“The band should be walking by soon, if you want to meet them,” Arn offers.
“Definitely,” Avery answers.
Five minutes later, they start to filter through, introducing themselves politely if disinterestedly. They clearly don’t follow sports or the gossip mags.
Until the lead singer walks by.
Heath Gallix. Wearing—of course—verytight brown leather pants.
He pauses at the sight of Avery, taking her in. His perusal starts at her thighs and slowly makes its way up her body, all the way to her face.
“And who might you be?” he asks in a thick brogue.
Oh, fuck this guy.
I take a step closer to her, lining our bodies up, and shoot him a clear look. Ashe’s never going to be yourslook. Standing tall into all of my six-foot-five inches.
“I’m Avery,” she says in a light tone, either oblivious or ignoring the dynamic with Heath. “And this is my boyfriend, Rawley.”
Good woman.
He gets the message and backs away. “Nice to meet you. Enjoy the show.”
He’s then gone, and I’m a much happier man.
“Okay, they’re about to go on,” Arn says. “Do you want to move out to the VIP section?”
Avery looks at me and I nod. “Yeah, let’s go.”
Arn brings us to stairs that take us to a blockaded area near the stage. I don’t recognize the other VIPs—they may be friends, family, or other musicians. Either way, they don’t seem too interested in us.
Not true of the fans near the VIP area. Phones are out, and I can tell we’re going to be filmed basically every second tonight.
I try to ignore it. I don’t want them to ruin our night.
“There’s waters, beer, and soda here,” Arn says. “I’ll be in and out, just let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Arn,” I say, patting his shoulder as he takes his leave.
Avery and I don’t speak much because the noise is already too loud for us to hear each other without yelling. It’s not uncomfortable though, and the band comes out only a minute or so later.
Heath babbles some words about playing in Orlando, and then the guitarist strums the first chord of one of their hits.
As Heath begins to croon, I try to get into the music, knowing it’ll be much more fun that way.
But then my wrists are surrounded by another’s hands. Avery’s. She brings my arms around her waist as she leans back against me.
She doesn’t explain a thing and doesn’t need to. I know she’s putting on a show.
Yet, the full flush of her body against me, swaying in time with the beats of the song, locked in my hold…
It feels real. Or I’m wanting it to be.
It’s not real, it’s not, I try to convince myself.
My heart isn’t sold on that fact though.
And the embrace goes on for close to an hour, her body in rhythm with mine as much as the music, her head turning to whisper things to me that most of the time I can’t make out.
