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I didn’t expect the concert to slam me backwards to the incident. I stand uncomfortably fucking still while I watch Akara perform with The Carraways. Flames blast off around Tom as he strums the guitar and sings a punk rock anthem with life-or-death passion. He rouses the crazed audience with the way he sings, each word leaving his lips in feverish glory. Like he feels every melody and lyric.
From my vantage on the side-stage balcony, crowds bounce up and down, a mosh pit forming near the front of the stage. The sun is nearly gone. Fire explodes again.
Fuck.
I blink a few times. Every explosive bang and pop feels like a gun to the face. I swallow a rising lump, sweat built on my neck and not from the heat of the fire.
Banks holds my wrist tight.
I think he might be taking my pulse.
His lips dip to my ear, and he whispers loudly, “Let’s get some air.”
I shake my head. “I want to watch him.”
He follows my gaze to the stage.
Tom lets the guitar hang around his neck and claps to the beat of the drums. The bassist keeps playing, but I’m watching my boyfriend. Sweat drips down Akara as he bangs the small drums, the big one, the kick stand thing. I don’t know what they are, but I’m fucking amazed he memorized The Carraways’ set list so fast and plays without falter.
That’s my Kits.
A total fucking boss.
Hair sticks to the sweat built up on his forehead. He chose to go shirtless, abs in panty-dropping view, and his snake tattoo is fucking hot. I imagine a lot of the cheers are for him.
My dreamboat.
I’m really fucking proud of him for playing. I can tell he missed picking up the sticks.
Banks places a comforting hand on my shoulder. Another pyrotechnic blasts off and my breath hitches.
I hug onto Banks. The further through the set, the darker the night, the faster my heart races. If I asked Tom beforehand, I’m sure he would’ve cancelled the pyrotechnics for the night. But I’d never fucking ask him to change his performance. If I can’t handle this, then I should just go home.
The next pyrotechnics come out in a wave of three.
I barely breathe through the blasts. I barely blink anymore.
“Sulli?” Banks asks how I’m doing every few minutes.
“I’m okay,” I repeat.
I’m okay.
I’m okay.
The rest of the concert is a blur, but I stand my ground. I don’t run away or hide. I’m here, riding this out. Before the final song, I turn to Banks. “Maybe I should head to the car early? Beat the crowds?” I speak as loud as I can.
I’m scared of over-the-top pyrotechnics for the finale. If this is a fucking strategy, it can’t be considered running away, right?
Except something in me says, stay.
Don’t leave this early.
Stay for Akara.
Stay for yourself.
He was on the sidelines cheering me on every second at the Olympics. I want to be there for him, but I’m warring with going and staying. Tugged in two directions, and before Banks speaks, I speak into his ear, hands cupped so he can hear, “You think Akara will mind if I go early?!”
“Not at all,” Banks says against my ear. “He just wants you to feel safe like I do. Some air will do you good.” Fog machines have been rolling, and it’s stuffier back here. I ease a little bit, knowing we’re about to go. Instead of radioing Thatcher, he simply turns to his left and smacks his brother’s chest. I squeeze in close to hear.
“We’re gonna head out,” Banks tells him.
Thatcher speaks loudly as Banks backs up a little bit. “Banks! You wait for Akara! I’ll take Sulli to the car!”
“I’m not leaving Sulli!” Even yelling, I can barely hear them over the booming speakers. “You can come with us!”
They suddenly have a staring contest. I look from Banks to Thatcher, back to Banks. “What’s going on?!”
Banks dips his head to reach my ear, “He wants to take you to the car himself. You’ll be alright with just my brother? I’ll meet up with you in five.”
“Why just him?” I ask Banks.
He lifts his shoulders, but the way he glances at his brother, I realize Thatcher wants to tell me something. I’ve been avoiding Jane, and I can’t avoid him if he’s my car escort.
Normally, I’d be like fuck no, but his stern, no-nonsense demeanor seems softer tonight. Apologetic. He awkwardly clears his throat, then nods to me like, please, give me a chance.
I feel like I owe Thatcher and Jane more of an apology.
Maybe this is my chance too.
“Will you be alright?” Banks asks again. He’s hawk-eyeing the balcony and our exits, and I think he might need air too. Even if his supreme vigilance calms me, Akara said it’s not always a good thing for Banks to be this on-guard.
