8. Chapter 8 - Axl
I drum my fingers against the dressing room couch, watching my band members around me. Same shit, different city. Derek's flipping his drumsticks in the air while Marcus tunes his guitar for the fifth time. Our bassist, Luke, is already three shots deep.
"Fifteen minutes, boys!" Our manager, Rita, pokes her head in with her clipboard clutched to her chest like it contains state secrets. "And remember, there's a VIP meet-and-greet after the show party. No skipping out this time, Axl."
I give her a lazy salute. "I wouldn't dream of it."
As soon as she leaves, Derek snorts. "How many hot chicks will be in the VIP section tonight? I need to know if I should save my energy."
"Does it matter? They'll all be in your bed by morning anyway," I respond with my trademark smirk, though lately the endless parade of groupies has started to feel hollow.
Marcus catches my eye in the mirror. He's known me since we were fourteen and stealing cigarettes behind the school gym. "What's up with you lately, man? You haven't been yourself."
"I just need a new challenge," I run a hand through my hair. "Maybe I'll try singing upside down tonight. It will blow their minds."
He doesn't laugh. "I'm serious. You've been... I don't know. Different. Distracted."
"I'm fine," I mutter, and turn on my phone to check it. I have seventeen new messages. Three from women I barely remember meeting. I toss it aside without responding.
My stylist comes in to fuss with my hair, and applying the black eyeliner that's become my signature look.
I stare at my reflection and see my wild blonde hair.
My eyes are lined in kohl, and my wolf tattoo is peeking from beneath my collar.
This is Axl Valentine, the rock God. The guy who sells out arenas and makes women scream his name.
So why do I feel so fucking empty?
"Two minutes!" Rita calls.
We huddle together and place our arms around our shoulders in a circle. It's a pre-show ritual and it makes whatever bullshit going on in my head disappear.
"Let's melt some faces," I growl.
The moment we step onto the stage, thousands of people start screaming, and reaching for us. I grab the microphone, and just like that, I'm home.
"Hello, beautiful people," I purr into the mic, and the crowd goes wild. "Are you ready to get fucking crazy tonight?"
We launch into our opener, and I lose myself in the music. This is what I was born to do. Every cell in my body knows it. I stalk across the stage, drop to my knees during the guitar solo, let the energy of the crowd feed something primal inside me.
Halfway through our biggest hit, my eyes land on a lady in the VIP section front row.
While everyone around her is jumping, screaming, her eyes are closed, and her body is swaying to the music like she's in a trance.
Her curly hair forms a wild halo around her face, and even from here, I can see she's gorgeous.
Something about her calls to me and it pulls at something deep in my chest.
I find myself moving to her side of the stage and singing directly to her. When she finally opens her eyes and looks at me, the jolt that goes through my body is so intense I nearly miss a line. Her gaze locks with mine, and for a moment, the rest of the arena disappears.
What the fuck was that?
I tear my eyes away, forcing myself to work the rest of the stage, but I keep coming back to her. By the end of the set, I'm not even trying to hide it. I'm performing for her, watching her reactions, and feeding off her energy in a way I've never experienced before.
When we finish the encore, I'm practically vibrating with an unfamiliar urgency.
"Dude, you were on fire tonight," Marcus says as we towel off backstage.
"Yeah," I mutter, already thinking about the meet-and-greet. Will she be there? What's her name? Why can't I get her face out of my head?
I rush through my post-show routine, barely bothering to change my sweat-soaked shirt before heading to the VIP lounge. Rita gives me a surprised look as I brush past her.
"Someone's eager tonight,"
"I'm just being professional," I reply, looking around the room as we enter.
She's there, hanging back near the bar with another woman.
She's even more stunning up close. Her olive skin glows under the lights, she has full lips, and eyes that seem to change color when she moves.
She's not dressed like the typical groupies in their barely-there outfits.
She's wearing jeans and a vintage band tee that hugs curves I immediately want to explore with my hands.
I force myself to go through the motions with the other fans, signing autographs, taking selfies, giving the occasional hug. But my attention keeps drifting to her. She doesn't push forward like the others, just watches with an amused expression while her friend practically bounces with excitement.
Finally, they approach me. The friend, a petite with bright eyes and a ponytail, thrusts an album at me.
"Oh my god, I've been to twelve of your shows and this was absolutely the best one yet, you were amazing, I can't believe I'm actually meeting you!" she gushes in one breath.
I smile and sign her album. "Thanks for coming out. Twelve shows? You sure are dedicated."
"I'm Emily," she says, then nudges the curly-haired woman forward. "And this is Dahlia. She's never seen you live before; can you believe it?"
Dahlia. It fits her perfectly.
"First timer, huh?" I say, meeting her eyes. "Did you enjoy the show?"
"More than I expected," she answers, her voice lower and richer than I imagined.
"Is that a compliment or an insult?" I ask.
"Best bet it's a compliment" She hands me her album to sign. "You're different on stage than I expected."
Our fingers brush as I take it, and holy shit, it's like touching a live wire. From the slight widening of her eyes, I know she felt it too.
"Different how?" I uncap my Sharpie without taking my eyes off her.
"I've never been to a concert before, but I've never felt this energy from any performer before."
"Music's the only thing worth feeling sometimes. It's my escape I guess."
She tilts her head and studies me. "Is that why you do that thing where you close your eyes during the bridge of every song, to feel it more?"
I freeze. No one has ever noticed that before.
"You were watching me pretty closely,"
"You were watching me too," she counters with the hint of a smile playing at her lips.
Behind her, Emily's eyes bounce between us like she's watching a tennis match.
"Maybe I was," I admit, handing the album back. This time, I deliberately let our fingers linger. "There's an after-party in an hour. You should come. Both of you," I add, glancing at Emily.
Emily squeaks, and Dahlia raises an eyebrow.
"Is that your standard line for pretty girls in the VIP section?"
"No," I say truthfully. "Usually, I don't invite fans at all."
"Why us, then?"
"Because you're the first person who's made me curious in a very long time."
She studies me for a moment, then nods. "Okay."
"Okay?" I repeat, surprised by how easily she agreed.
"We'll come to your party." She takes Emily's arm. "See you there, rock star."
As they walk away, I realize I'm grinning like an idiot. Marcus sidles up beside me.
"Who was that?" he asks, watching them leave.
"Trouble," I answer. "Definitely trouble."
My penthouse is packed by the time they arrive by my band members, industry people, and beautiful hangers-on. I've been watching the door like a teenager waiting for his prom date and nursing the same whiskey for an hour.
When Dahlia walks in, the entire room shifts.
Or maybe that's just my perception. She's changed into a simple black dress that hugs every curve, her wild hair is now partially pinned up to expose the elegant line of her neck.
Emily bounces in behind her, already wide-eyed at the celebrity-studded room.
I make my way to them, ignoring the people trying to get my attention.
"You came," I say, stopping in front of her.
"I said I would." She glances around. "You have a very nice place. Very... rock star."
"What were you expecting? Skulls and pentacles?"
"At minimum," she deadpans. "I'm disappointed by the lack of goat sacrifices."
I laugh, delighted by her dry humor. "The night's still young."
Emily tugs on Dahlia's arm. "Oh my god, is that Maxin over there? I'm going to die."
"Go," Dahlia encourages her. "I'll be fine."
As Emily darts off into the crowd, I take the opportunity to move closer to Dahlia. "Can I get you a drink?"
"Just water for now," she says. "I need a clear head tonight."
"Are you expecting trouble?"
"Always." She pulls out her phone, checks it, then puts it away with a frown.
"Waiting for an important call?" I ask, leading her toward the bar.
"Something like that."
I signal the bartender for water and another whiskey. "Boyfriend?"
She snorts. "No. Work."
"What kind of work has you checking your phone at midnight?"
"The complicated kind." She accepts the water with a nod of thanks. "I'm a geneticist and a specialist in rare genetic mutations."
"A scientist… That's... not what I expected."
"Let me guess. You thought I was a model? An actress?"
"Honestly? I had no idea. You don't fit any box I'm familiar with."
She takes a sip of water, watching me over the rim of her glass. "And you're used to women fitting into neat little boxes?"
"Touché." I clink my glass against hers. "So, genetics. That's why you're so observant. You're trained to notice details."
"Maybe I'm just interested in what makes people tick." Her eyes drift to my neck, where my tattoo peeks out. "You're a fan?"
I touch the ink reflexively. "You could say that. Wolves are... special to me."
"Is it a family totem?"
"Something like that." I don't elaborate because I can't exactly tell her it's because I am a werewolf. Geneticist or not, not everyone is acceptive and receptive about the shifter race. "What about you, got any ink?"