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“Angel.” My greedy hands roam over her arms, her bare waist, her juicy wide hips—squeezing and stroking as they go. And I’ll never get enough of this, never tire of touching this girl, because Resa is color and laughter and sunshine and I’ve been bored and numb for so long, living in gray scale.
She’s the antidote. She’s what I’ve been missing.
My teeth scrape her throat. Resa tips her head back and moans—then fumbles with my tie, loosening the noose around my throat. “Should we—?”
A door bangs open a few floors above us, the noise loud and sudden.
We spring apart as steps thud down the stairs. The roadie grins when he rounds the stairwell and we come into view, both flushed and breathing hard. His steps slow down.
“Well, well, well.” Dark eyes flick between us, teasing. “What do we have here?”
Five
Resa
I’m hardly the first girl to kiss a man backstage at a gig, but tell my bright-red cheeks that. They don’t cool down for a single second—not while Beckett chats with the roadie, not while he walks me silently to door 5E, and not even ten minutes later when I’m shoulder-to-shoulder with my fellow fans, staring dry-eyed at the lit-up stage.
The first act is wrapping up, soaking up their last few minutes of borrowed glory, and the fans are game, whooping and cheering along. It’s hot as hell in this crush of bodies, and I keep getting elbows in my back, feet stepping on mine, and other girls’ long hairs in my mouth.
Bleurgh.
And—this isn’t me. This sinking stone in my belly; this ache in my chest; thismiseryseeping out of my pores. It feels all wrong.
Because I’m a happy person, damn it! Resa Castillo is built for pleasure and gratitude, okay—and yet here I am, sour as acrab apple pie, even as my favorite band of all time rushes on stage to a tidal wave of screams.
The Soul Obsession guys are more than a decade older than when I saw them live as a teenager, singing along with my friends until we were hoarse. But they lookgoodout there tonight: strong and lithe, a little broader, a little harsher, falling into their old rhythm together as easily as breathing.
The opening chords fill the arena, and the tiny hairs on my arms stand on end.
“Oh my god,” the girl next to me sobs, tears streaking her cheeks. Still no sign of my besties, and no signal on my phone to hunt them down. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. It’s really them.”
Yeah. It is.
The Soul Obsession guys are here, breathing the same oxygen as us in this stadium, sweat already slicking their skin as their music vibrates the air. And I should be floating up to the clouds, should be stamping and screaming myself hoarse with the other fans, but all I can think about is Beckett.
Liam Beckett. My sexy, suit-wearing grump.
What’s he doing right now? Is he watching the show somewhere?
Is he thinking about me too? That kiss! Oh gosh, that kiss.
My insides are all tangled up like linguine, and my lips are still tingling. The ghost of Beckett sighs against my cheek. And—suddenly I can’t stand another second in this crowd, under these lights, in thisheat, so I turn and fight my way through the wall of limbs.
The other fans press back, but I grit my teeth and throw up my elbows, thrashing toward the nearest door. I’m nice but I’m notthatnice, not when there’s somewhere I really need to be.
Because Beckett and I aren’t done with each other yet. Alright?I’mnot done.
But why didn’t he ask for my number? Was he secretly eager to get rid of me all along?
Face scrunched with the effort of keeping those questions at bay, I fight my way to the exit. The corridor outside is empty and still. My ears ring as my breath saws in and out of my lungs. That crowd was so intense, and now my thighs are trembling like jelly, barely holding me up. Clearing my throat, I finger comb my pixie and tug my crop top straight.
Right, let’s do this.
Backpack: check.
All limbs accounted for: check.
And a can-do attitude? You betcha.
