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Then there’s the lighting booth, at the very top of the stadium—as high as we can humanly climb. My thighs burn by the time we reach the top of the stairs, and Resa’s breathing hard, but she shoots me a happy grin when I check on her. The gig is still muffled, but seeping through the thick walls.
“Here.” I tug Resa to the lighting booth door. It’s not locked, and when I shoulder it open, the follow-spot operators glance over their shoulders and nod at us before turning back to the show.
There are five of them, all dressed in black with headsets, each balancing a huge light on their shoulder and aiming it at thestage. The music from the stage is piped in here too, made tinny by the ancient speakers.
The spots are used to me crashing their glass-fronted booth. I’ve watched this gig from every angle, tried a bunch of locations, always searching for a new insight. For the spark of inspiration that will help me write my book.
Now that spark elbows me in the ribs. “We’re so high up,” Resa hisses. Yeah, from all the way up in this booth, the stage looks kinda small down there. The musicians pace around, so energetic, keyed up by the mania of the crowd.
Just wait until Soul Obsession comes onstage. The fans will scream so loud that birds take flight miles away.
And Resa’s beaming down at the stage, bouncing on her toes as she grips my hand… but that excitement is not forme, is it? It’s for this backstage tour, and tonight’s show. The reminder tightens my throat, and I swallow hard.
Resa’s excited about this sneak peek, excited about Soul Obsession, but let’s be honest: if we had first passed each other in a coffee shop this morning, she probably wouldn’t have glanced my way. We might never have spoken.
“Let’s go.” My temples throb as I tow Resa out of the lighting booth.
This is temporary. I can’t forget that.
* * *
“This is so cool, Beckett. So, so cool. Thank you so much for doing this!”
Resa’s happy chatter echoes in my ears as I lead her back down the stairs, down into the belly of the building. There isn’t much time left. Pretty soon, Soul Obsession will start their set, and Resa won’t want to miss a single second of it. Our time is nearly up.
“Do you know which door you’re supposed to go in by?”
My voice sounds dull to my own ears. Robotic. Our feet clatter against the steps.
But I can do this—I can walk Resa to wherever she’s supposed to go, wave goodbye, and then move on with my life. I can, damn it.
A few stolen hours with this girl can’t ruin my life. The universe wouldn’t be so cruel, surely.
“Um.” Pausing in the stairwell, Resa fumbles her phone out of her back pocket and taps at the screen. It lights up, the rectangle of light casting a pale glow over her beautiful face. “Door 5E. Wherever that is.”
Will Resa ever think about me after tonight? Does the idea of us parting gut her too?
God, what if I’m the only one feeling this? What if I’m crazy and I don’t even realize it? There are true crime podcasts about men like me! Okay, so I’ll walk Resa to door 5E and then I’ll let her go like a sane person. Fine.
My insides feel like they’ve been chafed with sandpaper. Raw and bleeding. But I lead Resa down the stairwell, then to the door for the right corridor.
“Wait.” A small hand snags my sleeve, tugging me back. I go still as a statue, waiting in the empty stairwell for whatever Resa wants to say. My brain is broken, already destroyed by the prospect of her leaving. There’s nothing but static between my ears.
Resa bites her bottom lip, gazing up at me as the warm up act’s power ballad bleeds through the walls. Then she puffs out a breath, rocks up onto her toes, and—andkissesme.
Bloody hell.
My hands dart up, cupping her cheeks. My lips move of their own accord, kissing Resa back. Kissing herhard.
And when I tilt her head, coaxing her lips to part, Resa sighs against my mouth and slides our tongues together. She’s melting against me, her soft body sealed against my front.
My heart slams against my rib cage, desperately trying to reach her.
“Beckett,” she murmurs, fingers scratching the short hairs on my neck, and every cell in my body responds to my name in her voice. I’m harder than granite, my muscles tense on my bones, while molten blood pumps in my ears.
“Beckett,” Resa says again. Jesus. She’s bending one leg, knee rubbing at my thigh; crowding me back against the wall, like she wants to climb me right here—like she’d mount me right in this echoing stairwell.
Works for me. Holy shit, does that work for me.
