Page 98 of Jude

Clutched in her hand was a glowing tablet computer as she finalized the logistics and bookings for the upcoming tour dates in Berlin and Rome.

She chuckled, nudging her husband with her elbow without lifting her eyes from the screen.

‘Ignore him, Sofia. Jude hasn’t missed a cue since our first gig. Mason just likes to hear himself talk.’

I smiled, thinking how I gravitated toward the dry, rapid-fire speed of Australian banter, finding that my natural Italian acuity allowed me to match their wit.

Still chuckling, Jude pulled me into a hug.

‘Later, babe,’ he rasped before he prowled away to get ready for the show.

When the arena doors opened at seven o’clock, the roar of twenty thousand Parisian fans filled the space with a deafening, vibrating energy that made the benches shake.

I got a seat at the front of the house alongside Mason and Nari.

‘Trust me,’ Mason grinned. ‘These are the best ‘seats’. Front of house is where you get to see the band up close. Alongside the true magicians of the festival, our lighting and sound crew .’

The location was indeed sublime, just 100 feet from the main stage, with an unobstructed view of both the platform and the surging ocean of the crowd.

The opening band was French and decent.

However, when the house lights dropped to black at eight p.m., and a spotlight fell on my husband, I was at once transfixed.

He stood head bowed in front of his mic, guitar hanging off his strap, so tall, muscled, and freakin handsome.

Devastatingly handsome, he wore his black hair pulled back into his signature man bun, with rebellious wisps falling around his chiseled face.

A grey printed tee molded to his corded, rippling chest, every hard line flexing under the material as he opened with a throaty, heartfelt lyric.

At the sound of his signature rasp, the amphitheater erupted into a thunderous roar.

Jude hit the opening power chord of their first track on his Strat, and a wall of sound exploded from the stadium speakers.

Colored lasers swept across the stadium, painting the swirling smoke in emerald and violet light, turning our gritty backstage labor into an immense sonic and visual tapestry.

However, it was Jude who pulled me into a world of pure, consuming musical bliss.

His guitar work was pure artistry as he kicked off a triumphant set with an uptempo rocker.

The band unleashed a storm of reflective tunes full of immersive feelings and piercing, dangerous storytelling.

His voice, the same raw, gravelly timbre he used to call out my name in pleasure, sent my entire body into euphoria.

With a deep vibrato that triggered goosebumps across my skin, his vocal delivery shifted from a vulnerable, throaty whisper to a desperate, full-chested growl that vibrated straight into my core.

It was an unpolished, unfiltered, and dominant vocal cadence, raw power made manifest.

He drove my heart, and the hearts of thirty thousand people in that stadium, careening into deep emotion.

Angel brought pure electric thunder as co-lead, throwing his raw alpha energy into the mic while exchanging brutal, seamless vocal riffs with Jude.

Beside them, Levi’s violin wove intricate, haunting melodies straight through the heavy walls of driving rhythm.

Deacon commanded his section on sax, pouring smooth, fiery brass runs into the mix, alongside Bishop’s slamming bass guitar.

In the back, Reign pounded his drums like a man possessed, delivering a crushing, unstoppable beat.

Individually, every guy played with dominance, but together with Jude, they delivered a powerhouse performance that almost blew the roof off the arena.