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 probablyjusttold 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 amightysight 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’soursong.Mysong.
“Breached.”
I get elbowedagainby 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 notthatbad,” 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 guyisstill 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 formore, 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 checksthe 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 ownsme.
And I can’t fucking look away.
