Even typing those four words makes butterflies flutter all around my insides.
I’ll see him tonight.
CHAPTERTHIRTY
Rowan
Fuck, I really should be drunker for this. I don’t know why I thought being sober was the way to handle tonight.
Terrible fucking idea.
My seats tonight aren’t as bad as they were last night, but still not incredible by any means. I would love to be in the pit, as close to Cas as I can get. Be able to watch as the sweat pours down his face as he plays, see his facial expressions up close and personal as he beats the sticks down on the drums.
Okay, I probably wouldn’t be able to see himthatwell from the pit, but a guy can dream.
It’s hot as hell in here, and I’m burning up. The place is packed again tonight, another sold-out show, and for good reason. The opening act just finished their set, and they killed it. I looked them up last night when I couldn’t sleep and added a bunch of their songs to my Spotify. They’re good.
The whole crowd roars as Wicked Hearts takes the stage, the energy in here unmatched. There is something so freeing and exhilarating about concerts. The way the music flows through your veins, so loud you can feel it in your bones. It’s the most alive I’ve ever felt, losing myself to the music, to the beat, the lyrics that feed my soul—lyrics that say so much more than I ever could. They give a voice to feelings that people don’t know how to express.
Being surrounded by people who share a mutual love of the same thing, seeing and feeling their bodies move to the beat, hearing and witnessing the true, raw emotion in the words being sung. It’s indescribable hearing an entire stadium singing along to the music.
There’s truly nothing like it.
But tonight, similar to last night, I can’t seem to focus on anything other than the man behind the drums. I can’t take my eyes off him, watching him get lost in the feeling. If the energy out here is all-consuming and overwhelming in the best fucking way, I can’t even imagine how euphoric it is for them on stage.
Halfway through the show, Cas rips his shirt off, tossing it to the side before opening a bottle of water he pulled out of who the fuck knows where and dumping it all over himself. The crowd goesferalat the sight of him drenched in water. Shaking his head, his long, wet hair flies out of his face as he gets started on the next song. It’s one of my favorites from them and has a fucking incredible drum solo in the middle of it.
Like I’ve said before, I may not know shit about instruments or how to play them, how they work, none of it, but I know for a fucking fact, Caspian is beyond talented in what he does. Watching him play, watching him get lost in the music, is insanely attractive. Something I could watch for hours and never get bored.
They all are. The way they move with one another, the way they complement each other. They perform like they were made to do it together. They put on one hell of a show.
Before I know it, they’re saying their final goodbyes to the crowd, exiting the stage through the back. Everything hits me all at once. The rush of what I just experienced, the anticipation for what’s to come—it wraps around my limbs, spreading and gripping me tightly. I force myself to take steady, even breaths as I wring my hands out at my side. My skin tingles, something like hope or trepidation blooming in my chest, warming me almost uncomfortably. Sweat lines the back of my neck, dripping down into my shirt, soaking it.
I wish I had some extra deodorant.
In the time it takes me to get from my upper one hundred level seat to the area near the stage, where the security blocks the entrance, I’ve played and re-played every single way this encounter could go. Every pleasant way, and every single horrible, heartbreaking way it could play it.
By the time I stop before the giant man blocking my access to Cas, my mind is a foggy, mushy mess, and my heart feels like it’s about to claw its way out of my chest with how fast it’s racing. The man, of course, says nothing. Watching me with a dull expression.
“Hey, I believe there’s a ticket waiting for me to go back there.” My voice shakes, giving way to just how nervous I am.I’d really like to get that under control before I come face to face with Caspian for the first time in over a month.
“Name?” he asks, unfolding his massive arms and peering at the clipboard I didn’t realize he was holding.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Rowan Davies.”
“Right wrist, please.” Doing as he says, I present him with my arm, and he fastens a hot pink band around it. He steps to the side to let me through. “Go through those doors, follow the hallway to the end. Through the door on the left is where the band’s at.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, brushing past him.
It’s now or never, Rowan. Let’s do this.
The walls in this place must be pretty thick because I can’t hear a fucking word coming from that room at the end of the hall, even as I near it. My hand wraps around the surprisingly cool silver knob, twisting it, almost expecting it to be locked, then pushing the wide, heavy door open. The noise from inside finally reaches my ears, the room coming into view. It reminds me of those party rooms you see in the very back of pizza places. It’s an open concept with couches set around the room, a beer bong table, and an air hockey machine. Photos line the vivid white walls, displaying the various artists who have played here.
There aren’t too many people inside. Nothing like what I had in mind. I figured it would be packed with horny, feral groupies begging for a morsel of attention from anyone in the band, but it isn’t that at all. Sure, there are a few people in here who don’t belong with them, but they seem more like friends than fans. The beer pong table is lined with liquor bottles and solo cups, and the earthy, slightly skunky scent of weed hangs in the air, the room having a thin layer of smoke all around.
I spot Caspian before he sees me, and I take the moment to observe him. Admire him. He’s sitting on one of the couches, across from Cory, the band’s bassist. They’re talking about something I can’t hear from here, but it must be funny because Cas throws his head back onto his shoulders, a guttural type of laugh coming from him—a laugh I think most people don’t get the privilege to hear. It’s a melodic sound, one that pebbles my skin and swirls in my gut.
There are parts of Caspian hidden from the public. Parts of him that, should you witness them, you’d feel lucky. That laugh is one of those parts. He’s closed off, slightly jaded, and he tends to take life a little too seriously sometimes, so watching him be free and light and almost child-like is remarkable.