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By the time I reach the venue, there’s no one left in line, and I recognize the familiar heavy bass of one of American Thieves’ top tracks.
They’ve already started playing.
I was supposed to get here early. That was the plan. The place has standing room only, so I wanted to be at the front of that stage. I wanted him to see me when he looked out into the crowd. This is the first night of his first tour, someone has to show up for him, and I think he’d want that person to be me.
I have no idea how I’ll get to him. This may not be a huge venue, but it’s big enough to know lying about my boyfriend being in the band won’t get me anywhere.
Security scans my ticket, and I head into the large room where I’m instantly hit with a wall of bodies. They’re all moving to the beat of the song, and I have to stand on the tips of my toes to get a good look at the stage.
The sight of him steals the breath from my lungs. He might look better than I remember, which I didn’t think was possible. His hair is damp with sweat under the glow of the lights, and the muscles in his arms flex and move as he plays.
He’s looking down, the way he usually does when he’s on stage—like the music is all that matters. He doesn’t need to see the crowd. He doesn’t need to look up for anyone’s approval or check for their reaction. He just plays. The way Jackson looks when he’s on stage makes it seem like it’s just him and his guitar. That’s the beauty of it.
I have to get to the stage.
Slowly, I start to work my way forward as subtly as I can. At least it’s just me. Being only one person makes it easier to look like I’m trying to get back to my friends. I only get a few weird looks from people who got here much earlier than I did to secure a better spot.
It takes me four songs, but I get as far as I think I can get. The people in the very front few rows won’t leave an inch for anyone to jeopardize their view. Finally feeling like I can take a breath, I stop where I am and watch him. He’s wearing dark jeans with a black shirt, and I take my time drinking in the sight of him. Of course, he doesn’t look nervous. He doesn’t look like this is his first time playing in a bigger venue for a bigger crowd. He looks perfectly at home, and seeing him like this is everything. He’s everything.
I’ve missed him. I knew I missed him, but seeing him sends a fresh pang to my chest. There are too many wonderful feelings inside me, all bursting at the seams. The thought of surprising him by being here brings a sense of giddiness over me. I cup my hands around my mouth, and yell “Jackson!” A few heads turn, but I try my best to ignore their burning stares. “Jackson!” It feels ridiculous and wonderful to call his name. I came all the way here. I can’t have it be for nothing. He should know someone is here for him. “Jackson!”
After the third time, Dave squints in my direction. His eyes widen, and he beams at me. Dave looks back at Jackson while he’s singing and tries to get his attention with an outstretched arm, but Jackson is too zoned in. He doesn’t even look up.
It’s Marty who catches sight of the movement and looks at Dave with a furrowed brow. Dave nods in the direction of Jackson as he continues to belt into the mic.
Still playing, Marty walks over to Jackson, bumping him on the shoulder.
Jackson looks at Marty, who nods in Dave’s direction.
My heart hammers in my chest because I know this is it. He’s about to look my way, and I’ll see if coming here was a mistake. I can’t take it. Not caring if I make people angry, I push myself to the front of the crowd and lean over the metal barricade as Dave points a finger in my direction.
Jackson’s head turns. He squints under the glare of the lights, but as soon as his eyes lock on mine, the blood pounding in my ears drowns out the sound of everything else. The crowd and band are muffled, and all I can focus on is the way his lips break into an easy smile.
And the way he takes me in, shamelessly checking me out like he’s done so many times before.
And the way he bounces on his toes with child-like excitement as he continues to play.
Marty seems to finally understand what Dave and Jackson’s exchange was about. He grins and copies Jackson’s movement, bouncing on his toes, too.
Dave joins in, mimicking Jackson the same way, and the sight of all three guys bouncing on their toes pulls a laugh from me. The relief that fills me almost makes me want to cry. His reaction beats anything I could have hoped for.
He’s glad I’m here.
Jackson looks more alive as he plays now. He isn’t wrapped up in the music as he stares down at his guitar. He looks like he’s having fun, strumming the chords with more enthusiasm as he makes his way over to the lead singer.
As soon as the song ends, Jackson says something in Dave’s ear, and Dave just smiles and shakes his head before stepping away from the mic.
I tilt my head when Jackson hands his guitar to Dave, who pulls the strap over his body and gets it into position, ready to play. Leaning toward the mic, Dave says to the crowd, “I hope you don’t mind if we switch things up a little.” Glancing at me again, his lips quirk. “You see, Jackson here has had it pretty bad for the girl next door.” He winks at me before looking back at the crowd. “And ladies and gentlemen, she’s here tonight!” The crowd cheers, and I feel my cheeks flush. “We’re going to let Jackson have the mic for this next one, and if you know it, feel free to sing along.”
Dave steps away from the mic and quickly runs back to Marty and Brady to tell them about the set change.
Jackson’s hands rest on either side of the standing mic, and even though he’s front and center, his eyes are glued to me in the crowd.
The band picks up the slow and steady tempo of “I Wanna Be Yours” by Arctic Monkeys, and my lips twist into a smile. It’s the last song on the album he told me to listen to, and it’s one of my favorite songs by them. Playfully, I shake my head at Jackson as he sings the opening lyrics. It amazes me how natural he looks standing in front of all these people. His body’s relaxed, his voice steady, and the fact that he doesn’t take his eyes off me brings a flush of heat up my neck.
Once the chorus starts to repeat, Jackson flags Dave over and steps away from the mic. Dave takes over the song without missing a beat, and Jackson jumps down off the stage with a mischievous glint in his eye. In one swift movement, he meets me over the metal barrier and cradles the nape of my neck with one hand as his lips crash into mine. He kisses me like no one’s watching, and I cling to him. Guiding my face with his hand, he kisses me deeper, stealing the air from my lungs. I don’t hear the music or the crowd—I don’t even feel the people dancing around me. It’s only Jackson, and I grip the metal railing and push up on my toes to lean into the kiss.
When he pulls away, I stare up at him completely breathless. His eyes are soft as he looks at me, the gray mixing with the blue, and I know this is where I’m supposed to be.
