Page 177 of Just Wait

I might have to ask the guys to take me to one.

The walkways near the seats are lit with LED lights to allow concertgoers to safely visit the restrooms, merch shop, or concession stands while the rest of the stadium, or whatever it’s called, is dark.

I sat through Tangled Desires’ final set on the tour, and it wasn’t painful. I might try to find Remmy after the show to say goodbye. Out of the band, I was the closest with him, but I also feel like it might make more sense to just make a clean break.

Liminal’s song comes to an end, and I’m happy to see everyone has stayed in their seats—at least so far.

Wren and I are three rows back from the front with Kasey and another bodyguard named John framing us.

“We haven’t done this one for a while,” Kincaid purrs into his microphone. “You’re in for a real treat.”

The fans scream and whistle.

I’m equally excited to see which song they’re about to play.

It’s rare that they don’t name it, but I know within thirty seconds that it’s “Bloody Rivals.” It wouldn’t have taken that long if the audience wasn’t losing their minds.

It really is an oldie but a goodie.

Kincaid has an unbelievable range, and at first, he’s just serenading the audience. They sound slightly different in their neon masks, since they don’t have the normal cutouts, but the audience doesn’t seem to mind.

Also, unless someone has been to a ton of concerts, I doubt it would be noticeable.

The song goes from Kincaid’s low, raspy tones to Malcolm shredding the hell out of his guitar.

It’s shocking, and it’s meant to be.

Riser and Tennyson finally join in.

Parish comes in a few seconds later, and Malcolm and Kincaid harmonize their voices.

I find myself sitting forward in my seat. It’s tempting to stand, but I don’t want to be that inconsiderate asshole who blocks other people’s views.

Goose bumps pebble on my skin as Kincaid finishes out the verse, sliding his tattooed hand down the mic stand. Malcolm strums away as Kincaid gets his guitar in place and switches to singing and playing.

The song picks up, and Riser gets the spotlight. Two of the aerial performers spiral toward the ground on their silks as he picks up speed.

Sweat lines my hairline, a particularly annoying bead sliding down my spine.

Damn.

I was comfortable three minutes ago.

There’s just something about watching them play that makes my soul sizzle. Then again, I’m pretty sure every woman in the audience feels the same way.

Wren grabs my forearm, leaning over the bar that separates our seats. “Damn, girl. Did you stop taking your suppressants?”

I finally pull my eyes off the stage, turning toward her. I have to get close to her ear, otherwise she’ll never be able to hear me.

“What?” I ask. “I’m a beta.”

She wraps her hand around my jaw, tilting my face until she’s sure that I’ll be able to hear her. “Seriously? Jesus. Sorry. I guess my nose is malfunctioning.”

I laugh it off and focus back on the show, but it kinda sucks being reminded that I’ll never be one of those coveted omegas.

Hanging around the greenroom is always strange when the guys aren’t around.

Wren sits on the floor in the same position Tennyson was in before the show. She cuts up lines like she’s a pro, but I’m not about to judge.