Page 1

Chapter 1

Andrew

No turning back now

The spotlight burns against my skin, turning the sweat on my tattooed forearms into glittering constellations that fans revel in. I roar into the microphone, feeling the familiar rumble in my chest as the crowd screams my lyrics back at me, their hands reaching toward the stage like worshipers. I’ve been doing this for years and nothing can replace this feeling; the connection with strangers who have experienced the same things I did.

Their cries.

Their screams.

It’s cathartic.

After years touring overseas to a lot of fanfare, wrapping up the tour at home feels good, especially on Halloween night—one of my favorite days of the year. Here, we’re close to family, friends, faces that have seen us grow from the young lads still playing on one hundred quid guitars with overused strings and lacking confidence, to the cult rock artists that rally thousands around the world to come and see us play live.

“Cardiff, you’re fucking incredible tonight!” I shout, the Welsh lilt I usually suppress after years of performing overseas flowing freely through my words.

The crowd roars back, a wall of sound that should make me feel powerful, invincible. It usually does. But tonight, my heart thunders in my chest for entirely different reasons.

Auburn-haired reasons.

There—five rows back, slightly off-center. Vivian. Her auburn curls catch the stage lights, turning them to fire around her face. My voice unconsciously deepens, growing sultrier as our eyes lock for a fraction of a second. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in my life. Even twenty years later, she is still unmatched.

I turn to nod at our bassist, signaling the intro to our most popular track. The familiar notes wash over me, muscle memory guiding my fingers across the guitar strings while my attention drifts back to her—Vivian Jackson. Not in costume like the rest; she’s in jeans and that bright orange shirt making her impossible to miss.

Like a beacon calling me home.

I giggle to myself. She’s adorable. Not a fan of dressing up, yet the one that easily shines in the midst of so many people who put a ton of effort into shining the most tonight.

She sways slightly to our rhythm, those green eyes—with flecks of gray that darken when she’s excited that I’ve seen in show photos in the past—focused on the stage. On me. Does she know I’m watching her? Does she remember me as that scrawny kid from high school, the one she helped up after those bastards knocked me down? Probably not. I look nothing like that boy anymore. My mother remarried, and I changed surnames. And it’s been too long. We were never friends to begin with, probably because I was too introverted, and she was too dazzling, too “out of my league” and would probably never want anything to do with me.

I lean into the chorus, letting the darker tones of my voice take over. The critics call it “honey poured over gravel.” The fans eat it up. And I confess I’ve used this voice to get out of problems more times than I should have. But tonight, even though we have a sold-out home crowd, I’m singing for an audience of one, watching Vivian’s reaction as the lyrics about obsession and desire flow from my lips.

“This one’s for those of you who’ve ever wanted someone so badly it hurts,” I growl into the mic, not caring how obvious I’m being. “The ones who felt frustrated watching from the sidelines as other people—unworthy people—got the chances you were never given. This is for the yearners.”

My bandmates exchange looks; they’ve noticed my fixation over the past months, my insistence on knowing which shows she attends, because yeah, she’s part of the fan club and yeah, she buys tickets to most of our shows. They think it’s just another groupie situation. They have no fucking clue. This goes back decades.

The bridge builds, and I close my eyes, relishing the music pulsing through me. When I open them again, I find her immediately, like my body has developed its own homing system calibrated to her presence. She’s looking directly at me now, head tilted slightly to the side, a pleased smile plastered on her face, like she always has when she particularly enjoys a guitar riff. I’ve memorized all her expressions from these concerts, cataloged them like precious memorabilia. Almost everything I do on stage is tailor-made to what Vivian likes.

Call me obsessive. Call me too far gone. I call it… devotion and a want to provide the best things to the one I love.

The one whom I wish loved me.

I press harder against the strings, drawing out notes that weren’t in the original composition. Improvising for her. The tattoos on my arms—Celtic patterns intertwined with music notes and lyrics—seem to writhe with the movement of my muscles under the stage lights. I wonder if she notices or likes them. If she wonders what other parts of me are inked.

Between songs, I take a swig from my water bottle, eyes never leaving her for more than a few seconds. She laughs at something her friend says, and the sight of her smile sends electricity down my spine, making my cheeks flare. I grip the microphone stand tighter, my knuckles whitening. If only I could make her laugh like that. I’d be the luckiest bastard on earth and beyond.

“This next one’s new,” I announce, my voice dropping lower, more intimate. “Something I’ve been working on privately.”

The rest of the band picks up the cue—we’ve rehearsed this one for weeks, but I’ve never told them who inspired it. The melody is darker, more sensual than our usual material.

The lyrics spill out, words about forbidden desires and crossing lines, about worship and possession. I don’t hide the rasp of need in my voice.

Our gazes lock again during the second verse, and this time, Vivian doesn’t look away. My blood heats. I drag out the final note longer than necessary, watching her watch me.

Sweat drips down my back, plastering my black sleeveless shirt to my skin. I shake my head, ensuring no strands of my black-dyed hair get in the way of watching her.

We transition into our final number, the one that always leaves the crowd screaming for more. My bandmates are feeding off the energy, jumping and headbanging while I remain rooted in place, a fixed point in the chaos. My performance is more controlled tonight, more deliberate. Every movement calculated to draw her attention.