next show, because that’s my priority. I’d rather miss a few parties than the whirlwind we get to experience every day.”

“I’m glad you make it work. I’m glad you get to live your dream,” she tells me, her gaze never leaving mine. “You said this has always been your dream. So, you’ve always loved music?”

“Oh, definitely. I grew up listening to all the classics. My dad was a real British rock fanatic; he had all the records. I remember listening to them every hour of the day.” I smile, thinking back to that time. Cozy pajamas, a lit fireplace, static from the record player adding ambiance to our holidays. “My parents’ favorite band was The Beatles. I’m actually named after John Lennon.”

“No fucking way.” She laughs. “You look more like George Harrison.”

“Thank you, I know. And as you can tell, I love my lace and fringe and poet shirts. My mum loved a good rummage in the charity shops, so she got me really into fashion.”

“We should go thrifting sometime,” she suggests, her eyes lighting up.

“I would love that.”

I look at my watch and sigh when I realize how much more time the Wellington needs to rest, my alpha anxious to feed our omega and give her what she needs. But she looks content, her smile light as she looks at me.

“Who are your musical inspirations, then?” she asks. “Your parents love The Beatles, but who do you love?”

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

Her brows lift with intrigue. “One for one?”

“Deal. I’ll start,” I say. “The Smiths.”

She smiles, impressed. “Wolf Alice.”

“Nice. I saw them once. They’re bloody brilliant.”

“Cleo and I did, too. At Lollapalooza.”

A tiny flicker of sadness appears on her face before it’s abruptly gone, her brow arched as she waits.