Page 19

I shift my gaze around again. We’re tucked into the back corner of the wings, mostly hidden behind a stack of speakers, and it doesn’t take me long to find the source of the voices.

No surprise—it’s Mick. Of course it’s fucking Mick.

The frontman of Six of Hearts, the band Jace is opening for.

He’s standing just off to the side, in the wings, casually chatting with one of his bandmates, clearly unaware anyone might be listening in.

And judging by the snatches of chatter still crackling through my earpiece—lighting cues, in-ear mix levels, someone asking about a missing snare—it’s unlikely anyone else is paying attention.

But I am.

And I don’t fucking like what I’m hearing.

This is the first time I’m seeing Mick up close.

Well, sort of. It’s pretty dark over here, but the guy is all dark, anyway.

Dark longish hair, dark clothes, dark scruff…

He blends right in with the surroundings.

And yeah, he’s hot. Yes, I’m at the point where I can appreciate the physique of an attractive guy.

But let’s be real, his personality kind of ruins the entire package.

Jace told me about his relentlessness. Of course he did. He tells me everything .

He told me that Mick is flirting with him, trying to get him in bed, and is pushing the boundaries every damn time. He told me about the label, how they want to use this for publicity, and it sucks. It sucks very much, but I trust Jace. He’s been honest about it, and I love him even more for that.

I have to admit, though, maybe I am too lax about this. But that’s not because I don’t believe him. Not at all. It’s just... I’m not really a jealous person to begin with, I’m not scared that something will happen, because it won’t.

I don’t like seeing them together on socials and in the media, of course I don’t. But it’s easier to just laugh about the absurdity of it, to not make it a thing. Because it’s not a thing if we’re not making it a thing. And it’s not like shit is going to happen, anyway.

Like I said, I trust Jace. I trust us . We’re solid, him and me. Do we have issues about this whole distance shit? Of course we do. But I know, and he knows, that we’re going to make it. And some whackadoodle, arrogant-ass rockstar isn’t going to change that.

Even if he is one of the most famous frontmen in the world.

Still, as I stare at Mick now, my brows furrowed, expression tight, his gaze flicks past me… then snaps back. His frown deepens into a full-on glare.

I glare right back.

He cocks his head, says something to the guy next to him as he gestures to me—who I now recognize as his brother, the one who’s also in the band.

I can’t hear what they’re saying. I’m guessing they figured out someone was listening in through the comms and muted their mics. Smart, I guess. But if the glare of death Mick’s throwing me now is any indication? Yeah, his brother probably just told him who I am.

When I shift my focus from Mick to the other guy, I think his name is Bowie, he catches my eye and offers me a friendly smile. At least one of them doesn’t have an ego the size of an elephant, and I give him a hesitant smile back.

Jodie elbows me again, and I finally manage to tear my gaze away, focusing on the little firecracker who’s about to leave a permanent bruise on my side.

She points at the stage, and I kinda want to kick myself in the nuts for spacing out, I completely missed the last song, one of my favorites.

Thank fuck I still have two more shows to watch in the next three days before I have to leave again.

My smile is instant, wide and unstoppable, when my amazing man belts out the next couple of lines.

Mick? Forgotten. Completely erased from my brain.

Because Jace does that to me. He’s like this gravitational force; everything else just ceases to fucking exist when he’s around.

And right now? He’s a mighty sight to behold.

I recognize the last song as soon as the opening notes hit—hell, I could probably play their setlist in my sleep—and my grin stretches so wide I swear the corners of my cheeks are about to fucking split.

It’s our song. My song.

“Breached .”

I get elbowed again by Jodie, gentler this time, and when I can manage to look away from my awesome guy, she’s all smiles. There’s a glint in her eye that says she knows exactly what this song means.

I know she’s just starting out as a manager, and Encore is her first big gig, but so far, I honestly think she’s a perfect fit for them.

If the stories about the music industry are even halfway true, like we’re experiencing now with the whole Mick shit, they’re going to need someone solid in their corner—someone who actually gives a shit. Someone who’ll stand by them and have their backs when it really counts.

Looks like they’ve found that in her.

“Don’t mind him. I’m a firm believer in the fact that I inherited all the good genes,” a voice pipes up from my left, loud enough to be heard above the roar of the music.

I glance over to see Bowie stepping closer so we can talk, hands in the pockets of his dark jeans, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Is he always like this?” I ask, voice raised as well, my head close to his.

“He’s not that bad,” Bowie replies with a shrug, scratching the back of his tattooed neck while bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. “We mostly just ignore him when he gets like this, ya know?”

“Like an arrogant, obnoxious ass, you mean?” I wince the second the words leave my mouth. The guy is still his brother, after all.

But Bowie just throws his head back and laughs, a high-pitched cackle that’s borderline maniacal. “I like you.” He grins, winking at me before slapping me on the back, hard . “And Jace too, for that matter. Anyone who can take my brother down a peg or two? Instantly top-tier friend material.”

“I wasn’t trying to—” I start, really not intending to start any issues between both bands, but he waves it off.

“Nah. Doesn’t matter. He needs people who don’t kiss his fucking ass, ya know?

Keeps him grounded—well, somewhat .” Bowie’s grin fades just a bit, a hint of something more serious sneaking into his blue eyes.

“Truth is, he’s been a bit... off lately.

All this pressure for more, more more , pushing out another album to stay on top, the fucking headlines—it messes with your head, ya know? Even when you pretend it doesn’t.”

I nod slowly, filing that bit of insight away for future reference. “Still doesn’t excuse the crap he’s been pulling with Jace.”

Bowie sighs, bouncing on his feet again.

“Nah, it doesn’t, I know. And I’ve told him that.

More than once. But ya know how it is—big ego, bigger spotlight, blah blah.

Makes for a toxic mix if no one calls you out.

” He squints toward the stage, watching Jace for a beat.

“He doesn’t get told ‘no’ very often, ya know? ”

“Well,” I say, deadpan, “he’s about to get used to it.”

Bowie huffs a laugh and offers his fist for a quick tap. “Seriously. I think I like you even more now.”

I bump his fist with a small grin of my own, but before I can reply, his name crackles faintly through the headset. He checks the time, gives me a quick nod, and starts backing away toward the opposite side of the wings.

“Gotta get ready for our set,” he calls, tossing me a mock salute. “Tell ya boy to keep blowing our fans away—he’s killing it out there, ya know?”

“I know!” I call after him, chuckling, before shifting my attention from the energetic drummer back to the stage—and there he is.

Jace.

He’s moving, dancing, singing—but not just to the crowd anymore. No, his eyes are locked on me now, zeroed in, a slow, sly grin spreading over his face as he makes his way across the stage, mic in hand, hips swaying with the beat.

Everything about him—his presence, his power, his voice—is magnetic. He owns that stage. Hell, he owns me .

And I can’t fucking look away.

Even though I’m really glad the crowd can’t see me right now, because—fuck me—he’s solely focused on me , singing the dirty, filthy lines about how he fucked me for the first time.

How he breached me for the first time.

I will my cheeks not to heat, but thank fuck it’s dark as hell here in the wings, so nobody— especially douchebag Mick—can see me blushing like a damn schoolgirl.

I don’t even hear the roar of the crowd when he finally comes off stage.

I don’t notice his band members, the crew, Bowie, Mick, the yelling and chanting and singing.

I only see him.

My Jace.

He makes a beeline for me, smirk wide, hair drenched in sweat—his chest, too.

His shirt is long gone, has been since around song number four, which the audience clearly appreciated.

I barely get a smile in before he thrusts his mic and earpiece into the hands of the first crew member he passes.

Then he’s on me, fingers in my hair—nearly pushing my cap off—body surging into mine, and his mouth hot on my lips.

The kiss is pure, undiluted, exhilarating heat . My lips part eagerly as he pushes his tongue in, and my hands dig into the hot, smooth skin of his back.

Fuck, I’ve missed him so bad.

Even during this show, where he was only on stage for less than an hour, I felt the distance, the ache. Even though he was just a couple of feet away, it still wasn’t close enough. And every minute, every second I do get to be with him? That’s a precious moment I don’t want to waste.

So fuck it.

Fuck the crowd, the crew, his band members, and especially Mick. Fuck the rumors, the gossip, the management team that wants to milk Mick’s obsession for sales.

He’s mine . And he’ll always be mine.

I kiss him back with everything I have, let my tongue swirl around his, pull him closer until his sweat-slick chest is flush with mine. His breath huffs hot against my cheek as we both try to breathe through our noses, neither of us willing to break the kiss.