BEDLAM (Young Decay #3)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

GEMMA

The hot summer sun has sweat pouring from me like the devil’s forehead is pressed to my neck and it’s his tears trickling down my spine.

God, it’s hot.

My only saving grace is the upcoming distraction.

Stadium lights illuminate the waves of music festivalgoers on my every side. A massive stage sits at the forefront, currently being reorganized for DeathFest’s opening night headliner band. The sticky air is dripping with humidity and sweat from not only the warm night but also the thousands of patrons breathing in that last bit of adrenaline after today’s exhaustive musical affair.

The sound of the metalhead audience singing along to the 2000s pop tune that the DJ is playing lifts my lips into a smile.

Black cats and cinnamon rolls, all eighty-thousand of them.

Each person in this crowd came to worship the only religion we can all agree on—

Music.

The smells of fire, sweat, smoke, and occasional hints of weed all waft around me. Standing on the sound platform, I take in the sight of those waiting for the next band. Chatting friend groups, some dancing and laughing, and a few minor altercations. There seem to be fewer of those here than I’m used to seeing at other music festivals. I’ve worked a fair few, however, none as important as this one, and never in this large of a role.

My new job is keeping the upcoming band safe. It doesn’t matter if I die in the process. Throw me into a group of obsessive stalkers or a horde of fanatics who want them dead—the band will get out unscathed if it’s the last thing I do.

And I have more than a few reasons why I’m keen on keeping them safe.

The sea of people goes back for what seems like a mile. There’s an anticipation in the air that’s contagious. Somehow, I already want to bounce and scream, and I know I’m not the only one feeling it. Each person in this crowd is ready and eager to jump, shove, scream, and sing back lyrics they’ve all memorized. Lyrics that speak to their very souls as if they were written just for them. Words that heal the beaten, the broken, and the damned.

Lines that have carried most of us along after moments we thought might be our last.

Yet, even as powerful as those lyrics are, it’s the heartbeat I’m most interested in. The steady thump, rap, and tap of the drum kit. The passion in every strike of the sticks…

And most importantly, the woman who will soon sit on the stool behind the platformed kit being unveiled onstage right now.

The crowd rocks and roars as the logo curtain from the previous band drops, revealing Young Decay’s emblem and stage setup behind it. I smile upon seeing the decaying ribcage, the dark red YD written in the middle.

Young Decay.

Young Decay.

The rallying call makes me chuckle.

The band is still fifteen minutes out from hitting the stage. Still, I know these fans will chant their name up until the first kick on the drum.

I cross my arms over my chest, biceps straining against the snug-fitting Young Decay security tee, and muse over the illuminated crowd again, taking careful time to scope out the darkest corners and make note of those who are already planning their pit circles.

I wish I was in there with them.

It’s been too fucking long since I’ve worked a metal show, even longer since I’ve attended one of Young Decay’s concerts.

Though, that isn’t the last time I saw her .

My stomach warps at the mere thought of her. She’s the entire reason I started doing concert security in the first place and the only basis for working my ass off and climbing the ladder in this industry. Just to get here. To get the job as her head of security.

To breathe the same air as her without my mask.

She’s my kryptonite, my entire world, the one person I can’t imagine life without.

Even if I only exist in her nightmares, at least I exist somewhere—for now.

But that’s all about to change.

Sometimes I wonder if she thinks of me as often as I think of her. I wonder if she sees me in the dark corners of her room. If she feels my eyes watching her while she sleeps. I want to be the person in her favorite dreams, who she thinks of while she’s touching herself with those pretty nails. I want her to crave my presence and attention as much as I crave hers.

My need for her is insatiable. It’s pathetic, the way I’ve missed her over these last few years. However, it was worth it to get here. I needed time, not just to get to this place in my career, but to give her a chance to get started on her healing process, even to miss me after that night. I had to know if she was scared of me coming back or if she’d put herself in situations I’d once threatened her over.

And what did she do?

I almost laugh to myself.

What she did was spectacular, so spectacular that I think she did miss me. Throwing herself at countless groupies, those cute little self-defense classes, fighting a so-called mafia boss last New Year’s Eve…

It’s all so adorable.

Even so, I hate myself for not being there to protect her.

Had something happened to her that night, I don’t know that I would still be here. I can’t fail her, not after everything she and I have been through. Not after…

Young Decay.

Young Decay.

I won’t fail her this time. I’m not disappearing.

My veins would bleed her favorite color should she one day ask me to split them open.

Bonnie fucking Miller.

I sigh and stretch my neck as I think of last night, watching her from the closet in her hotel room, and then from the end of her bed. God, watching her sleep is my serenity. My salvation. The rise and fall of her chest, the little noises she makes when she’s dreaming, how she curls against her pillow and tucks the blankets around her bare body as if spinning her own cocoon…

I’ve missed her so much that it hurts.

Yet, even as beautiful as all that is, nothing compares to the stunning way her bold eyes glisten with sadness when she’s all alone, thinking no one else can see her as she silently breaks… The shimmer reminds me of the night sky dancing on her pupils, illuminating all the empty parts of her she quietly begs to fill. Each time I’ve seen it, it’s nearly killed me. I’ve often speculated if I once made it worse, or if I was ever a factor in the moments that she took one more shot, one more hit.

I wonder if she would have been better off without me.

Though, I know that invasive little voice is wrong.

I see her.

I’ve always seen her.

I’m the only person who truly sees her.

Everyone else—all the groupies who have climbed into her bed after shows who she leaves behind with a tedious kiss after—doesn’t see her. They don’t know who she is apart from the band.

I do.

I know her.

She’s an uncontrollable wildfire swallowing everything she touches and giving way to a rebirth unmatched by anything else.

No one else understands that.

No one notices all of her like I do.

Young Decay.

Young Decay.

Smoke plumes from the machines by the stage. Bonnie will be on that platform soon. Her blonde and pink hair will be accentuated beneath stage lights, her figure illuminated against the Young Decay logo at her back.

How many times have I fantasized about tasting her against one of those drums? Hearing the little gasp she makes when she’s touching herself…

The image has me blowing out a breath.

I wonder what her before-show ritual is.

It’s one of the few spaces of hers I’ve yet to see, a part of her I haven’t memorized. It’s a blank space in the map of her that occupies my mind, body, and soul at all hours of the day and night.

My hand creeps to my neck as I feel the space heating at the overwhelming thought of touching her one day. Of finally tasting the thing I’ve obsessed over for a decade.

“Everything look good from there, Gem?” my boss, James, says over the radio in my ear.

I blink out of the trance, mildly annoyed at the interruption of such a perfect fantasy. However, the call prompts a smile to my lips.

Her sacred ritual is within my reach.

Being near her without the mask is finally at my fingertips.

That’s where my new job has put me.

I press the com button on my radio. “All good from here,” I report back.

Because everything seems fucking perfect.

“Head backstage. I want the band to get a good look at who will be saving their asses after today since we didn’t get to have our meeting,” James says. “Reed especially. I hope you wore your running shoes.”

“I made sure to lift extra yesterday, too, since you mentioned his stage diving,” I say, and James laughs into the mic.

“Yeah. Stage launching, more like. Come on backstage. They’re finishing up rituals. When they’re ready, you’ll be escorting Reed to the sound stage again. Let the team around there know before you come this way. Reed wants to walk the middle aisle on the first song,” he says.

“That sounds safe,” I reply sarcastically.

“Welcome to the Mayhem,” James says. “See you in a few.”

“Yep.”

Rock, their sound guy, fist bumps mine and nods. “Have fun chasing Chaos,” he says with a coy brow.

I nod, give him a smile, then head down the steps.

By the time I reach the grass, I already want to vomit.

Anxiety weaves through my veins, causing me to stretch my fingers and crack my neck. I’m fantasizing about the way Bonnie might look at me when we’re once again face-to-face, wondering if she’ll remember me from all those years ago or if I’ll just be another person she passed by.

Whether she recognizes me or not makes no difference.

She’s already mine.