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Kieran sings the melody of fucking angels, high in the clouds and looming over us. God, he has the voice of a damn siren that makes me want to come in my damn booty shorts before I speak to him face to face. How the fuck can I face him again when the urge to lick him all over becomes overwhelming?
As the song ends and the music dies, he holds up his toned arm, thrusting his fist into the air. Sweat pours from his head, down his chiseled face, and drips off his carved marble jawline. The lights from above shine down, creating a halo around his unsaintly head.
"How's everyone feeling tonight?" His deep, panty-soaking voice breathes through the microphone, and my damn breath leaves my lungs.
"We love you, Kieran!" some girl shouts with desperation, lifting her shirt, and revealing her tits to the world.
Soon more girls join in on the titty show parade, jiggling them as they dance, giggling their lives away. Kieran smirks, holding up a finger as he leans toward the bass player, whispering secrets between them. Callum blushes deeply, staring at their nipples like a deer caught in the headlights. He can't move away until Kieran slaps him on the back with a grin. Callum shudders, averting his eyes to the stage, and avoids the tit show with all his might.
Ah, shit. We can't have titties on display in the bar. Nudity is very frowned upon. Since I'm the damn manager, I have to force the boobs back into hiding, or more will pop out to join the party, and I can't have that.
"Put your tits away!" I shout, cupping my hands around my lips, amplifying my voice through the crowd.
The girls squeal again, shoving their shirts down. Whispering to one another, they collectively throw me dirty looks. Yeah, barbie dolls, I’m the devil for telling you to put your boobs away. Get over it. Call me the boob police or whatever; keep your damn titties in your shirt, and we'll be peachy. Have to keep this a clean operation, after all.
"What a titkill," the drummer says, leaning into his microphone with a manic grin. He hits his cymbal, tapping out the badum-tss tune.
"Booooooo!" the crowd rings, aiming their displeasure at me with dirty looks and down-turned thumbs.
"You've heard the crowd, Door Girl," Kieran says in a low, warning tone, staring right into my eyes again.
But how much can he see from the brightly lit stage? Can he see who I am? Or am I just another nameless girl to him? My heart plummets into my churning gut with indecision. Do I want him to remember the poor girl from the apartments he left behind? I have no idea. I knew I'd face him eventually, but I'll deal with that when it comes.
"We want the titties!" someone chants, making the rest of the crowd chant right along with them.
I groan, throwing my head back. Jesus Christ. Why do the titties have to come out at a concert? Why's that a thing? Can't we leave the titties out of this and not display nudity? No one bends over and exposes their asscheeks, so why this?
"No fucking titties!" I shout, standing on my chair, raising myself above the rowdy crowd, still chanting. "You get 'em out. Then you're out! No more show! Capiche?" I raise a brow, scanning the group, frowning at me with displeasure.
Frown all you want. I won't change my mind.
"You heard the titkill!" Rad says with a laugh. "Save your pretty titties for later! Now, K, let's fucking do this." The drummer counts them in with the pound of his sticks, and they begin.
Kieran keeps his eyes on me, burning right into my soul. As the music starts, he sways to the beat, watching my every move when I jump down from the chair and stroll into the kitchen. I feel his gaze everywhere, much like a predator eyeing his prey, scurrying back into the field. It's as if he recognized the girl staring back at him with hope in her eyes. The same hope I've held loosely for the past nine years.
“I’ll get the front, HBIC!” Ode says, saluting me, heading out of the kitchen with a grin and settling on a stool at the front.
Kieran’s heavenly voice blasts through the house speakers again, forming goosebumps across my flesh. Resting my head against the kitchen door, I regain my breath, begging the oxygen to return. Every time that man pierces me with his stare, I swear my knees wobble and weaken under his scrutiny. Kieran has always had that cocky, dark, and mysterious cloud hovering above him luring me in.
And that's my fucking kryptonite.
Walkingsilentlyupthesteps toward the dark lifted stage, I nibble my bottom lip, careful not to spook the man leaning down. Left behind by his band members, one lone figure packs away his things with measured ease. I huff a breath, eyeing his every move. This is the closest I've been to him since they all graduated high school and started at the university across town.
Thirty minutes ago, the spotlights dimmed, and the music died. The boys took one last sweaty bow, smiling at the crowd, and said their goodbyes, disappearing behind the large black curtain separating the front from the back. Despite the crowd hooting and hollering for an encore, the boys remained backstage, cooling off after a successful show.
Eventually, the crowd gave up begging for an encore by paying their tabs and calling it quits. Everyone except Tessa and the itty-bitty titty brigade who are currently standing by the edge of the stage, looking more like desperate groupies than anything.
Squeals of delight, giggles, and whispers follow me as I head onto the darkened stage. Looking back, I smirk at Bert, our burly security guard, who disdainfully frowns at the girls. Shaking his head, he murmurs a few choice words and pins me with a look, begging for help. I snort, playfully saluting him in response. No can do, buddy. I have one last thing to do before I go home, and then I'm free.
Peering down at the hefty check made out to Whispered Words, I can't help but smile at tonight's success. I knew the raging crowd from before would be my good luck charm but fuck if I didn't make bank. And with our split, the band made bank too. No other band in the history of Dead End has made this amount on their first night here. They're definitely coming back. I could kiss their damn faces for granting me such a payday.
My eyes close on their own accord when the remnants of their songs repeatedly hum through my veins. Echoes of their fans' excited whoops and hollers play in my mind like I'm standing before them again, eagerly hearing their orgasmic sounds. A buzz encases my body, and I sigh. When I open my eyes and look around, reality crashes into me. The show plucked its last string and thumped its last snare thirty minutes ago. All that meets my ears is the whooshing static filling my senses after a long night of loud music and screams.
A heavy sigh rocks me when I take a few more steps, watching Kieran as he packs away his equipment with angry mutters and throws his things around haphazardly—reminding me of his small temper as a kid when things didn't go his way.
His dark, messy, sweat-soaked hair falls into his eyes, and he curses at himself through several frustrated growls. It's one thing when he growls into the microphone. But up close and personal? My core heats to molten levels, heating my cheeks, and my damn toes curl in my shoes.
Kieran throws something into his guitar case with force and curls his fingers into fists. Heavy breaths rock through him, heaving his sculpted chest. My eyes fall down his body, taking in the glory of Kieran Knight. My palms sweat in his proximity, forcing me to wipe them down my jean shorts.
