Page 94 of Pack Me Up

I do another sweep, counting security on my side, checking that the angle to the stage isn’t blocked by anyone or anything. There are maybe two dozen people in the first row who look capable of hopping the barrier, but I can pick out the real trouble from the way their eyes scan the perimeter instead of the band. I clock a guy in a baseball cap, backwards, hoodie pulled up even in this humidity, leaning too far forward every time Brittney hits a high note. He’s probably harmless, but my fingers itch. I log his position: Row One, Center-Left, hands visible, no weapons.

I let my gaze drift back to Brittney. Her set’s halfway through and she hasn’t missed a beat, hasn’t slipped once on the slick boards. The roadies salted the stage with anti-slip powder but it’s mostly melted, and yet she’s perfectly balanced, moving like she rehearsed in a monsoon. Every step, every stomp, she lands with the confidence of someone who knows the world is watching and dares it to look away.

Somewhere in the chorus, she shrugs off the jacket, tosses it behind her, and the audience loses its collective mind. The tank top underneath is wet enough to leave nothing to the imagination, and every muscle, every curve, is lit by the fever-dream glare of the overheads. She spins back to the crowd, and I can see my bite mark on her wrist, proudly displayed for the world to see.

For a second, I’m just a fan, lost in the spectacle, wanting nothing more than to lose myself in the noise and light and her.

Then the radio crackles again: “Saint moving left. Rotate to rear check in sixty.”

The set’s nearly done with three songs left. I do another crowd scan, working from the pit to the back wall, looking for anything out of place.

You learn to trust your instincts in this line of work.

There, in the middle of the pit, stands a man with his back to me. He’s still as a statue, hands in the pockets of a windbreaker, hood up even though it’s too tight for the shape of his skull.

I watch the way he stands, the exact angle of his left knee, the subtle hunch in his shoulders, the way he keeps his gaze slightly lowered, never looking anyone in the eye. It’s a pose meant to fade him into the background, but to me it screams: predator. Every muscle in my body is on alert. As he turns just enough to check the exits, I catch the line of his jaw, the set of his mouth under a new-grown beard.

My blood goes ice.

It’s one of Brittney’s fathers.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be anywhere near this venue, not with the layers of security, the bans, the restraining orders, the whole parade of legal bullshit Saint lined up to keep her safe. But he’s here, and if he’s here, it means everything we’ve done to protect her is just a thin layer of tissue paper.

I freeze for a second, brain scrambling for the play. Do I call in the pack? Do I radio the security lead, get this asshole tackled and out before he can blink? My thumb hovers over the button, but then a different thought worms its way in: this is a trap. He wants us to notice. Wants us to panic, to draw every ounce of attention and muscle away from Brittney.

If I escalate, if I sound the alarm, it’ll split our defenses. Whoever’s got her right now, probably Saint, maybe Hunter, is going to have their hands full.

I do the math, fast. We’re far apart, but if I move now, maybe I can grab him before it becomes a fucking circus.

I move. Quiet at first, then faster, a half-jog that takes me through puddles and the mosh pit of fans.

Someone steps into my path, and he’s out of sight for maybe three seconds. I break into a run, splashing through mud, cutting the distance by half. By the time I get there, he’s gone. I scan every angle, but it’s like he vanished into the rain.

My pulse is a hammer. I force myself to slow down, to think. He’s not a ghost. He’s a man, flesh and blood, and he can only have gone so far.

“One of Brittney’s fathers was in the crowd but I’ve lost them. You four need to stick close to her and protect her in case this is a trap while I look for him,” I say through the radio.

“Copy. I have her with me now,” Fox confirms.

“Fucking find him, Colton,” Saint demands and I listen.

I check the pit and the perimeter, pushing fans out of my way. Beyond that, the walkways are empty.

I walk the length of the lower bowl, scanning every stand, every shadow. I don’t see him anywhere. This place is full of too many people to find him again.

My stomach knots. I want to punch through the stadium, drag him back, make him face Brittney, and tell her he failed. But he’s gone. And the only thing that matters now is making sure he didn’t leave anything behind.

I circle back, checking every shadow, every alcove. My nerves are shot, but my focus is diamond-bright. Every face in the crowd gets catalogued, every movement tracked. I don’t relax, not even when I see my mate surrounded by brothers.

Saint gets right to it: “Report.”

“He was here,” I say. “In the pit. He saw me coming and bolted before I could grab him. Slipped through the crowd. He’s gone for now.”

Hunter scowls. “That’s impossible. The security at the doors has their pictures. They should be double-checking everyone.”

“He has a new beard, but still someone is getting fired after we review the security tapes,” I say.

Saint absorbs it all, eyes flat and glacial. “You think he’ll try again?”