Page 101 of Knot My Band: Part Two
A collective breath seems to snag in our throats. My heart skips a beat, then doubles down on the next, thumping hard against my ribcage. Alphas, we’re wired to protect, to stand guard, and the thought that Tommy’s been shouldering this alone twists in my gut like a guitar string pulled too tight.
“Tommy…” I start, my voice trailing off, grappling for the right notes in this unfamiliar tune.
“Damn,” Jack murmurs, and I catch the flicker of regret crossing his face—regret for every sideways glance, every judgment. We’ve all felt it, that sting of misjudgment, and it hits sharper now, knowing we’ve aimed it at an omega.
“An omega, huh?” Chase finally says, his voice steady as a drumbeat. “Well, you’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”
“More than guts,” I add.
“Tommy, you’ve always been kind, and I’ve never felt threatened by you. I want to help you as much as I can. I’m so glad you told me,” Oli says, wrapping Tommy up in a hug.
Tommy’s chest rises and falls with a shaky breath. His smile is no longer hesitant but bright, lit from within, like a stage spotlight shining on a star in the making.
Tommy nods, his eagerness as palpable as the bassline in a killer chorus. “I can’t thank you enough for even acknowledging me.”
“I’m sorry my alphas have given you a hard time. They’re just protective,” Oli apologizes.
“I’m sorry I made them think I was a threat,” Tommy says, looking around at us.
I scoff in my head but don’t say anything aloud. He helped us find Oli when Trevor attacked her, and he deserved this apology.
“Oli, I can’t tell you what this means to me,” he breathes out, the tremor in his voice a harmony to vulnerability.
He’s shed his armor, and I can see the real Tommy underneath. The vulnerable omega who just wants to make it in this industry but knows how hard it is. His admiration of Oli was because she did what most thought was impossible.
I catch the other alphas’ glances. Their eyes are wide as saucers before they slowly morph into understanding pools of acceptance.
“I will find a time to meet with you and help you make connections,” Oli tells Tommy.
She’s exhausted after the show, and this revelation is taking a lot out of her.
“That would mean the world to me, and please…uh… don’t tell anyone I’m an omega,” he whispers.
“Of course, we won’t,” Oli declares.
We spill out into the cool night, the air refreshingly contrasted with the heated energy of the packed venue. I feel their bodies press close to mine, forming a protective circle as we navigate the throng of fans and paparazzi.
“Tommy’s gonna be alright,” I muse aloud, glancing back at the venue, feeling the invisible thread that ties us to the shy omega we’re leaving behind—with hope as his new companion.
“Thanks to you,” Chase says, bumping shoulders with Oli gently.
“Thanks to us,” she corrects him.
We tumble into the bus, and I sit on the couch while Oli goes to shower.
The memory of standing beside Oli, her voice entwined with mine, has me grinning like an idiot. We were electric, our voices sparking against each other, igniting something that felt a lot like magic.
I can’t help but pull out my phone and look online for reviews of the song. The search results already include a full page of articles about it.
My heart kicks against my chest like it wants to break free when I see how much they loved it. Website after website writes about how good our new sound is, and fans are excited to hear me sing.
They were excited to hearmesing? I didn’t know anyone cared about me.
“You shouldn’t be looking at that.” Oli’s voice is amusement laced with honey. Suddenly, her arms are a warm fence around my waist. Her body presses lightly against my back, reminding me I’m not alone in this spinning universe.
“Can’t help it,” I say, even as I tilt my head back to rest against her shoulder. She smells like tart strawberries on a creamy cheesecake with a perfect graham cracker crust.
I scroll past glowing words that echo the cheers still ringing in my ears. But then, one review catches my eye, standing out like a sour chord in an otherwise perfect melody. Alex Moore’s headline blares with criticism, her words trying to undercut the magic of the night. “Except for this one. Listen to this—‘Aiden Adams’ duet with Oli Hart fell flat, his vocal range as limited as his stage presence.’”
