Chapter 21
Eric
Nerves have me restless, bouncing on the balls of my feet as I wait to go on stage.
I glance around the setup for the dozenth time, checking every cable, stand, and mic placement.
Like every other time, it’s perfect, but perfect doesn't quiet the noise in my head. It doesn’t stop me from running my eyes over it one last time.
Our first bus tour only had five stops, and they were tiny venues compared to the arenas we’re facing now.
Over the last year, the band’s been steadily gaining traction, and the ruckus from the audience is already deafening.
It vibrates through the concrete floor, up my legs, and into my bones.
Chants. Stomps. A living wall of sound beyond the stage.
What if I’m not ready for this?
The thought hits like a sudden drop and sends a rush of dizziness through me. My throat is dry as sandpaper, which is a bad omen with the show starting in minutes. I grab my water bottle, force a long swallow that does nothing to ease the tightness, then walk a loop around backstage.
Dante fixes me his signature serious stare, steady as always. Theo bounces like a hyper puppy, all kinetic energy, while Tai just nods, already lost in his own headspace. I pause where I can see Dmitri’s drum set and focus on how the metallic black sheen of his kit catches the stage lights.
Footsteps approach, the familiar cadence of heavy boots. “Hey… you okay?” Dmitri asks.
“Yeah, just nervous,” I admit, voice rougher than I'd like.
“A bigshot singer like you? Nervous?”
I run a hand through my hair, turning to face him.
“Yeah, I mean… what if…” I heave a loud sigh, taking another drink that does nothing to loosen the knot in my throat or stop the cold sweat prickling at my temples.
These demons whisper failure in my ear every damn day.
They weave visions of me crashing and burning in front of thousands, but I have always kept the fears to myself.
I’ve left the war in my mind silent and invisible.
When people look at me, they see a man who’s got it together—who grabs life by the balls and takes what he wants.
The truth?
I’m terrified I’m nothing more than a fraud waiting to be exposed.
But since Dmitri and I laid everything bare, hiding from him feels impossible.
“Do you ever worry you aren’t good enough? Like… like you’re some sort of phony, or a fraud, and it’s just a matter of time until everyone else realizes it? Until the world discovers you’re not everything you pretend to be?”
The second the words leave my mouth, I regret it. This is Dmitri—the musical genius who can play anything, and the guy with the body of a Greek god.
Literal perfection.
“Of course you don’t,” I continue in a rush, “and I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry, it’s stupid—”
He grabs my hand, stopping the spiral. “It is not stupid, Eric. Your feelings are always valid. Always.” He waits until I meet his eyes before he continues. “Never feel like you are anything less than spectacular, because you are. Incredible. Exceptional.”
Something behind his eyes tells me he could never lie to me. Not about this.
“I'm in awe of you daily,” he admits as he leans closer. “The guys in this band are all talented, but you? Fuck, Eric, you’re the star. You shine so fucking bright. Don’t ever doubt that, okay?”
“You’re not just saying that because you’re my…” I trail off, forcing myself to meet his eyes.
“Because I’m yours?” He grabs my hand and gives it a quick squeeze. “No, baby, that’s not why. I’m telling you this because I want you to believe it as much as I do. Because it’s true.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Okay,” I repeat, this time with greater conviction.
“Now, get up there and show them who the fuck you are, superstar.”
My eyes meet his, suddenly lost in memories of the teasing way he’d call me that in college, and his soft smile tells me he’s thinking about it, too.
When it's time to go on, I’m still nervous, but it's manageable.
I'm back in my element. Before we walk out on stage, I glance over my shoulder at Dmitri once more, and he gives me a sweet, supportive nod.
Stage lights as hot as the sun beat onto my cheeks, and the roar of the crowd builds into an earsplitting crescendo as I step forward. They cheer even louder as a slow smile spreads across my face and I pull the mic to my lips.
“Good evening, Charleston!”
Ears ringing, throat raw and scratchy, and drenched in sweat that clings to every inch of me, I lug the last of the equipment back to the bus. My arms burn and my legs feel like lead, but the high from the show buzzes under my skin.
“Fucking fantastic show tonight!” Tai says, bouncing over like he’s got endless batteries. He throws his arm around my shoulder and ruffles my damp hair, sending a fresh wave of sweat dripping down my neck.
“Back at you, motherfucker.” I knock him off balance with a quick sweep of my leg behind his knees.
A loud bark of laughter rips out of me as he stumbles, arms windmilling, and almost goes down.
He grabs my shoulders for support, throws me a glare that’s half-annoyed, half-amused, then bolts for the stairs.
“Dibs on the shower, bitches!” he calls over his shoulder.
Dante shakes his head, running through his checklist for the fifth time. “I swear, he barely says a word until after shows, and then you can’t get the fucker to shut up.”
“He’s right though,” Dmitri says from behind me, “that was a great show. Biggest stage I’ve ever been on, but I didn’t even have a chance to be nervous because everything went so smoothly.”
He circles around to my front, a narrowed stare following Tai as he climbs onto the bus. A touch of jealousy burns on his face, no doubt from that affectionate display.
“You were amazing,” he says, quieter as he approaches.
“Thanks, I was, wasn’t I?” Dante says from behind his clipboard.
Dmitri snorts a laugh with a subtle eye roll that only I catch. “Want to walk with me? Get rid of some of this energy while these three fight over the shower?” he asks me.
My stomach swoops at the suggestion in his words, and Dante’s brows shoot up behind his stack of papers.
“Sure,” I respond, too quickly to be casual.
Dmitri flashes me a small smile that says he's eager, too. His hair is soaked and plastered to his forehead, and his clothes cling to him. It’s sinful, honestly, the way his body peeks out from underneath the damp fabric.
If I weren’t so selfish for time alone with him, I’d give him a few minutes to get clean.
But ever since our brief encounter earlier, I’ve been desperate for some one-on-one attention.
The night is pitch black, but the street is lined with lights that illuminate our path as we walk. The relentless chorus of cicadas rings around us, transforming our little strip of sidewalk into a private world where only the two of us exist. We don’t say a word, but it’s a peaceful silence.
Once the bus disappears from view, Dmitri scans our surroundings, then takes my hand and leads me into the tree-dense area nearby.
Leaves and shadows weave a canopy overhead that cloaks us in darkness, and the scent of pine and earth blends with the lingering smell of asphalt and exhaust from the city.
He tugs me closer, and my heart stutters, doing funny, frantic things in my chest as I lose myself in his eyes.
“You’re incredible,” he whispers, pressing his lips to mine.
I melt instantly, gorging myself on the kiss and inhaling the sweat-heightened scent of him that makes my head spin.
“Listening to you up there, with that amazing voice… fuck, Eric. I know you’re singing for everyone, but a small part of me likes to imagine that it’s meant only for me. Pretend that your words are all mine.”
“Even the cheesy love songs?” I tease, but it comes out soft and needy—craving more praise, and needing him to admit he’s just as drunk on me as I am on him.
“God, yes,” he says, dragging his teeth along my lower lip and tugging my mouth open, the sting sweet and sharp. “Especially those.”
My heart pounds as we claw at each other, searching for more. Lips and tongues glide together in desperate, hungry strokes, while the world narrows to just us in this shadowed pocket of night. His mouth leaves mine, and the soft brush of his lips moves down my neck.
“Those pretty girls in the audience dream of having you,” he murmurs, breath hot and ragged on my ear. “Hell, probably half the guys too. They all want their little piece of you, but they can’t have you. Not like this. You don’t belong to them, do you?”
“N-no,” I stutter as he pops my button and tucks his hand into my jeans.
“Dmitri…” I whisper as he palms me, fingers wrapping around my cock in a firm, claiming grip.
He strokes in long, steady swipes, the heat of his hand searing through me, and my hips buck against the pressure, chasing the friction with desperate jerks.
“Say it,” he demands, thumb pressing just under the head and teasing the sensitive ridge with slow, deliberate circles.
“Say you aren’t theirs.” His hand travels lower, gripping my balls and tugging gently before returning to stroke me, each pass sending sparks racing up my spine.
I clutch at his forearm, feeling muscles and tendons flex under my fingertips like steel cables.
“I’m not theirs,” I gasp, adrenaline from the night racing through my veins and mingling with the raw, potent need I have for him.
It's terrifying in its intensity. His hand moves quicker, matching the breakneck rhythm of my heart, and my cock pounds against his palm.
He moans against my neck when he swipes a thumb over my leaking tip, spreading the wetness in slow circles.
Headlights approach in the distance, cutting through the shadows like knives, but he doesn’t stop.