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He led on the vocals, and I harmonized, back and forth, until we reached the chorus, and Ronin and Faise joined in. When our combined voices hit just right, it gave me goosebumps.
At the end of the song, Brodie playfully kissed me on the cheek.
“Let’s hear it for my friend, Iain Holloway!” Brodie shouted and squeezed my shoulder. “And now, folks, back to our regularly scheduled programming. I think it’s time we all enjoyed a little… ‘Filthy Pain!’”
I laid into the opening riff of our most popular song and walked back to my spot on the stage. Halfway through the number, Brodie threw his shirt out to the audience and kneeled in front of them in nothing but his black leather kilt.
Fans at the front of the stage were losing their fucking minds, screaming and reaching out to touch him. Brodie threw his head back and moaned out those filthy lyrics like he was having sex right there on stage. The atmosphere intensified, and I felt the heavy pulse of the room—the smell of sweat, the heat of thelights, the writhing mass of bodies. Like a mass orgy, the fans went fucking nuts and threw shirts, underwear, you name it, on stage.
Brodie pumped his hips and leaned back, his dark curls now wet and plastered to his face, sweat rolling down his chest and his tattooed arms.
I glanced over at Ronin, who’d joined in and was standing in just his jeans and bare feet, his long, dark hair swaying around his face as he closed his eyes.
Not to be outdone, when the song ended, I threw off my T-shirt and ran up to the edge of the stage to launch it into the audience. Then I walked along the edge, touching hands and feeding off the excitement of the crowd.
By the time we reached our break, we were all out of breath and took a quick bow before the curtains closed.
Brodie finally got back up on his feet and shook his head, sweat droplets flying everywhere. “Fuck, you guys are on fire tonight!”
As we walked off stage, I spotted Dawson with his arms crossed, his gaze giving me a possessive once over that had all the hair on my body standing on end.
“Ooh, someone’s ready to fuck,” Brodie whispered in my ear, one sweaty arm slung around my slick shoulder.
“Shut it, Dee,” I hissed. “If Regan overhears?—”
“Sorry, Holls. I don’t want to deprive you of the dick.”
“Hey, he’s not just that,” I snapped back.
Brodie grinned at me. Clever motherfucker.
I watched as Brodie walked off and into the arms of his husband.
I grabbed a towel from Tommy and went to stand beside Dawson.
“So, what’s the verdict on the show so far?” I asked him.
I was still out of breath. From performing or from being in Dawson’s presence, I didn’t know.
“It’s one of the best I’ve ever seen. You’re fucking amazing.”
I waved his compliment off. “Brodie’s the real star.”
“Don’t downplay your talent. You have a gift, and everyone can see and hear it. Fuck, the way you pull those sounds of that guitar, it is something else, sweetheart.”
“Daws,” I warned and looked around. Thankfully, no one seemed to be paying us any particular attention. “Stop with the, you know?—”
“Sweetheart?”
“Jesus Christ,” I grumbled, wiping my face to hide my reaction.
Secretly, I lit up inside when he said it. Which was so fucked up. Cutesy nicknames or endearments usually made me gag. Hell, listening to Van and Brodie was bad enough.
“See, they’ll think I’m calling you that to tick you off,” Dawson reasoned. “Bickering is how we roll. Stop worrying.”
“Stop worrying?” I turned to face him. “You’re standing here eye-fucking me the whole time I’m on stage. Don’t tell me no one’s going to noticethat.”
“It’s not just when you’re on stage,” he smiled down at me, his green eyes riveted to mine.
