“Hell, yeah! She missed, but it turned into a full-on wrestling match. I thought she was messing around, like some weird foreplay or something, but nah, girl was deadly serious. Left claw marks on my thigh, man.”
I wince. “She’s got a lot of fire crammed into that tiny body.”
“You’re tellin’ me. I wanna help her, though. I care about her, even if she wants to murder me right now.”
That gives me pause. Tank’s not the type to spill feelings. So if he’s admitting that? It’s real.
I nod. “Then be there when she’s ready.”
“That’s the plan. But until then…” he smirks and tosses me a pair of gloves, “… you better stop slacking, ’cause this shit’s not lifting itself.”
I catch them mid-air, chuckling. “You missed me.”
“Like a hemorrhoid.”
***
The stage is set.
The crowd’s pouring in like a wave of adrenaline.
The energy builds with every single beat that echoes through the arena.
The lighting’s locked in, pre-show filters cycling across the LED boards, casting colored glows over the excited faces. You can almost taste the electricity crackling in the air. It’s the kind of buzz that gets under your skin in the best fucking way.
I’m perched up in the rafters, legs swinging over the edge, sitting next to Tank and Jay, overlooking the chaos below. From this height, it all looks surreal. Thousands of eager fans packed shoulder to shoulder, eyes wide with anticipation, waiting for the show to explode into life.
It’s a damn good view.
But there’s one flaw in this perfect picture.
Swift Divisionis up first.
And while I’m technically supposed to be up here monitoring the rigging during their set, because it’s literally my job, I can’t stomach watching that smug bastard Jett pretend he’s rock royalty.
Not when I know the truth.
“Hey, I gotta hit the head,” I mutter, standing up and brushing my palms on my jeans. “Be back before the show starts.”
Tank mock salutes me with a smirk. “Don’t get lost, lover boy.”
I shoot him a glare but grin anyway, walking across the catwalk with the practiced ease of someone who’s lived up here more than on the ground lately. I know I’m ditching my post, but Tank and Jay have it handled. They’re solid.
Truth is, I can’t stop thinking abouther.
Effa.
That tiny purple leather dress she wears onstage, the one that hugs her curves like it was stitched to her skin, and those thigh-high boots…
Mental note: I’m fucking her in those boots. No question. No exceptions.
It’s wild how different she looks onstage compared to off. Usually, she’s all floaty skirts and band tees, like a retro goddess dipped in glitter. But when she gets on that stage, she’s fire and leather and sex on heels. The contrast isintoxicating.
I shake my head, smirking to myself as I slide down the pole and drop to the back of the stage. Glancing through the curtains, I take in the sea of fans. It’s a full house tonight. The atmosphere is thick with anticipation.
This is Effa’s element, and she’s going to eat it up.
Turning away from the crowd, I spin around and slam chest-first into someone solid.
