Page 21 of Unleashed By Eden

She catches me staring and pulls her mouth into a huge, fake, over-the-top grin, eyes blown wide like a cartoon. “Sorry about that, was in the bathroom,” she says.

It yanks a laugh out of me.

Megan’s jaw goes slack, like she cannot believe someone would say something that human in front of me.

“What can you do when nature calls, am I right?” I shrug. “Theo had to take the biggest dump seconds before we were due to go onstage once, and we had to delay the show for fifteen minutes.”

She gives me a thready chuckle. And fuck me, I’ve missed that sound.

“I’m Carter,” I say, because I don’t know what version of reality we’re playing, whether we’re doing the strangers thing or not. I won’t risk blindsiding her in front of her new boss. “Welcome on board.”

I stick my hand out. No way I’m passing up the excuse to touch her, not when she’s right here in front of me, after years of existing only in the back of my skull.

Her hand gets stuck in her pocket when she tries to pull it out too fast. She tugs, shakes it, curses under her breath, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek not to bark out a laugh.

“Good to meet you as well,” she says finally, when her fingers pop free and land in my palm. Her skin is warm and a little damp. Our eyes connect, and there’s that trace of familiarity, that old magnetic pull between us.

Megan clears her throat. “So, team, we’ll have unlimited access to Carter and the band onstage and backstage while we’re on the road,” she tells the crew. “But their private dressing room and VIP area is off limits for filming and photography.”

I drag my gaze away from Violet’s and force myself to look at Megan.

“We’ll also set up interviews at regular points throughout the tour,” she adds.

“Sounds good,” I lie. It sounds like a fucking nightmare. Being “on” for ten months straight, every high and low caught on camera, every slip magnified, is my idea of hell. God only knows what we were thinking when we agreed to this.

“Looking forward to it,” I throw in with a smile for good measure.

When I turn to catch up with the guys, I catch the tail end of Vi’s smirk. She’s always been able to read me like a book; one look and she knows exactly how full of shit I am.

The sound of the crowd is deafening as we get closer to the stage, the chant of “Pulse, Pulse, Pulse” rolling through the corridors like a storm, building and building. This part, right here, is the vein I tap into whenever I start bitching about my life’s lack of privacy and freedom. This is the only place my head shuts up.

A stagehand presses my guitar into my hand, and it fits like a glove. The familiar weight, the curve against my body, the calluses on my fingers finding the strings without thinking. It’s an extension of me, a limb I’d be lost without.

The roar swells, crawling up my spine, and a shiver passes over my skin. The four of us bump fists, and then we’re moving, stepping out into the light.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

My balls draw tight, my mouth goes dry. I drag my tongue over my lips, step into the white-hot circle of the spotlight.

A wall of sound smashes into me. Screams, cheers, the clap of hands and stomp of feet, all of it blending into one huge, living thing. I hit the first chord, feel the vibration run up my arm, lean into the mic, and open my mouth. The first line rips out of me, raw, and the response that comes back is feral.

It knocks me back on my heels. This energy is an animal, breathing, pulsing, swelling, and shrinking with us. It feeds off whatever we throw at it and spits it back double. It’s addictive. The power, the rush of adrenaline tearing through my veins, the way the beat hooks into my chest and lights it up.

I live for this shit.

We play song after song, every track like it might be the last time, pouring out everything we have, mind and body and whatever is left of my soul.

Sweat runs down my back, my shirt sticks to my skin, my fingers sting, and my throat burns. I couldn’t feel more alive.

When we step offstage, we’re as high as kites without needing a single chemical. High on the crowd’s roar still echoing in our heads, and high on the fact that thousands of people just lost their fucking minds with us.

If I could bottle this feeling and inject it straight into my veins whenever I wanted, I would.

A runner takes my guitar and hands me a towel. I drag it over my face and hair, flicking sweat onto the concrete. Automatically, my eyes hunt for Violet, scanning the wings, the techs, the shadowy corners of the stage.

Nothing.

Dave is there instead, camera pointed my way and recording all of it.