And thank fuck all of these men are more tolerable than Tobias.
Maybe this gig won’t be so bad after all…
“I was wondering if I could get some pre-show pictures of you all,” I ask, gesturing to the bag slung over my shoulders. “We could even do them here. I just want to give the fans a little sneak peek of what it’s like backstage. Make you all a little more personable.”
“That’s a great idea,” one of the twins—I think it’s Daire—pipes. “Just tell me where you want us, boss.”
“Where you were before was perfect,” I say, movingto set my bag on the coffee table between the couches. My gaze flicks briefly to Tobias, who’s scrolling on his phone and not paying me a bit of attention, before I pull out my camera. “These will just be casual candids.”
“That works out because our girlfriend goes on stage in just a few,” Steele says, gesturing to the flatscreen. Suddenly, everything makes sense; they’re in here to watch the openers perform.
As soon as I’ve got my camera ready, the dressing room door bangs open and Sebastian struts in, crashing onto the couch next to Tobias. Figures that those two would stick together. Two assholes in a pod, or whatever the saying is.
“Perfect, the gang’s all here,” I say, holding up the camera and aiming it at the group. “Smile. Just kidding.”
I snap a photo and check the lighting, zooming in on their faces. Everything is in focus and the lighting is decent enough for candids, but there’s one thing in the image that I hadn’t noticed when I took it.
Tobias’ vibrant golden eyes glaring right at me.
Chapter 6
Tobias
My annoyance at the human’s presence grows the longer I’m stuck in a room with her. Who the hell needs a hundred pictures of us sitting around a TV watching our openers?
I keep quiet and ignore her to the best of my ability, which is difficult when the rest of the band is getting along with her so well. The twins are making her laugh, and Emrys is asking her about trivial shit like office work that I couldn’t give less of a fuck about. Sebastian doesn’t say much, but he isn’t wrapped up in tension the way I am, so I know he’s not bothered.
I grit my teeth, keeping my eyes locked on the screen to avoid looking at her, letting my mind wander.
How do none of them see how much of a danger she poses? How all of this—the money, fortune,and fame—will disappear in a blink if she opens her mouth about our identities? They obviously don’t care as much as I do, which only grates my nerves further, but it’s pointless to bring it up. Sebastian’s made his stance clear, and everyone will just go along with what he says.
I’m obviously on my own in my resentment.
When we finally escape the dressing room and head toward the stage, relief washes over me. All thoughts of the human—Jackie? Josephine?—fade to nothing as the energy from the fans hits my system. It’s palpable, even before we make it to the auditorium, throbbing through the hallways of the venue like lifeblood. Ripe for the taking.
I’m starving, the need to feed so intense it makes my bones ache, but I wait. It’s always much sweeter when we take the stage and the audience’s excitement soars to unprecedented heights; that feeling never gets old. When we finally emerge onto the darkened stage, shifting through the few purple lights illuminating our instruments, the fans roar, and I finally let go of my self restraint.
Delicious, rich energy slams into my system, filling me like a vessel as I take a seat at my drums. I adjust my earpiece through my mask and grab my drumsticks, twirling them ritualistically like I do before every show. Then I wait, counting down the seconds to the first note, to that infernal growl of Sebastian’s that makes everyone’s hair stand on end and drives the crowd wild.
Everything about our set is perfectly coordinated, even though we haven’t practiced in weeks. With Niki getting closer to her due date, Sebastian has hardly beenreliable outside of actual performances, and the twins are stuck so far up their mate’s ass that we rarely see them anymore. Emrys and I could practice, I guess, but to what end?
No, as long as everyone knows their shit and performs like they have the last fifty times, we should be fine.
The only change from our last set, which went off without a hitch, is the woman slinking around the stage taking pictures of us as we play our first song. I try to ignore her, hitting every beat and tearing up my drums like it’s the last night I’ll ever be on stage, but my eyes jump to her every time she moves.
What if she trips? What if she falls off the stage? My thoughts wander.
She better get some damn good photos after all this.
The song changes, the tempo picking up, and I shove her out of my mind, focusing on the music. I let it fill me, flowing through my veins like the energy pouring off the crowd. The arena is bursting with vitality; it’s soaked into every crevice of the space, pounding against my skin, but I’m too full to absorb any more. I’m swimming in the high that comes with being completely satiated, reveling in the adrenaline that being onstage gives me.
I’m floating. Living.Thriving.
As soon as even a little of my energy is expended by banging the hell out of the drums, it's replenished. I could go on like this forever.
A smirk lifts the corner of my mouth beneath the mask. A handful of years ago, when I was slummingthrough the darkest depths of Hell, surviving on whispers of energy that souls dragged with them after they died, I never imagined being here. Not on stage in front of a crowd, and definitely not surrounded by the utter tidal wave of energy crushing down on us.
We’ve come so far—I’ve come so far—from where we used to be, and now everything hangs in the balance. Like the foundation we’ve built this career on is cracking beneath our feet, and it’ll crumble at any second.
