Heavy rock music drifts from the stage that’s surrounded by people milling around. The words from the band are muffled, barely understandable to my untrained, untalented ears. Nolan avoids the bar to instead stand among the crowd. He pushes through the sweaty bodies, and I follow after him like a planet in his dizzying orbit. Nolan comes to a stop halfway to the front, hands tucked into his jeans as he stares listlessly up at the stage.
No one around us seems to notice that Nolan Hastings is standing in their presence. The boy who rose to fame from YouTube, handpicked by a television show host, to become one of the most famous rock musicians of our generation. In the darkness of the bar, he’s hidden away so that he can only be himself. And for a wild second, I get it. At this moment he’s not Nolan Hastings, he’s just Nolan, standing in a crowd listening to mostly shitty music.
Nolan bobs his head to the music with an assessing look in his eyes. It takes every ounce of restraint inside me to stop myself from reaching out to him. I want to feel the music quaking through his bones, through the flesh of his body. I want to kiss him in the dark bar and fuck his mouth with my tongue until he melts against me with burning need.
Nolan makes me want, after so many years of just going through the motions. But he also pisses me off like nothing else. Nolan’s an enigma of epic proportions that I think I could spend my entire goddamn life trying to solve. Only to end up empty-handed. Like a bird fleeing the nest once big enough to fly.
The music comes to an end after what feels like forever. The stage goes dark and Nolan presses his body against mine for one thrilling moment.
“Stay here,” Nolan whispers for only me to hear.
“Okay.”
I watch him disappear towards the edge of the throng, my eyebrows scrunched in confusion. The crowd murmurs among themselves for an endless age, until someone from the bar climbs onto the stage with a frenzied grin. Oh no.
“We’ve got a special treat tonight, folks! Give a big hand to Nolan Hastings!”
The entire crowd is silent for a brief second before breaking into raucous applause. My stomach roils at the sight of Nolan walking to the front of the stage. He curls his fingers around the microphone, his eyes dark, hiding a depth of something that I wish I understood. He carefully situates himself on the stool and grabs the acoustic guitar to his left.
“Hi,” Nolan says into the microphone with a breathy laugh. Someone in the crowd whistles and Nolan squints their way. “Thanks, love. I felt like doing something acoustic tonight. Anyway, if you know the song, sing along. If you don’t know it, then shut the fuck up so everyone can hear me.”
The crowd laughs and a few more whistles fill the air again. Nolan places the mic back in the stand, then turns his attention to the guitar. He plucks a few strings slowly, setting the mood for whatever song he’s about to sing. When he opens his mouth, I suddenly know what people are talking about when they say someone has the voice of an angel. Nolan’s voice is melodic, deep, and it feels like a punch to the chest when I finally understand the words. Despite listening to his songs on repeat for months, something about hearing him in person is different. His tone is deeper, striking through the tender core of me.
His fingers glide over the neck of the guitar, easily bringing the melody to life. But his voice is haunting as he sings lyrics about being ruined at a young age. Toward the end of the song, his gaze lifts from the guitar to flit over the audience. I’m not sure he can see me with the lights, but his gaze somehow lands on me anyway, and the corner of his mouth tips up in a poor imitation of a smile.
When he finishes the song, the entire crowd claps like they’ve just seen God return to the earth. Maybe they have. Nolan has that effect on people. He carefully places the guitar back in its stand and gives a wave to the crowd, before climbing offstage. I push through the bodies to beeline it straight for him. My blood is rushing in my ears, fingers itching with the need to grab him, do anything. Just touch him.
By the time I reach the stage, Nolan is surrounded by fans. He happily takes selfies as if his fame doesn’t haunt him at every fucking step. The perfect celebrity. It takes fifteen minutes before everyone is satisfied with pictures or hastily drawn autographs on arms. Nolan tips his head in the direction of the back of the bar once the fans are gone. I follow along behind him, and join him at a two-seater table top.
“You want something to drink?” Nolan asks, voice low and going straight to my cock. Fuck.
“Can I?”
Nolan rolls his eyes. “Can you?”
I can feel my eye twitch in irritation. “I’ll get something to drink. You want something?”
Nolan shakes his head. I disappear toward the bar without a backward glance. I return to Nolan with a cheap bottle of beer in my grip. He tilts his head to the side when I rejoin him.
“I took you for a liquor boy.”
I shrug and take a slow sip of my beer. “Not much of an alcohol drinker at all.”
“Shame,” Nolan says sourly. “Drink for me.”
“Why?”
Nolan digs around in his pocket for his wallet, pulling out a thick coin. He moves it around between his fingers a few times, the perfect picture of a gambler before placing a bet. His smile is wry and teasing as he finally shows it off to me.
“Five years sober.”
I’d forgotten the headlines. He’d been drunk on stage, puked everywhere, then carted off to rehab for a few months. He’d just barely been twenty-one at the time. Uneasiness rolls through me as he pockets the medallion back into his wallet.
“Is it safe for you to be at a bar?” I ask like an idiot.
Nolan rolls his eyes again. “I’m a rockstar. There’s alcohol and drugs everywhere I go.”
“Ever scared of relapsing?”
