Alas, here I am, in a foreign country, ready to find him. Also, who the fuck starts an international tour in Australia, of all places?
With my suitcase in hand, I make my way outside, where I have a driver waiting for me. There’s no way I was going to rideshare in a foreign country. I’m not looking to die today.
It’s still early, and way before check-in time at the hotel but, thankfully, I’m able to pay a little extra and check in now. I consider showering before passing out but, ultimately, my heavy eyes and exhausted body win. I swear, I’m out before my head even hits the pillow.
* * *
The stadium Wicked Heartsis performing in tonight is fucking massive. And jam packed. It’s a sold-out show. I had to pay, like, triple the regular price to even get a ticket in a half-decent seat. None of the VIP passes were available, and my whole plan is to get backstage and force Caspian to talk to me, so without the pass, I don’t know how I’ll manage. Maybe I can sweet talk one of the security guards or something.
The lights dim as they get set up on stage. The opening act was good. Not anybody I’ve heard of before, but I wouldn’t mind listening to more of them. This isn’t the first Wicked Hearts concert I’ve been to, but itisthe first show of theirs since I’ve been become ridiculously and annoyingly infatuated with their drummer. It makes the show feel so different from the previous ones.
My focus is solely on Caspian tonight. I’ve never played the drums, nor will I ever pretend to know anything about the instrument, but the way he holds himself while he plays exudes confidence and knowledge, and it’s beyond sexy. He gets lost in the music and the routine in the song, arms going wild as the sticks strike the drums. He never stops moving, never misses a beat.
His dark hair hangs in his face, stringy and stuck to his skin from perspiration, and he’s in an all-black tank top and black skinny jeans. I can’t see his feet, but I’d be willing to guess he’s in a pair of all-black Converse to match the rest of his outfit. Rings adorn almost every single long finger, and tattoos cover almost every square inch of exposed flesh. They’re all patchwork, all done at different times, I’m sure, yet they somehow match perfectly among one another. He’s a rock ‘n’ roll work of art up there, performing song after song.
It’s not often he looks into the crowd, his focus mainly inward, but when he does, I swear, it’s like his gaze finds mine—which I know is absurd. I’m in shitty seats up high, so there’s no way he can see me through the flashing lights attacking the stage. But for now, I find solace in thinking he can see me, or sense me, in the crowd, and when he looks up, it’s to find me. I find comfort in pretending he finds comfort from my presence.
After the show is over and they’ve done their final encore, the lights dim and it becomes a stampede, everyone trying to race for the exits. Similar to deboarding a plane, I’ll never understand everyone’s rush to get out as fast as possible. Something obnoxiously close to butterflies flutters in my stomach as I make my way to the stage, hoping to schmooze my way back, my throat dry and achy, tongue feeling too big for my mouth. Every single ounce of nervousness I’ve tried to avoid and shove down as far as possible since making the decision to come here has emerged, refusing to be ignored.
I actually think I might get sick if they don’t calm the fuck down.
All of this, me flying down here, is simply in the hopes of getting him to listen to me. The look on his face after he found the journal haunts me. The anger, the hurt, the betrayal, it was all so harsh. So sharp. At first, when I saw the journal in his hand, a flush of embarrassment passed through me. The shit I wrote about him, about us, probably sounded obsessive and ridiculous. There’s no way he’d want to be with me after readingthat.
But then it quickly became abundantly clear that he’d gotten the wrong idea. That I somehow did him wrong. It happened so fast.
Standing in front of what looks like the only way backstage is a man who is abnormally tall. He’s bald and wearing black shades, despite us being inside and it not even being bright in here, and he’s got his massive, tree-trunk arms folded over his chest, the word “SECURITY” scrawled across the front of his black shirt in large, bold letters.
“Hey, man,” I murmur with a smile and a wave. “Great show, am I right?”
Deadpan face, zero expression.Alright.“Exit’s the other way,” he states, his voice deep like thunder.
A nervous laugh comes out of me. “Actually, not trying to leave. I’m trying to get back there to see my friend, Caspian. You know, the drummer.”
“I’m well aware of who Caspian is.”
“Right, of course.”This isn’t going as well as I’d hoped.“Well, I’ll just push by you and be out of your way.”
Inching forward one single step, his wide hand comes to my chest, stopping me in my tracks. I have to crank my neck back in order to meet his gaze. “I don’t think so, kid. Exit’s the other way,” he repeats.
“Oh, come on.” One single thick brow arches above the black shades at the whine in my tone. “Please? I swear I really do know Cas. Ask him! Well, maybe don’t, because I don’t know if he will want to see me, but—Shit! Let’s pretend you didn’t hear that last part, okay? What I meant to say was,of course,he’ll be happy to see me, but it’s a surprise. Can you help me out? Please!”
With a terse shake of his head, he points behind me. “Get the hell out of here before I escort you out myself.”
Rolling my eyes and heaving aloudsigh, I mutter, “Thanks for fucking nothing,” before doing a walk of shame out of the stadium.
What a fucking fail.
I pull my phone out of my pocket as the evening air brushes over my face. It’s a warm night, but not too warm. It feels nice. Finding the twins’ numbers, I hit the video call button. It doesn’t take long for both of them to answer.
“Shit, did I wake you guys up?”
Both of them are in bed, hair all over the place.
Brynn croaks out a raspy,” Yup,” and Brielle says, “No. I’ve been lying here for the last hour, awake.”
“What time is it there?”
“Eight,” Brynn groans.
