I’m forced against her, forced to smell her light perfume and hear her magical laugh and get the full brunt of every small smile she tosses over her shoulder at me.
It forces me to come to terms with the fact that I want June Taylor.
So fucking bad.
When the kick drums start, she starts cheering, and relief moves through me. The band starting means I’m closer to the end of my own unique torture, but that relief is momentary. With the sounds, the entire crowd invigorates and shifts, pushing to the front of the stage, and the small gap I’d maintained between June and me is absolutely gone, my chest pressing against her back.
“I’m so sorry,” I yell into her ear, frantic in my need to remain professional with her. “The crowd?—”
“It’s all good, Graham!” she shouts over the chords of a guitar. “It’s the best part! Just go with it!”
Her hand reaches for mine, placing it on her hip and looking over her shoulder at me, beaming wide.
How am I supposed to argue with that look of utter happiness, with the music, with the closeness?
I can’t.
So I don’t.
Twenty minutes into the forty-minute set, I’m still plastered against June and trying my best not to think about the way her body moves and shifts, nearly grinding with her as she dances, sings, and screams to the songs. But when the chords change, going from rock to something soft, June stills.
“OH MY GOD!” she yells, eyes wide and fixated on the stage.
“We got a couple of requests to play an old song,” Riggins Greene, the lead singer of the band, says with a grin. “Hell, weallgot a couple of requests from one person, asking us to play this song.”
“Begging,” the bassist yells into his mic.
“Yeah, begging,” Riggins laughs. “Even went so far as to reach out to Stell and Harper.” My heart starts to pound with nerves. “He said this song was someone out there’s favorite, and it would mean the world if we played it.”
My panic only seems to heighten with each word.
Please don’t say my name. Please don’t say my fucking name,I think, over and over.
“So, if there’s someone out there who was hoping for us to play this song, just know that someone tried really fucking hard to make all of your dreams come true,” he says, then steps from the mic, leading into the song, and relief moves through me.
“It’s my song!” an oblivious June shouts, turning in my arms and gripping my shirt in her hand excitedly as the intro continues to play. Her smile is so damn wide, so stunning, I know that it was worth it, despite the minor heart attack I just had. She mentioned the song a handful of times, saying it was an older tune they rarely play live, but she hoped they would. When I looked it up that night, I recognized it as the one she had me dance with her to at the Seabreeze and decided to send a few messages to request they play it for her.
To everyone in the band.
And their significant others.
And their agent.
And their publicist.
I didn't think it would work, but figured it couldn’t hurt, just another opportunity to make June’s whims come to fruition.
“It is,” I say low, lifting a hand, and pushing some loose hair back. We’re close; it wouldn’t take much more than a couple of inches to graze my lips against hers.
“Pretty lucky!” she shouts, and I smile down at her.
I want to kiss her.
I’ve wanted to kiss her a dozen times today alone, each time, the urge to press my lips to hers becoming more and more insistent. But it’s never been as fierce as it is right now, with her hand on my chest, her big eyes staring up into mine, cheeks flushed, and excitement written across her face.
Last week, when I gave in to that urge, it was the greatest idea and the absolute worst.
Part of me thought that maybe, just maybe, I was exaggerating how good we were together. A late night of hot sex and then insane tension between us for weeks could do that, right?
