Page 4 of Omega Rock

“Our shows have been as sold out as before,” I say. “So what is it? You all think surgery screwed me over that much? Have record sales slipped? Merch?”

Jordan uncrosses his arms. “You know concerts will stay sold out because those are the die-hard fans. People who will follow you all through thick and thin.”

“And this is a ‘thin’ time, isn’t it?” I ask. So it was the record sales and merch and everything else. And, I suppose, we had played a few less shows over the last year. “Fuck you, you bastards.” Putting money over the music, over our decade-old pack.

Pure, fiery rage erupts to life within my chest, but I don’t let it go. Not here, not now. That’d just make everything worse. But if these bastards think I’ll go without a fight, they’re so fucking wrong.

I head over to my guitar and put it in its case before slinging that over my shoulder. “You’ll regret this.”

Determination solidifies the rage churning within me. Music is my life. This band and my pack are my life—weremy life. They’re all I have. And while I may have more than enough money to be okay for the rest of my life, my concern is more on what I’ll be doing with that life. Because I didn’t fix my fucking neck just to sit around watching television and pretending I’m still in a rock band and a pack.

I’ll be an alpha alone.

“Aiden…” Darius starts, then trails off when his gaze meets mine.

“No, fuck you. I’ll do it on my own.” All of it. A band. A new pack. I’ll find an omega without them and have the entire complete picture, and I won’t share it anymore with people who are supposed to be at my side. It’ll be with people who stand by me through anything. Because here, money is thicker than blood it seems.

I turn and exit the studio, and just like that, everything I’ve worked for since I was eighteen goes up in flames. The injustice, the unfairness, of talent slipping because of surgery and age bores its way through me.

This is not the end. I’ll go solo, or?—

A new band. Yes. I’ll start a new band, get great talent to fill it up, and then become bigger than Designation Outsider.

It feels like a child’s wish. But so was becoming a rock star.

I did it once. I can do it again.

The pack part of it all, though… That’s a harder ask. If I even want to risk that again.

* * *

I’m five beers deep at 8 p.m. at the closest bar to the studio by the time the news breaks about Designation Outsider kicking me out. Which means someone in the band leaked it, or Jordan had the story ready. Trying to drum up interest and a sense of urgency to grab whatever records and merch remain of the original band.

It’s sotransparentand greedy and slimy that I nearly vomit all over my cheese fries. A few people glance at me from across the bar. No doubt they’ve recognized me.

Great.Another news story to add to the trash pile from over the years.

The first few messages I get about it all are from my family asking if the rumors are true and if I’m okay. I type out assurances that it is in fact all true and I don’t know if I’m okay. Because that’s honest, and honesty should have been what saved this entire situation.

Maybe if I’d been honest, I would’ve told Jordan that yes, I’m in pain a lot more than before, and can we work something out for that.

And yeah, maybe I have also noticed my singing ability slip. But no one said anything, and so neither did I.

And the big one: none of the guys saidanything. Not a worry or concern, not a warning, not a question, nothing.

No truth shared. No talks had.

Then my phone rings. The caller ID says Wesson Thornside. The name is familiar—obviously, it was already in my phone—but I can’t place it across the fifteen years in the industry.

Why is someone from the industry bothering to call me right now?

Curiosity wins out over my sour mood. I swipe the screen to accept the call. “Hello?”

“Aiden! Good, wasn’t sure you’d be in a talking mood tonight.” Wesson’s voice is airy and short—like he’s got some speech prepared.

I sigh. “I didn’t say I was.”

“Before you hang up, will you hear me out?”

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