Page 20 of Knot My Band: Part Two
“Always,” I reply, giving her a lopsided grin. We step out into the roar of backstage and see Jack, Chase, and Dax waiting for us.
Chase
DIRTY BETA GOSSIP COLUMN
FANS LEFT DISAPPOINTED AS MEET AND GREETS FOR THE ALPHA AND OMEGA TOUR ARE CANCELED
June 5th
The crowd is chanting Oli’s name. Every cell in my body is buzzing with the kind of adrenaline that only comes from being on the brink of a performance.
“Miranda,” Jack’s voice cuts through the frenzy, his tone brokering no argument, “We won’t be separating from Oli, so she can’t take the stage lift. She’s walking out with us.”
I glance at Miranda, her eyes sharp and calculating, and she nods once—a crisp, decisive motion. The solidarity has a certain thrill, knowing we’re all in this together. That we finally have a manager on our side.
Oli flips a switch, her hunched shoulders pushing back as she takes a deep breath. She’s putting on her stage persona, but I can feel her turmoil through the bond.
We stride onto the stage together, all five of us. I have to go to my drums, but Dax and Jack are set up closer to Oli than usual.
Being separated from her after everything she’s been through is one of the most challenging things I’ve ever done. My alpha pushes me to go by her, but I stay put.
The stage lights flare to life, a dazzling array of colors dancing across Oli’s features and turning her rose-gold hair into a fiery halo. She’s an ethereal presence, all energy and charisma, and her vibrant personality holds the audience captive even before she utters a single note.
Her anxiety hums along our bond. It tugs at me, demanding attention. My chest tightens as I watch her, wishing I could shoulder some of the burden.
I start the next song, putting extra energy into it to take some of the attention from Oli.
She begins to lip-sync, her voice a phantom melody piped through the speakers, but you’d never know it from the crowd’s reaction. They’re lost in her performance, oblivious to the silent plea for perfection that claws at her insides. To them, she’s flawless.
Even if her voice doesn’t come back as perfect, she’s flawless to me too.
I let my focus linger on her for a moment longer, pride swelling within me alongside a protective urge so fierce it could tear down walls. That’s my omega up there, shining despite the shadows, and I’ll be damned if I don’t do everything in my power to keep that light blazing.
I catch the tremor in her hands as they grasp the microphone. It’s subtle, but I can’t tear my eyes away from her. I’m hyper-aware of every little detail, like how Oli’s smile seems too bright, too sharp. It’s forced, practiced.
Despite the act, the crowd goes wild, screaming and jumping, utterly captivated by the illusion she weaves. They see what they want to see: Oli Hart, rockstar extraordinaire, killing it as always. They don’t sense the discordant note of her anxiety that twangs loudly in our bond.
The time comes for me to rip my shirt off, but I’m too distracted by Oli and miss my cue.
The final chord reverberates through the arena, a full stop to the electric symphony we’ve been weaving. I’m already on my feet, drumsticks forgotten as the roar of applause crashes over us like a tidal wave. The crowd’s cheers are deafening, their energy nearly tangible, but my focus is laser-sharp on Oli.
She’s rushing off stage, not stopping for any of us.
I catch up in a few long strides, and before she can disappear into the sea of crew members, I reach out and snag her hand, pulling her close. Her eyes meet mine, that vibrant green flaring with the rush of performing, yet shadowed by the storm I sense brewing within her.
“Hey,” I whisper loud enough for her to hear. “You were phenomenal.”
I feel her shoulders relax fractionally in the tight cocoon of my embrace. My chest swells with an urge to shield her from anything and everything. “Chase…” she starts, but I shake my head, pressing a finger to her lips.
“Shh, no words needed. We’ve got you.” I lean back just enough to flash her a crooked grin, hoping to coax out that sunshine smile I’m so damn addicted to.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, barely above the din around us. It’s music to my ears, even if it’s laced with fatigue. “I just…”
“Save it for the bus, little rose,” I interrupt gently, knowing she needs to unwind without the pressure of prying eyes. I guide her through the maze of cables and props, a protective arm never leaving her waist.
As we board our tour bus, the sanctuary on wheels, there’s a collective sigh of relief. Mirrors of concern are reflected in the rest of the pack.
Dax looks like he’s dying to come over to Oli but stays back.
