Love Like Cyanide-chapter 1
Alpha Idol Paranormal Romance
The idol group Inferno scorches stages and hearts with their music. Natalie Dawson is a physical therapist hired by their management company to keep the seven gorgeous alphas at optimal performance levels. In a society where pheromone suppressors are the norm, neither the group nor company know that Natalie's an omega. Due to their contracts, the members of the group are allowed to walk around unsuppressed, amplifying their magnetism to the unwary.
After a member is injured during a performance, bad boy Dante and Natalie have a heated encounter that reveals her secrets and breaks her primary professional rule: don't date clients. But they're not actually dating. ...Right?
Claiming a mate is an instinctual thing for an alpha, and Dante's never marked someone... until Natalie.
Her eyes are only for the cool leader, Valentine, despite Dante's softening attitude towards her. What's an oblivious omega to do?
“Love Like Cyanide” is an adult romance featuring sexy alphas, a no-nonsense female lead, cool concert atmosphere, and explicit 18+ love scenes.
Chapter 1: Natalie
Being right at the side of the stage cozied up to the security staff is something I never thought I’d get used to. Jane gives me a sideways glance and a grin, knowing where my eyes are despite the fact that she’s fully facing the shrieking audience and I’m turned towards the seven men on the platform above us.
“Keeping those eyes on your boy, huh?” she says, barely audible over the roar of the crowd as the group of alphas literally do their song and dance.
“He’s not my boy,” I return with a scoff, unable to hide the hint of a smirk that comes to my lips.
“Sure, sure, Natalie. He is. He just doesn’t know it, yet.”
The boy in question is Valentine, the broad-shouldered leader of the group. He’s got smoldering brown eyes deep enough to drown in, an infectious laugh, and a jawline that could cut glass. Not a boy at all, but he’s always captured my attention.
I roll my eyes, shaking my head. “You know my rule, Jane.”
“Uh huh. ‘Don’t date your clients.’ Dumb rule, but I get it. You don’t have to date him, though. Could just hop on that for an evening. They’re all torqued up twenty-four seven, being on tour and stuck with nobody but each other for company. You know it’d be a ride you’d never forget.”
I scoff, glancing at her from the corner of my eye. “You can’t tell me you could eat at that table and not go back for seconds, Jane.” I willfully avoid acknowledging how my body reacts to the very idea of it, shoving the impure thoughts into the back corners of my brain.
Jane snickers, her attention fixed firmly on the mostly tame crowd. “Well, since someone’s got a silly list of rules they follow, I can’t even find out vicariously. You should be ashamed of yourself for depriving us both, Nat.”
Jane always manages to make me smile. I nod, focus going back to the men on the stage. The eye candy is nice, but I’m mostly watching the way that they move, so I’ll know how best to treat them after the performance.
As a physical therapist, with a second certification in massage, I was hired by the production company to keep the boys limber and healthy, so they could keep gyrating their way into the hearts of young women, young men, and anyone in between.
It was mostly preventative, so they were less likely to injure themselves. They all do a fair bit of other exercise, but even healthy muscles and joints can move in ways they’re not meant to, and then it’s really my time to shine.
The idol group Inferno scorches any stage they perform on, leaving an impression in the minds of fans and haters, alike. Even the haters couldn’t deny the charisma that oozed from the captivating men, with a flavor for everyone’s tastes. It certainly didn’t hurt that, unlike the rest of society, the performers didn’t have to wear hormone suppressants.
To prevent unfair advantages in business and life situations, and to keep hierarchies based upon skill rather than circumstances of birth, anyone who presents with active alpha, beta, or omega genes is required by law to use some sort of pheromone suppressors.
However, production groups and talent agencies get away with letting their performers and actors run around unfettered. It makes them all the more addictive to susceptible teenagers, which I think is a scummy tactic. Money is the true root of all evil.
Being in the same room as seven alphas is unsettling at any time, but when they’re all vibrating with energy after a performance, and I have to literally put my hands on them… It’s a lot to deal with. And ignore. I stay so professional that it’s borderline pathetic.
I choose to wear patches rather than take pills or get shots. Feels less invasive and is just as effective. While that keeps me from projecting, it doesn’t shelter me from the pheromones they radiate. I usually wear a medical mask in close quarters with the members of Inferno, for the sake of my own sanity.
Travelling with them is hard enough, sometimes. Living with them is harder. Especially…
I’m startled from my thoughts as the sole of a large black boot comes closer to my face than necessary. It’s attached to the long legs of the man who just slid across the waxed hardwood surface, the words to the song rolling from his lips into the hands-free headset as his hips roll in a rhythm to match. My cheeks burn, and I know he doesn’t miss the effect he has on me.
As he hops to his feet and moves away to rejoin the other six, he casts me a wink with the tip of his tongue poking out from between his teeth. “Fucking Dante,” I growl under my breath, my hand clenching into a fist at my side. At least his ass looks delicious in his black vinyl pants. “May your balls be unrelentingly sweaty in those damned pants…”
The green-eyed devil is a master at making my life difficult. To say we’re on barely civil terms with each other would be an understatement. Something about him rubs me the wrong way, and it isn’t just his stage persona. He’s supposed to be the bad boy type, but when he isn’t in performance mode? Dante is just another guy.
A pretty guy, though. I do want to punch him for the mean-spirited teasing, but anyone with functional eyes couldn’t deny that the man is at least a nine out of ten. Even on a bad day, and without makeup.
The heightened chemicals coursing through alphas make them capable of superhuman feats of strength and speed. Their presence is magnetic, charisma off the charts. As an omega, myself, I have to be careful. Especially since nobody in the group or agency has any idea.
Equal opportunity employment meant that your alpha, beta, or omega status couldn’t be used against you to prevent getting hired. Legally, anyway. And not everyone fell under those three categories. There were plenty of normal humans who didn’t get set off by pheromones and little chemical quirks. Unfortunately, I get twisted by them more than I like to admit. But I’m a professional, so it doesn’t matter.
I’ve been touring, living, and working with Inferno for the past six months, so I know the seven men better than most of my high school classmates. Being in my early thirties, I still think back to high school as the peak of social interaction. Life as an adult in the workforce just isn’t the same. You don’t make solid acquaintances in the same way that you did, and it makes me a little nostalgic sometimes. Even if high school had been hell.
The pyrotechnics go off, signaling the start of the final song for the show, the sudden heat and sparks so close to me snapping me back to reality. I’m spacing out more than usual. Burnout is creeping up on me fast. But we’ve been in five different cities in less than two weeks. Jet lag isn’t the only thing kicking my ass.
In their staggered formation, the seven men launch into the air from the spring-loaded platforms they perch on. It’s always impressive to watch them clear the stage, all of them perfectly executing backflips while airborne and landing in a predatory crouch. It was a fan favorite move, and the crowd always went insane for it.
This time, I grit my teeth and swear under my breath. Jane notices my change in mood. “What happened?” she asks, turning briefly to look up at the stage.
Haven, one of the primary singers and most visual of the dancers, had something go wrong during the flip. He’d almost fallen to the stage, but Valentine stabilized him as stealthily as he could manage before they moved back into the choreography.
“Haven tweaked something during that stupid backflip,” I murmur. Thankfully, the song is a short one. Unfortunately, it’s one of their more aggressive tunes, with some of the quickest, largest moves of any of their work.
“Shit,” she says with a little sigh. “Need me to clear a path for you to get back there?”
“Nah, but I’m going now.” She claps her hand on my shoulder and gives it a small squeeze. Valentine catches my eye and I nod to him, starting to weave my way between shrieking fans who have no clue something is wrong.