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Chapter One
Mallory Bartlett
This is a horrible idea. Trish, my mostly crazy friend, is dragging me toward the stadium. “Come on! You’ll love it. I’ve seen them live twice but never got tickets this close.”
The parking lot is a sea of black t-shirts and tattoos. My knees shake as I walk to the entrance, the bass of the opening band already thumping in my chest.
“I changed my mind. I don’t want to.”
“You used to love Grimnoire. You wanted to marry Griffin Grimm.”
“I was thirteen!” I protest.
I still like the music. I’m just not a concert person. There are people. A lot of them. As an introvert, it’s overwhelming.
I’m still dressed in my work clothes from teaching preschool. As might be expected, I don’t look like the rest of the concertgoers. Trisha was supposed to go with a different friend, but Allie got sick at the last minute.
I was not given a choice to be Allie’s replacement. Trish stopped at the house just as I was getting out of my car after work. I believe her exact words were, “Get in, loser. We’re going rock-n-rolling.”
Trish can be very tenacious. Resistance is futile, and all of that.
Besides, I couldn’t let her come by herself. It seems dangerous to be a woman alone here. But there was no time forme to change clothes. We’ve already missed the opening band, as I hear them thank the crowd.
I was planning to have a quiet evening alone, like the rest of my evenings, and decompress from little ones for the weekend. Maybe watch some Netflix with eye candy in it. Pretend tomorrow isn’t Valentine’s Day as I spend another Valentine’s Day single and eating too much candy.
This concert will provide some eye candy for sure.
Griffin Grimm is very easy to look at. Since the ticket package Trish won from the radio station puts us in front and gives us access to backstage after the show, I should get a pretty good look at him. So I will just focus on the benefit of that and try not to dwell on all the ways this is uncomfortable for me.
Inside, the crowd is a writhing mass of bodies. Sweat and weed mingle in the air, creating a pungent aroma that I’m not sure I can handle. Trish is already lost in the sea of people, her hand no longer clutching mine. I try to follow her, but it’s difficult to maneuver through the crowd. Everyone is pushing and shoving, trying to get closer to the stage. Her hand clamps on my wrist, and I stumble along in her wake.
On stage, Grimnoire launches into their opening song, the crowd screaming along with the lyrics. The music is so loud that it vibrates through my bones, and I can feel it pumping in my veins. We’re pushed all the way to the front, coming to rest against the barrier. And there he is.
Griffin Grimm.
His eyes are rimmed in kohl, his lips curled into a snarl as he prowls across the stage. Tattoos sleeve his arms, his tanned skin gleaming under the lights. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat.
He’s still as potent as ever. My inner teen self is swooning. Whatever happened to her, the girl who loved rock music and had dreams of marrying the lead singer?
Life happened, I guess.
Any wildness I once had got drummed out of me in high school when my older brother was killed in an accident. My parents got overprotective, to be expected I guess, and my high school years were subdued because of it. When I moved to college, I was used to being careful. Careful and boring, really. Awkward around all the other young adults who wanted to test their freedom when I just wanted to test my safety.
But even as a serious adult, I can appreciate the raw sexuality Griffin exudes. I’m not sure what I’m feeling, but it’s a mix of arousal and maybe a little fear. He speaks to a part of me I’m not sure I understand. Someone I am deep inside, but also someone I don’t know.
As the concert goes on, I can feel the heat emanating from the crowd, the energy building. It makes me a little lightheaded, the pounding music and the crush of bodies.
And him.
God.
Griffin stalks over, dropping to his knees in front of me as he shreds out a guitar solo of the encore song. The crowd loses its mind, but all I see is him. His fingers flying across the frets, his hips undulating to the beat.
My heart slams against my ribs, desire flooding my veins like fire. Griffin Grimm is sex personified, and I want nothing more than to give myself over to his mercy.
Which is ridiculous. I wouldn’t know what to do with a rock star. I can’t even hold my own with guys I grew up with. The few dates I’ve had since graduation were lackluster evenings that would have been better spent with a good book.
Besides, Griffin is photographed with models and actresses that wear a size zero to my sixteen. He’s been in rehab three times, while I have only been drunk once and never, ever high. He’s had more than one sex scandal (this year), and I am still a virgin.
