PROLOGUE
GEMMA
The hot summersun has sweat pouring from me like the devil’s forehead is pressed to my neck and it’s his tears trickling down my spine.
God, it’s hot.
My only saving grace is the upcoming distraction.
Stadium lights illuminate the waves of music festivalgoers on my every side. A massive stage sits at the forefront, currently being reorganized for DeathFest’s opening night headliner band. The sticky air is dripping with humidity and sweat from not only the warm night but also the thousands of patrons breathing in that last bit of adrenaline after today’s exhaustive musical affair.
The sound of the metalhead audience singing along to the 2000s pop tune that the DJ is playing lifts my lips into a smile.
Black cats and cinnamon rolls, all eighty-thousand of them.
Each person in this crowd came to worship the only religion we can all agree on—
Music.
The smells of fire, sweat, smoke, and occasional hints of weed all waft around me. Standing on the sound platform, I take in the sight of those waiting for the next band. Chatting friend groups, some dancing and laughing, and a few minoraltercations. There seem to be fewer of those here than I’m used to seeing at other music festivals. I’ve worked a fair few, however, none as important as this one, and never in this large of a role.
My new job is keeping the upcoming band safe. It doesn’t matter if I die in the process. Throw me into a group of obsessive stalkers or a horde of fanatics who want them dead—the band will get out unscathed if it’s the last thing I do.
And I have more than a few reasons why I’m keen on keeping them safe.
The sea of people goes back for what seems like a mile. There’s an anticipation in the air that’s contagious. Somehow, I already want to bounce and scream, and I know I’m not the only one feeling it. Each person in this crowd is ready and eager to jump, shove, scream, and sing back lyrics they’ve all memorized. Lyrics that speak to their very souls as if they were written just for them. Words that heal the beaten, the broken, and the damned.
Lines that have carried most of us along after moments we thought might be our last.
Yet, even as powerful as those lyrics are, it’s the heartbeat I’m most interested in. The steady thump, rap, and tap of the drum kit. The passion in every strike of the sticks…
And most importantly, the woman who will soon sit on the stool behind the platformed kit being unveiled onstage right now.
The crowd rocks and roars as the logo curtain from the previous band drops, revealing Young Decay’s emblem and stage setup behind it. I smile upon seeing the decaying ribcage, the dark red YD written in the middle.
Young Decay.
Young Decay.
The rallying call makes me chuckle.
The band is still fifteen minutes out from hitting the stage. Still, I know these fans will chant their name up until the first kick on the drum.
I cross my arms over my chest, biceps straining against the snug-fitting Young Decay security tee, and muse over the illuminated crowd again, taking careful time to scope out the darkest corners and make note of those who are already planning their pit circles.
I wish I was in there with them.
It’s been too fucking long since I’ve worked a metal show, even longer since I’ve attended one of Young Decay’s concerts.
Though, that isn’t the last time I sawher.
My stomach warps at the mere thought of her. She’s the entire reason I started doing concert security in the first place and the only basis for working my ass off and climbing the ladder in this industry. Just to get here. To get the job as her head of security.
To breathe the same air as her without my mask.
She’s my kryptonite, my entire world, the one person I can’t imagine life without.
Even if I only exist in her nightmares, at least I exist somewhere—for now.
