scurried about one last time, checking on the two guitars, bass, a microphone and a drum kit that had been set up hours ago. When the lights darkened, the crowd that had swelled to fill the venue’s capacity, at what I estimated to be over a thousand people by that point, went bananas. They were animals, and it was as scary as it was exciting. In the pitch-black auditorium, a wispy voice began singing softly, making the fans shriek even louder.
With a flash of elaborate, multicolored LED lights on a huge panel behind the massive drum kit, the stage lit up like fireworks in July, illuminating two guitar players who had come out of nowhere, a bass player and a drummer already onstage.
The lyrics and the song floated through the air in a whisper, the notes the singer was hitting unidentifiable, and it was over—in an emotional sense, that is.
While Gordo had a good, deep voice that was rounded and almost hoarse, the singer onstage was the complete opposite. His tone was slightly higher, breathy and incredibly strong, piercing through the air with its clarity and tone. And the range he had… good grief.
I could only see an outline of a man walking on the stage with an energy and charisma that every person in the audience including me, couldn’t tear their eyes away from. I focused on everything going on: the explosion of yellows and reds on the LED panel behind all the music equipment, that beautiful melodic voice and the catchy instrumentals that flared after the opening verse.
It was love. Plain, easy, uncomplicated love.
Unfortunately for me, a ton of fans decided to come buy merchandise during the set. Trying to hustle about and sell as quickly as possible, I kept an eye and an ear out for the singer’s dynamic presence. He was so good. Well, the entire band was. Catchy, a mix of pop rock, indie and prog—they were a genre of their own. During the quick glances I could take when I wasn’t busy, the long, sinewy figure in black dress pants and a gray button-down shirt and tie moved and jumped in time with the rhythm constantly.
The next hour and half blew by in a mix of amazing music and sales. Watching the old pickle jar on the corner of the table fill up with bills kept me shooting smiles at all the people buying stuff, even though a part of me wanted them out of my face so I could enjoy the band playing.
During brief breaks between their set, the singer would talk to the crowd, thanking them for their presence and support, or he’d introduce the next song. At one point, a bra went airborne and smacked him in the arm in the middle of a song. The singer picked it up by the strap without missing a note and draped it over the microphone stand, letting it stay there for the remainder of the set.
It was a beautiful kind of insanity watching The Cloud Collision and their audience interact. It was easy, then, between the smiles I’d share with the guy “next door” named Carter, and the screaming, earplug-to-mouth chats I had with Ghost Orchid fans, to forget about why I was going to spend the next few months of my life with my three male best friends and eight strangers.
In the madness that ensued once the band finished their encore performance, in his swanky, tenor voice, the singer thanked everyone for coming out. I relished it all. The nonstop hustle to pull shirts out of one of the bins, while making sure I marked down every sale on the tally sheet correctly, was old and familiar. Before I knew it, the security in the venue was trying to usher fans out while Carter and I packed up the bins and tore down the racks. Usually the band would be trying to load the trailer at the same time so I wasn’t too sure who was going to come and help me take the bins out. In the past, one of the idiots would come inside and help me carry everything.
Carter must have read my mind because he waved a hand as he rounded his table. “I’ll get the dolly,” he said.
Well, that explained a lot. Over the course of the concert, I’d seen the size of Carter’s wrists and biceps. I was more muscular than he was and that wasn’t saying much; I was a runner, not a weightlifter. By the amount of bins and boxes he had stashed on his side, there was no way he was going to be able to carry those things all the way to the bus. I finished tearing down Ghost Orchid’s display while Carter came back. We helped each other carry our backbreaking bins onto the flatbed dolly before he took it upon himself to wheel them out while I pushed both of the tables onto their sides and folded the legs in.
“Flabby!” Eli hollered from across the empty auditorium, skipping around the employees busy mopping the floor. “You need help?”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “You’re like thirty minutes too late. Carter and I are pretty much done.”
The asshole had the nerve to snap his fingers as if he was disappointed he missed out. “I’ll help you carry the tables so we can get going.”
As we walked out, I told him how good the show had been and even mentioned how well he played. After more than ten years of drum lessons and an intense practice routine, he really was good. Eli had somehow managed to avoid doing any actual schoolwork in middle and high school using his drumming skills as an excuse with our parents. Copying my homework when I was asleep or copying whatever girl was dumb enough to share with him, helped too. Luckily for him, it paid off. My dance classes as a kid had only afforded me the opportunity to not look like a complete ass at prom.
Once we made it outside, Eli steered us toward the huge trailer hitched to the back of the bus. My shoulders began burning from carrying the two tables in an uncomfortable position. Four other men stood inside the massive trailer, trying to arrange the protective flight cases of musical equipment in an orderly manner. I recognized two of them from The Cloud Collision’s performance and the third man was their sound guy, who had been checking their equipment before they’d played. Gordo’s presence rounded out the four men packing the trailer.
“We’re stopping at a travel center on the way out of here, so if you wanna shower, grab your shit from your suitcase,” Eli said. He leaned toward me before taking a quick sniff and pulling back with a frown. “Take a fucking shower. I’m begging you.”
“Shut up,” I laughed, taking a step away from him.
I wasn’t going to lie. I had taken a whiff of my armpits when I’d been breaking down the tables and it hadn’t been pleasant. Not at all. I had a feeling I was going to end up buying some men’s deodorant soon or I’d steal Eli’s. Whatever was easier.
Walking toward the front of the bus, I saw someone bent over at the hips, looking through the compartment where the suitcases were stashed. The bare upper body, shadow of dark hair and a full-sleeve tattoo caught my eye while I stopped behind him. “Mason.”
He stopped moving around for a second before continuing to push things over in his endless search for his luggage.
“Mason.”
Nothing.
“Mason, you dick,” I said again.
When he laughed from inside at the same time that I took a step forward, I frowned. I would swear on my life it happened in slow motion. My foot went up on its own, eyeing the target—his ass—at the same time I spotted someone stepping out of the bus. It was another bare chest with a full-sleeve tattoo and a dark head of hair. And as the tip of my foot connected with the black dress pant-covered ass, I realized that it wasn’t my supposed future husband, Mason, I had kicked in the ass.
Mase was the one coming out of the bus.
Chapter Three
Mason—the bastard, asshole, prick, dick—that he is, doubled over in laughter when he saw my face turn bright red at the same time I squealed, “I’m so sorry!”
