Chapter Four
T he opener didn’t suck.
Which fucking sucked .
At least if the opener would’ve tanked, Knight’s Blood could’ve gone on stage and tricked the crowd into thinking they were half-decent. But no. Jungle Rot got the crowd pumped, played a solid, forty-minute set, and left the arena howling for the headliner.
Aiden snorted coke off the back of his hand.
The lights in the stadium dimmed and the crowd roared.
Anticipation pushed his heart into his mouth.
He swallowed hard. Nodded at Georgia as she wiped her nose and rubbed white residue on her gums. Dylan took another shot.
Thomas gurgled lemon water and spit into a plastic cup.
Their cue started, broadcasted through the arena: eerie, whistling wind and galloping hooves, a voice echoing, a sword-day, a red day, here the sun rises, and an army screaming— death!
Georgia nodded. One palm landed on Aiden’s shoulder, the other on Dylan’s. She leaned in, huddling the four band members together. “This is what we do,” she shouted over the din of cheers and applause. “This is who we are. Let’s give ‘em a fucking show, yeah? Yeah?!”
Aiden’s pulse doubled, then tripled. “This is it. This is our shot. Let’s do this,” he said, and grabbed the cordless microphone from a stagehand, passing it to Thomas.
Dylan knocked his forehead against Aiden’s temple, grabbed his bass, and walked onto the dark stage.
Georgia followed, holding her drumsticks in the air.
Aiden hit the strings on his guitar, bending the sound as he walked out, taking his place near the left wing.
Thomas followed, and the cheering grew, vibrating the stage.
Phone screens peppered the darkness. Aiden focused on the strings under his fingers, on the timing—holding, holding, there —and played the opening notes of Rise, the first song off their first album.
Neon basked the stage, illuminating Knight’s Blood.
Yellow, white, and violet spotlights shot back and forth.
The smoke machines started, but Aiden ignored the fog coiling around his ankles and played .
Mouthed along as Thomas growled through lyrics Shay had written, paced along the stage like a caged animal, and held his arms out to the crowd.
Aiden wore dark jeans, combat boots and his bomber jacket, baring his upper half to this gigantic, shifting mass.
This huge, monumental beast of a crowd. He’d put his petal-pink sickle-shaped scars on display before, but this time felt different.
Eyes were ravenous upon him. The second song started, then the third, and finally, Aiden braved a glance at the arena.
Shay looked back at him. His pretty blue eyes glinted from the group pressed against the gate.
Gazed at him from the second row, shined on the first tier, and stared from the nosebleeds.
Aiden remembered being on rickety stages with Shay at his side.
Watching Shay move, watching him sing. He closed his eyes and kept playing.
This is mine.
Somehow, Knight’s Blood sounded phenomenal.
They were messy, and real, and powerful, and the audience knew their songs.
Shouted the lyrics. Bounced along to Georgia’s drums, and Dylan’s bass, and Aiden’s guitar, and Thomas’s voice.
Aiden smiled, because this was his , finally.
By the end of their set, the arena hummed like a living organism.
Aiden couldn’t hear Thomas or himself. It was Glory, shouted by the people, echoing through the venue.
Yeah , he thought. This is fucking mine.
The last notes of Glory lingered. They stood sweat-sheened and vindicated as the overhead lights illuminated the raging crowd.
The arena turned oceanic, roaring and thundering, and he saw Shay tipping backward again.
Off the cliff, into the sea. Aiden tossed guitar picks, searching for gleaming blue eyes, until Thomas hauled him off the stage.
Dazed, he handed his guitar to one of the crew.
Thomas smacked a kiss on his temple, and Aiden didn’t know if he’d taken a breath or not.
If he was wading through a dream, still passed out in his bathroom.
If this was the beginning or the end. All he knew was, yes , and I did this , and strangely enough, I miss him .
Jacob greeted them backstage. He nodded, smothering a smile. “Congratulations, dipshits. You booked your second gig. House of Blues, San Diego, three days. I’m working out the details for the next seven shows.”
“ Seven? ” Georgia gaped, unscrewing the lid on a water bottle.
Thomas pumped his fist in the air and whooped. Dylan flashed a toothy grin.
“Stay tuned, all right? I’m waiting for confirmation on your opener, but anticipate e-mails, interview requests, handouts—the works.
Say nothing. Nada. Nilch. Get through House of Blues.
After that, we’ll regroup for a press release.
Got it?” Jacob narrowed his eyes, but his mouth curved upward.
“We’re goin’ somewhere. Don’t know where yet, but it’s better than yesterday. Don’t fuck it up. ”
“Yeah, yeah, we hear you Jake,” Dylan said, still grinning.
“Nicely done,” Jacob said, which might’ve been the single nicest thing he’d ever said to any of them.
Besides, once, when he’d squeezed Aiden’s biceps and said, begrudgingly, that dude juice is workin’, kid.
He adjusted his laptop case under one arm and made for the exit, waving over his shoulder as he went.
“Go do what rockstars do best. No needles, no hospitals. Don’t get anyone pregnant. ”
Adrenaline seeped into Aiden’s bones. He arched a brow, heart still revving, body still floating through a post-performance high. “This is it,” he said, then again on a laugh, “this is it .”
Georgia threw her arms around Aiden’s neck, and squealed, “You bet your ass it is!”
They popped champagne in the dressing room.
Georgia tipped the bottle over Aiden’s mouth, and Dylan snatched it to take a long pull.
The band laughed together, trading their sweat-soaked stage outfits for street clothes.
Dylan cut the last of his coke into lines on the makeup station, and everyone took turns snorting through a green bill.
Once the champagne was gone, they walked to a nearby dive-bar and crowded into a booth.
Drained beer after beer, tossed back shots of fireball whiskey, drank and cackled until the bartender shouted last hour, last call .
Georgia hailed a Lyft, Dylan scored on Tinder, and when they were both gone, Aiden tucked his mouth against Thomas’s ear.
“Sorry about earlier,” Aiden said. He licked around his mouth, chasing cinnamon.
Being drunk and high and sad and alone with Shay lurking in the back of his mind would’ve resulted in a seriously gross replay of last night.
Getting underneath Thomas wasn’t exactly smart, breaking one of his own rules didn’t sit right, but at least he’d feel something else. Anything else. Some one else .
Thomas turned. Their noses bumped. His black brows knitted. “I deserved it, remember?”
“Yeah, you did.”
“You’re drunk, Aiden.”
“And?”
Thomas watched him, rightfully skeptical. His makeup bled, turning him racoonish. Still handsome, though. Fuckable, at least. “I’m not gay,” he said, matter-of-factly. His eyes betrayed him, wandering from Aiden’s face to his chest, lower, lingering on his thighs.
“You are tonight,” Aiden said, and kissed Thomas. Made his intentions clear. Focused on the odd fit of their lips—not quite right, but good enough. “C’mon, let me make it up to you.”
“This stays between us,” Thomas said under his breath.
“Obviously.”
“Your place is closer.”
Aiden had imagined going to his knees in a bathroom stall or propping his back against a dumpster.
Literally, anything to avoid his bed. But if Thomas couldn’t stomach the idea of taking Aiden to his fancy townhouse, he definitely didn’t have the courage to fuck him in public.
Desperation panged annoyingly in his chest. “I’ll call a Lyft,” he said, and cleared his throat.
“It’s a poor man’s palace. Don’t expect much. ”
Thomas gnawed on his fingernail. “How ‘bout one more for the road?”
Whiskey burned Aiden’s throat.
In the Lyft, Thomas put space between them.
His bloodshot eyes flicked from Aiden to the window, and Aiden knew that look, the what am I doing look.
He’d seen it on dancefloors when mediocre men pushed between his legs, feeling for familiarity they wouldn’t find.
Seen curiosity spark and die as inexperienced lips slid around his strap.
Thomas was going through a similar, secret dilemma, and Aiden had no patience for it .
“You did good out there tonight,” Aiden said, resting his cheek on the seat.
“You did, too.” Thomas fiddled with his phone. He glanced at Aiden, watching him carefully.
Tension ratcheted, as if Thomas had decided on something.
He didn’t make a move, but he breathed a little deeper, looked a little longer.
The car rolled to a stop in the alley next to Papa’s Pizzeria, and the Lyft driver offered a half-hearted goodnight before tapping on his docked phone and backing into the street.
Alcohol turned Aiden syrupy and warm. He leaned into the chipped railing on the stairs, accepted Thomas’s hands on his waist, turning him, and Thomas’s mouth prying at his lips.
Aiden stared at the streetlamp on the adjacent sidewalk, thinking of the cliff and Shay Bennett.
Thomas kissed aggressively, like he had a point to prove.
He ran his palms along Aiden’s stomach. Pushed his hand into Aiden’s jeans.
Pressed too hard. Rubbed too fast. Good , Aiden thought.
He needed Thomas to be familiar and easy, rough and uncomplicated.
Aiden fumbled with the doorknob, tugging Thomas with him until his back smacked the wall next to the bathroom.