Chapter 13
“Electric Touch” - Taylor Swift + Fall Out Boy
Saylor
I’m exhausted, and it’s only the fourth night of the tour. We’re in Boston, and Rhett is playing another sold-out show. I don’t know how he’s still so full of that boundless energy—just watching him makes me more tired.
He gives me a lazy smile from where he’s waiting with the band near the stage entrance, and my heart trips over itself.
Careful, Saylor, I warn myself. Not a path you can afford to travel.
I smile back at him, then lift my phone and snap a photo. It’s a great shot, but then it’s pretty much impossible to take a bad photo of Rhett Cole. He comes alive for the camera, just like he does onstage.
I post it to his stories before letting Leo escort me to the door. I’m watching from the VIP section tonight. I’ve spent the previous concerts on the side stage, but the front has better angles for pictures.
While Rhett spends his time practicing with the band and playing around with new compositions, I’ve been shooting footage and uploading it to social media in my downtime.
Of which there is a lot. Thanks to all of the time I’ve been able to dedicate to his accounts, they’re growing like wildfires.
Several of his songs are trending audios right now, which is only increasing his ticket sales as we start to cross the country.
Leo drops me at the side entrance and hands me a VIP badge.
Rhett and I decided earlier that a bodyguard in the pit would only draw attention, and since I’m more worried about public scrutiny than being personally harmed, it seems safer to pretend I’m just another groupie.
The crew has been strict with their no-phone policy at the after-parties, and not a single picture of me has been leaked.
Tonight, my aim is to blend in, so I’m wearing a Rhett Cole band T-shirt, loose fit jeans with big holes in the knees and fishnet tights underneath, my combat boots, and a crossbody fanny pack.
I slip into the crowd in the pit, which is already getting pumped by the second half of the opening act.
As their energy levels increase, their volume is going to follow suit. Maybe I should’ve brought ear plugs.
Then Rhett comes onstage, and I forget all of it.
I’ve been to enough concerts in my life to know that Rhett has something special.
Every front man needs a certain charisma to make a show a success, but it positively drips from him.
Calling his a panty-dropping smile is not an exaggeration—one girl actually slips off her underwear and tosses it toward the stage.
I have to stand at the very back of the pit to avoid my camera getting jostled by the crazed fans surrounding me, but once I’ve recorded clips of several songs, I tuck my phone away and edge closer to the front.
The experience here is so different from on the side stage.
You can smell the sweat of the people around you, feel the crowd pulsing behind you, and while the excitement is always intoxicating no matter where you’re standing, being in the pit is like the difference between watching a football game and actually being on the field.
The beat of the music thrums through my body, like Rhett is plucking at my veins rather than his guitar strings.
All of his songs carry an intoxicating rhythm that is impossible not to dance to, probably the reason he launched onto the charts so quickly.
My lips mouth the lyrics I have memorized by now, but my attention is focused on Rhett, not the music.
He’s wearing a black sleeveless shirt that shows off the tattoos on his arms and how much time he spends in the gym. I happen to know the muscles beneath that shirt are just as sculpted, because he has no qualms about stripping it off in front of anyone.
His hands wrap around the microphone as he sings into it, and my brain immediately flashes to the way his hands feel on my face when he kisses me. I know those kisses don’t mean anything, but my stupid heart wonders what it would be like if they did.
The hair on his forehead is already damp with sweat, and he shoves it out of his eyes. It immediately flops back into place, which lends him that boyish charm everyone is fanatical about. He leans back to play a mean guitar solo, and the crowd goes wild.
I can’t decide which I like the best—his ability to shred a guitar, his raw lyrics, or his sultry voice crooning in my ear. The man is talented; that much is obvious.
My eyes ping between his hands on the strings and his devastatingly gorgeous face. I know I should be giving the entire band equal attention, but it’s impossible to tear my gaze from Rhett. He knows how to work a crowd, and he apparently also knows how to work me.
Someone knocks into me—not unusual down here—but it’s hard enough to jar me out of the haze I’ve been in for the past hour.
There’s a feeling in my stomach, light and fluttery, almost nauseating in its sweetness.
I haven’t had it since the summer I met Nate.
It’s tinged with sadness, which only makes it that much more addictive.
A crush. I have a fucking crush on Rhett Cole.
God, I am the worst kind of person. I have a crush on the guy I’m faking a relationship with.
I’m supposed to be helping him, and instead I’m mooning over him like a fourteen-year-old.
The same fourteen-year-old who never got over her infatuation with the guy who gave her her first kiss and told her she was beautiful.
I knew this was a risk from the moment I ran into him again—literally—but I didn’t realize it had reached this point already. If I don’t stop it, this crush will turn into something else, something much worse.
The beat of the music shifts, and I recognize the opening chords of “Electric Heartbeat,” Rhett’s current number one hit. The crowd does too, and they go bonkers, waving their signs and screaming about how much they love him and want to have his babies.
Okay. I may have chosen the wrong place to hang out.
I try to retreat to the back of the pit, ready to escape to the hotel, but the groupies are crowding as close to the stage as they can get.
There is literally no way to get out without shoving people out of my way.
I generally consider myself a nice person, so it seems I’m stuck here until the end of the concert.
“There’s a spark in the air when you’re next to me,” Rhett sings, the cheering almost loud enough to drown out his voice.
“A current that runs, baby, naturally.” He grins at the audience, then his focus shifts to the pit, giving the groupies the attention they paid for with their overpriced tickets.
“Every glance, every move, it’s pulling me in / You’re the light in the dark / where my world begins.”
The song continues, but I’m no longer paying attention to the lyrics.
My eyes are hungrily taking in Rhett’s every move, the way he’s bending over to brush his hands across the ones reaching for him like he’s a god.
He’s still singing into the microphone in his hand and doesn’t miss a single beat as he brings girls to the brink of passing out.
No longer is he the guy I’m touring with, the one who’s had his lips pressed to mine more times than is healthy to think about.
Right now he’s a musical genius whom I would very much like to be noticed by.
He’s on the left side of the stage, but I don’t think he’s seen me.
Actually, I know he hasn’t seen me, because it becomes obvious the second he does.
His eyes are scanning the sea of faces without registering them, but when they pass over me, he does a double take and stops singing.
Somehow, his grin becomes even wider, and his eyes soften like butter in the sun.
It’s over in a matter of seconds, but it’s long enough for him to have missed an entire line of the song.
He bounces back onto his feet and belts out the lyrics like nothing happened. “You’re the pulse that keeps me breathing.” But then, before retreating back to the center of the stage, he lifts his arm, points at me, and winks.
The bottom of my stomach drops out.
He could have thrown a lit firework into the pit, and it would have caused less disturbance than that wink.
The groupies around me lose their shit, screaming and launching themselves toward the stage.
He doesn’t even notice, just slips back into his performance like he hasn’t just rocked the ground beneath my feet.
* * *
I leave before the concert is over. It takes me five minutes to fight my way out of the pit, but I can’t stay and allow myself to fantasize over what that wink meant. I need to get some fresh air. This groupie nonsense is turning my head to mush.
Leo is waiting to escort me back to the hotel.
I use the short car ride to upload a video I shot during the concert.
While I’m still logged in, I scroll through the hashtags Rhett’s fans use.
There’s the usual stuff—crowds lined up for the concert, footage of the show itself, proclamations of undying love for Rhett.
But a video that was uploaded just minutes ago catches my attention.
It was taken at tonight’s show from directly behind the pit.
The on-screen text says, “Rhett Cole winking at a fan.” Sure enough, the camera caught him pointing and winking at me, but fortunately, they were too far away to be able to identify who he was looking at.
The video hasn’t gone viral yet, but it’s only a matter of time.
Fuck. Even if no one knew who I was—or am currently pretending to be—it’s flirting with danger. All it takes is one TikTok sleuth to put the pieces together, and my life will blow up in my face. Looks like I’ll be watching the show from anywhere but the pit from now on.
I keep to the edges during the after-party, which is being thrown on the top floor of a swanky downtown bar, not wanting to risk being recognized by any of the fans here.
It’s unlikely—they were all too enamored with Rhett to pay attention to the people around them—but it’s still a chance I’m not willing to take.
The room is dark and hazy, a drunken stupor seeming to permeate the atmosphere.
Couples are making out on sofas or against the walls, people are snorting lines of coke from the coffee tables, and two bartenders are running to keep a drink in everyone’s hand.
No wonder Rhett was worried about the tour.
It’s like a scene from a bad ’70s movie.
In spite of the fact that it’s too dim to see properly in here, I know exactly where Rhett is, as if his body contains a homing beacon, drawing me to him.
Several girls are currently draped over him, plying him with their long fingernails and fake boobs, begging for autographs—and probably a lot more.
I shoot a glare in that direction and take another sip of my rum and Coke. My miserable attempt to distract myself by watching the other partygoers doesn’t last long. Fuck Rhett Cole and that stupid bloody wink.
My eyes travel over to where he is now somehow buried in even more women.
Maybe he really does have a homing beacon, because the second I look at him, his gaze meets mine—just cuts through the cluster of desperate women around him and centers on me.
He could have touched my face, and it wouldn’t have felt any more sensual than that look.
Then, while I’m still watching, he slowly lowers his chin to his chest and back up. I’m too stunned to move, let alone think about what it means. My brain is still trying to remind my heart that falling for Rhett Cole would be the worst possible thing I could do.
He repeats the movement, and I snap back to reality. “Shit,” I mutter, and hand my drink to a dumbfounded waiter. I make my way through the drunken party guests to the other side of the room, where Rhett is knee-deep in groupies. I never saw drugs over here, but maybe he’s still feeling tempted.
Right before I reach the outer ring of his circle of fans, he shakes off the last of them and meets me. “Hi,” he says, and smiles down at me with that blowtorch smile, melting me into a gooey, molten mess.
“Hi.” I swallow the swirl of emotions in my throat. “Ready to get out of here?”
“In a sec.” Then those strong sexy hands I just watched tear the most beautiful music from a guitar reach up and cradle my face. His lips capture mine in a kiss that, although short and sweet, does nothing to ease the storm of desire raging in my gut.
He releases my mouth, then rests his forehead against mine, sending a message loud and clear to the groupies I can feel watching us. I’m taken.
Unfortunately, it also sends a message to my heart.
I am so fucked.