10. Dash

10

DASH

The neon sign of the Grind Coffee Shop flickers like a dying firefly, casting a sickly glow on the rain-slicked sidewalk. I linger outside, my hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets, wrestling with the familiar tangle of dread and resolve.

The AA meeting doesn’t start for another hour, but I can’t seem to walk in on time like everyone else. The early crowd’s the safest—fewer eyes, fewer expectations, and fewer chances to fuck up.

I inhale deeply, the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee mixing with the earthy tang of rain. It’s been four weeks, two days, and four hours since my last drink.

The length of time Aria has been gone.

Most days, the craving is a dull, gnawing ache, like a hungry beast pacing in my chest, but today, it feels like a tidal wave building on the horizon, threatening to pull me under and drown me in my own mistakes.

For a moment, I’m transported back to that night four weeks ago. I just had the best sex of my life. Never had I ever felt more connected to a woman, and I was riding high on adrenaline. Aria’s orange creamsicle scent lingered on me for days after. I remember the confusion and hurt… so much fucking hurt. The look of disappointment and fear in her eyes when Zane snapped is still fresh in my memory, and I didn’t have the balls to stick up for her.

I push the door open, and the bell chimes softly, the sound oddly soothing against the background hum of espresso machines and muted conversations. Then I freeze, my hand still on the cool metal of the door handle, when I see Aria standing at the counter.

Great. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine. Except it’s coffee, and I’m the one who shouldn’t be here.

My heart stops and then kicks back to life with a painful thud, a jumbled rush of emotions crashing through me. Guilt, longing, and regret churn in my gut, making it hard to breathe. For a split second, I consider turning around and slipping back into the anonymity of the rainy street, but something keeps my feet rooted to the floor. Maybe it’s the last shred of courage I have left, or maybe it’s just the alpha in me refusing to back down.

Aria turns, probably looking for a seat, and our eyes meet. Her expression shifts from surprised to cautious, her body tensing like a deer ready to bolt. She’s holding a to-go cup, her fingers gripping it so tightly her knuckles have gone white, and the scent of her anxiety hits me like a punch to the gut.

“Aria,” I rasp, the word scraping out of me rough and unsteady. “I… Hi.” Smooth, Dash. Real smooth.

“Dash.” Her voice is guarded, a wall of ice I used to know how to melt. She takes a small step back, the cup clutched close as if it’s some kind of shield. “What are you doing here?”

I rake a hand through my hair, the familiar nervous gesture doing little to calm the storm inside me. “I’m… I’m here for a meeting. AA,” I admit, the confession slipping out before I can think better of it. So much for anonymity.

Well, there goes my rock star image, but hey, at least I’m not passed out in a gutter somewhere. Again.

Aria’s eyes widen, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of something softer—maybe respect—but it’s gone before I can be sure, like a mirage in the desert of our broken relationship. “Oh,” she says quietly, her voice just above a whisper. “That’s… good, Dash. That’s really good.”

We stand in awkward silence, the weight of unsaid words pressing down on us like a physical thing. There’s so much I want to say—apologize, explain, beg for another chance—but the words stick, lodged painfully in my throat. The background noise of the café seems to fade away, leaving us in a bubble of tension and unresolved feelings.

“I should go,” Aria says finally, inching toward the door. “Good luck with your meeting.”

She moves past me, and her scent wraps around me, tugging at my senses. It takes everything I have not to reach out and stop her from leaving. The alpha in me howls in frustration, but I force it down. I don’t have the right. Not anymore.

“Aria,” I call out just as she reaches the door. She pauses, glancing back with an unreadable expression. “I’ve been a Grade A asshole, Aria. I’m trying to tune myself to a better frequency.”

She nods slowly, the barest hint of a smile ghosting her lips. It isn’t much, but it’s more than I deserve. “I hope you succeed, Dash. Take care of yourself.” Then, with a flash of that spirit I’ve missed so much, she adds, “And maybe next time, give a girl a heads-up before ambushing her at her favorite coffee spot, yeah?” She tucks a strand of pink hair behind her ear, a gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache.

Then she’s gone, leaving me standing in the middle of the coffee shop, feeling like I’ve been sucker punched by fate itself. I sink into a corner table, my hands trembling as I wrap them around my coffee. The ceramic is rough against my palms, grounding me in reality. For the first time in weeks, the urge to drink hits hard and fast, like a freight train barreling through my resolve.

“One gig at a time, Dash. You’re still the frontman of your life,” I mutter under my breath, repeating the mantra my sponsor drilled into me. The words feel hollow, but I cling to them like a lifeline.

When the AA meeting finally starts, I’ve managed to tamp down the worst of the craving, though it still simmers at the edges of my mind like a pot about to boil over. I take a seat in the familiar circle, the quiet hum of the room settling around me like a well-worn blanket. The plastic chair creaks under my weight, and the smell of stale coffee and desperation hangs in the air.

As I listen to others share their stories, I’m struck by how similar we all are despite our different backgrounds. The guy to my left, with tattoos covering his arms, talks about missing his daughter’s recital. The woman across from me, her designer purse a contrast to her haunted eyes, shares about almost losing her job. We’re all just trying to climb out of the same hole one day at a time.

When it’s my turn to speak, I clear my throat, feeling the group’s eyes on me.

“Hi, I’m Dash, and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Dash,” the group responds in unison, their voices a soothing chorus.

“I… I saw someone today—someone I hurt badly when I was drinking.” The words are tentative at first, but once they start, they spill out in a rush. I talk about Aria, the pack, and the mistakes that haunt me. I leave out details like being an alpha and mate bonds—that’s not what this meeting is for—but I bare the raw core of my guilt and the wreckage I’ve caused.

“I want to rewrite this messed-up song I’ve been playing,” I say, my voice cracking under the weight of the admission, “but I don’t know if I even deserve the chance.”

After the meeting, Mike, my sponsor and one of my bandmates, pulls me aside. His expression is kind, his eyes steady and sure in a way that makes me feel like maybe I’m not as lost as I think I am.

“What you shared tonight was good,” Mike says, squeezing my shoulder. The warmth of his hand is comforting. “Thinking about staging a comeback tour with Aria? Just remember, no pyrotechnics this time.”

I nod, twisting my sobriety chip between my fingers. “I want to, but I’m terrified of making things worse.”

Mike’s grip tightens, a steady anchor in the churning sea of my thoughts. “Making amends isn’t about making yourself feel better, Dash. It’s about owning up to your actions and giving the other person the choice to forgive or not. That’s their decision, not yours. Just think about it, okay?”

I leave the meeting with a sense of relief, the cool night air waking me up to the reality of my choices. The city is alive around me, a cacophony of car horns, distant sirens, and the low murmur of pedestrians. I pull out my phone and open the pack group chat. They should know I saw Aria, but as I type, my fingers hesitate over the screen. How much do they need to know?

Me : Saw Aria today. She knows I’m in AA now. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t terrible either. I’ll explain later.

I hit send, the message feeling like it’s too much and not enough. Almost immediately, my phone buzzes with responses.

Malachi : No rush, rock star. We’ll be your backup singers whenever you’re ready to belt it out.

Quinn : Holy shit, man. You okay?

Zane : …

Typical Zane. He’s man of few words, but even his ellipsis speaks volumes. I can almost smell their scents through the phone, and for a moment, I’m overwhelmed by how much I miss them and how much I need their strength right now.

Then, without thinking, I scroll to Logan’s number. He’s been a rock lately, always there with a quick response or a word of encouragement, but something holds me back from dialing, a small voice in the back of my mind whispering that maybe I’ve been leaning on him too much.

Logan’s been great, but why does leaning on him feel like I’m making a deal with the devil?

I pocket my phone and start the walk home. The night stretches out before me, each step echoing with the possibilities of where I could go from here. The sidewalk is slick under my feet, and the occasional gust of wind carries the scent of rain and city life. It’s a long road filled with missteps and uncertainty, but for now, I’m sober. For now, I’m trying.

One foot in front of the other, Dash. It isn’t a stage, but it’s a performance all the same.

Tonight, in the dim glow of streetlights and the quiet rustle of city sounds, maybe that’s enough. As I turn the corner toward home, a thought hits me, both terrifying and exhilarating. Tomorrow, I might just be brave enough to take the next step in making things right.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll even crack a joke that doesn’t make everyone cringe. Baby steps, right?

As I reach for my keys, another thought sneaks in, uninvited and unsettling. What if making things right with Aria means losing the pack for good?

Why does that idea terrify me more than the thought of another day of sobriety?