Page 92 of Pack Me Up
There’s a commotion at the barricade. The blue-haired girl made her move, leveraging the rail and scrambling over in one fluid, terrifyingly determined motion. The front-line bouncer is too slow; he goes for her, but she’s already through and sprinting for the steps.
I don’t even have to move.
Colton has her contained in seconds.
She’s shrieking something, arms up, eyes wet with that particular breed of worship that borders on mania. Her scent hits me. It’s pure panic, layered with something synthetic. Uppers, probably. She’s not dangerous, not really, but that’s not the point.
The bouncer catches up and grabs her by the arm. She looks like she might cry, but then Tommy slides over, winks at her, and blows a kiss. The girl melts and lets herself be led away.
I watch her go, then glance back at Brittney. She never missed a beat, never even looked away from the audience. Fuck, she’s good.
The set concludes on a high note, both literally and metaphorically. The last chord rings, Brittney throws her arms up, and the crowd loses its mind. I can feel it through the floorboards. I track her as she tosses the mic to the stand, loopsher guitar strap over her shoulder, and pivots straight to stage right and straight to me.
There’s sweat running down her neck, her hair plastered to her cheeks. She’s breathing hard, but her eyes are wild and bright. She looks alive.
“You okay?” I ask, just loud enough to hear over the crowd’s dying roar.
She laughs, a breathless, bubbling sound. “I feel amazing.”
I want to say something smart, but all I can think is that I want to grab her, haul her into a corner, and kiss her until she forgets every bad thing that ever happened. Instead, I hand her a water bottle and let my fingers brush my mark on her wrist.
Colton appears at my side. “Stage is secure. Want me to walk her back?”
I shake my head. “I got it.”
Tommy’s already fielding a dozen admirers, but he catches my eye and gives a thumbs up. I nod back, then steer Brittney toward the safety of the green room. The adrenaline is starting to crash, and I feel the tremor in her arm where my hand rests.
In the hallway, it’s quiet. She leans against the wall, eyes closed, face turned up to the buzzing fluorescent. “Was it good?” she asks, so soft I almost miss it.
“It was perfect,” I say, and I mean it.
She opens her eyes, searching my face for the lie. There isn’t one.
“Thank you,” she says, then starts bouncing up and down with excitement.
The need to touch her is so sharp it’s a physical ache.
She looks at me, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any blue left. “Did you see the crowd?”
“Hard to miss,” I say, trying for easy, but it comes out rough. “They lost their minds.”
She’s still vibrating. Her hair sticks to her face in wet, haphazard streaks, and there’s a streak of black mascara, maybe, or eyeliner smudged across her cheekbone. I want to lick it clean.
She grins at me, not the practiced version from the meet-and-greet, but something unguarded. For a second, I see the omega that never thought she’d get out, let alone get up here. Then she shakes it off, runs a hand through her hair, and starts laughing again.
I tell her, “You crushed it. You owned that fucking stage.”
She ducks her head, like she can’t absorb it, and the flush that spreads across her cheeks is so honest it hurts to look at.
“I always thought, when I was a kid, that if I ever got out, I’d just… disappear,” she says, voice dropping to a hush. “Like, leave town, change my name, become a librarian somewhere nobody’s ever heard of.”
I want to say she’d hate it and that she’s too bright for any small life, but I know she needs to say it, so I just listen.
“But now, this? With you guys? It’s better than I ever thought it could be. I feel like I finally get to live, you know?”
I do know. I know exactly what she means.
I don’t think. I just act.
