Twenty-Four #2
A bark of laughter leaves me. “You’re unbelievable.”
The crowd erupts as the band members take the stage one at a time in the darkness.
First is the bassist, Saint, and then the lead guitarist, Bishop, and the drummer, Rio, comes out next.
I swear the anticipation is palpable; shouts and chants echo through the venue, bouncing off the walls in a chorus as we wait for the final member to take the stage.
And the second Nash Kaelin appears at the microphone at center stage, the whole place detonates all at once in a singular, feral scream.
The heavy drums and bass kick into their first song, and the crowd only gets wilder. The initial push forward from the pit presses the middle of my torso against the rail, and I instinctually grab for Holden so the bodies cramming together don’t separate us.
He must have the same idea, because I don’t have the chance to make contact with him before his hand is at the small of my back and fisting into my shirt.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he shouts in my ear, and when I glance over at him, I find a devious smile painted on his expression. One that looks a lot more devilish than any demon in the song Nash is currently screaming into the mic.
The first two songs they play showcase not only the entire band’s artistry but also the vocal range Nash was seriously gifted with. From hitting high notes most opera singers would be jealous of, to letting his demonic scream rip from his chest, the man can do it all.
And he does it with ease, stepping onto the riser and showing the crowd why he was born to perform.
The band closes out their third song moments later, and the crowd goes nuts as both Nash and Saint start stripping down to thin tank tops. Miles and miles of inked skin are revealed between the two of them, and honestly, I understand the hype behind the man himself too.
“Nash Kaelin is a fucking god,” I shout in Holden’s ear over the roaring fans. “It’s the only explanation why he can look like that and also sound the way he does.”
Holden turns to speak directly into my ear, his lips brushing the shell as he says, “Is this you trying to make me jealous? By fawning over another man in front of me on our first date?”
It wasn’t, actually. It’s just a fact. For him to have those looks paired with his vocal abilities? There’s no way he’s human. And if he is, then he’s also living proof that God plays favorites.
“Not at all,” I say, shaking my head.
“Good, because you’ve gotta know as well as I do that his reputation is far, far worse than mine will ever be.” He nips at my ear before murmuring, “And just so we’re clear, Nash Kaelin might be a god amongst men, but all that means is he’d never get on his knees for you the way I do.”
I smirk to myself, enjoying the hint of possessiveness in his tone. It’s a different side of him I’ve yet to see, and I don’t hate it. Not one fucking bit.
Something to keep in mind.
“It’s probably just the tattoos.” I peer over at him, my eyes tracking down all the clean, visible skin of his forearms. “You’d look hot with ink, too.”
He lets out a sharp laugh before brushing his lips over the shell of my ear. “Your fear of heights is my fear of needles, so it’s not happening in this lifetime. But we both know I look hot, regardless.”
Ain’t that the truth.
Bishop starts a riff into their next song—this one I recognize as one of their heaviest—and Nash hops onto the riser at center stage to watch the crowd.
There’s a hellish smile on his face as he scans the room before pointing out at the center and making a slow circular motion, a clear call for the pit to kick things up a notch.
He doesn’t have to speak his request; the fans are already on it, growing the pit to nearly double the size it was before by the time the drums kick in and Nash hits us with a growling scream that would make Satan quake in his boots.
Holden taps me on the shoulder, and I find him pointing back toward the pit.
I smirk and nod, knowing exactly what he’s saying, before holding out my hand to take anything he doesn’t want to lose or break while getting tossed around. He sets his phone and keys in my palm before placing his hat backwards on my head with a wink.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” he shouts. Then with a press of his lips to my temple, he’s off, squeezing his way between people.
I watch as he bobs and weaves his way through the crowd, but the pit is back far enough from the barricade that he disappears from sight well before he hits the edge of the circle.
Even with him gone, I can still feel the heat on my skin from where his lips brushed it.
Sometimes I don’t know what to do or think of the easy affection that seems to come so naturally to him. As simple as breathing. And whenever he gives it—a soft sweep of his lips and arms wrapped around my body—I feel this whole thing between us becoming more real by the second.
I feel myself falling—harder and deeper.
Shoving the thoughts away, I return my attention to the stage and let the music flood my mind and senses instead.
The band continues blasting through their setlist, sounding absolutely incredible on every song they play. I rock out with the girl next to me, singing and screaming and banging our heads along to every song without a care in the world about who might be watching.
That’s the beautiful thing about the metal community. Nothing matters once the artists take the stage, because you become one with the crowd, the music, and the experience.
We’re about halfway through the set when Nash hops up on the riser at the front of the stage again and squats down to talk with the crowd about their newest album charting.
“Hey, watch it!” I hear shouted behind me, and I swear I hear my name called.
No, I definitely hear my name called.
“Nix!” Holden shouts. I turn in time to catch his head bobbing up and down about halfway between where I am and the pit, and it’s clear he’s still looking for me. I raise an arm for him to find me, which he spots quickly and starts working his way back up through the crowd with ease.
That is, until he reaches a couple who give him the glare of death about three people behind me.
“I’m with him,” I catch Holden say, pointing to me. “I’m just trying to get back to him.”
I don’t fully hear what the guy says, but from the bitchy look on his girl’s face and the shake of his head, I don’t think it’s going well.
Damnit.
I give the few people behind me an apologetic smile before slipping between them to get back to where Holden is being held up.
“I understand,” I hear Holden saying as I weave through another set of people. “And I’m sorry your girl is getting shoved around too much. It happens at shows like this. But I’m just trying to get back to my guy.”
The other dude shakes his head and holds his hand out in front of him, motioning to the people crammed together like a can of sardines. “With what room? The way the pit’s been moving, there’s nowhere for you to go.”
I curse silently as I slip past the two girls separating me from Holden and grab the lanyard around my neck.
“He was up here,” I tell the guy, showing him the VIP pass that matches Holden’s. “He just went back to the pit for a while.”
Dude doesn’t even look at Holden, just shrugs and says, “Yeah, and now he can stay back there ‘til the show is over.”
“C’mon, man,” I try reasoning. “You see his pass. Just let him up here.”
Too bad my words fall on deaf ears. Literally, because the band chooses the same moment to kick into another heavy song, and from the look Holden and I share, we know any conversation we could’ve had is now over.
So I do the only thing I can think of—I reach around the guy’s side for Holden to grab my hand so I can pull him through. Yet, the moment my fingers latch onto Holden’s, the guy breaks our hands apart with his forearm.
Even over the bass and the drums, I can hear the guy shout, “I said, stay the fuck back,” directly in Holden’s face, right before he shoves him in the chest.
And I see red.
The thing about venues with standing-room-only…
things are bound to get rough. Rowdy, even, and sometimes that can lead to conflicts.
I’ve seen it firsthand at shows myself, though they are often few and far between.
Usually, it’s just verbal—someone knocking someone else a little too hard in the pit—or a couple girls getting catty because one is too drunk or even too high to act right.
I’d be willing to bet my career in baseball that ninety-nine percent of the time, it never escalates to physical blows.
But when the jackass shoves Holden again—this time, hard enough to push him back into the girls behind him—I have no fucking problem being in the one percent.