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I exist only to crush it.
Twenty
Hail
Imakeahabitof sending Z texts because I’m a child that can’t be left alone.
I barrage his phone with messages about how we all appreciate him. How cute he looks when he’s running around backstage like a madman. How much I think about kissing him all hours of the day.
Sometimes I send him spicy things to see if he’ll read them while on set. I enjoy imagining what his expressions are, too. The mystery excites me more than a fresh brewed cup of coffee hitting my senses in the wee hours of the morning.
He never reads them at work anymore, caught on to my mischief, and I always pout about it. But while he’s never one to talk much in person, I think he enjoys communicating through written word because he always takes the time to respond to each one of my texts in our downtime, even if we’re together.
Arriving back at the venue after lunch with the boys—Malek and Griff have been more clingy than usual—I shoot off a message to Z.
Good morning, sunshine.
His response comes surprisingly quick. Maybe he didn’t go back to the hotel to nap on his break, sneaking off for some peace and quiet instead. I tend to be overbearing, but I’ve been trying to give himsomespace. Minimal, more like.
Is that my nickname now?
I think it might be.
It doesn’t suit me.
I can’t help a sly grin as my focus goes to my phone, drawn away from the commotion around me. I bump into equipment and somebody’s shoulder. I think it might have been Malek, but who really cares?
That’s one guy’s opinion, I fire back.I think it’s a perfect fit.
If I have to have a nickname, so do you.
I’m all ears. Or eyes in this case, because you know… texting. Unless you want to wait to tell me in person. Just be prepared for the consequences.
Three little dots appear, and my heart skips a beat.Consequences?
I’m grinning like a lovesick fool.Probably something sexual.
There’s a long pause before his response comes through.I’ll wait, then.
Fighting to keep my groan trapped behind my teeth, my finger hovers over the FaceTime button. Fuck, I really shouldn’t. I need to tamp down on this desire for him when I should be thinking about performing.
Except, this might be the first time I don’t actually want to play a show. Regardless of how drained I’ve become of screaming into people’s ears for a solid two hours, music is the one thing I have in life. My one hobby. My one investment I’ve sunk all of my time and effort into.
I can’t just want to give that up, can I?
No, I don’t think I do. I just want… I want him, too.
Slipping down a hallway, I find an empty dressing room. I shut the door behind me and keep the light off as I hit the button to call Z. My heart beats rapidly at the anticipation of seeing him and hearing his deep, low voice, so at odds with his lean build.
He answers on the third ring, still face down on his hotel bed, shirtless and disheveled. God, I want to run my hands all over his glorious, pale, smooth skin.
“Hey, sunshine,” I whisper around a grin. I get a grunted response, which makes me chuckle. “Rough morning?”
“Dropped an amp on my toe and suffered from a bit of writer’s block,” he admits, turning his head to the camera. He cracks an eye, and I’m speechless for a moment as I take him in. A curious blue iris like the clearest pool of water. Dark lashes and straight, full brows. Tendrils of dark hair curled over his forehead and down his temples.
“Did you call just to stare at me?” he asks. The little upward curl of his perfect mouth has my dick hardening in my tight jeans. Not the ideal situation in a venue about to be full of crew members again.
“I didn’t, but tell me you don’t love it.”
