Chapter Fourteen #2
Aiden laughed in his throat, listening to Hail the Haunted close out their set.
He scanned the groupies standing next to the stage.
They looked entirely normal, as if one of their friends hadn’t been found shredded like confetti.
Laura shuffled silver-tipped cards, lips moving around rapid words.
She glanced at Aiden and lifted a finely plucked eyebrow.
The guy next to her fiddled with his earrings—bone-shards dangling from each lobe.
He recalled the way Laura had clutched a bite-sized femur in the Cosmopolitan Hotel and unease roiled inside him.
Hope you liked the flowers, you fuckin’ weirdos, he thought. Hope you were allergic.
He nudged Georgia with his elbow, and said, “Remember our Anne Rice phase?”
“God, yes ,” she said through a groan. “Back when we were actually cool.”
“No way. The cool phase was definitely our six-month descent into cyber goth.”
“We spray painted my locs neon pink, huh? Before I shaved ‘em?”
“Sure did. ”
Georgia laughed, leaning against him. “Shay wore those awful plastic pants, remember? At that Halloween festival?”
“He sure did,” Aiden said, laughing, too. “Dylan went on stage with a Jack ‘O Lantern on his head. Like, an actual pumpkin.”
She doubled over, tripping into belly-laughs. “Damn, man, look at us now.” She gestured to her torn, scoop-neck tee and swatted his bare chest. “Can’t even get you to wear a shirt.”
Shay arrived, keeping pace next to Dylan. Contact lenses turned his eyes ghostly white. He tipped his head toward the stage. “They’re about to start our intro.”
“Did you guys see the videographer in the pit?” Dylan asked. He raked his hand through blonde locks. “Guess Jacob booked him for a limited release live-stream thing.”
“Oh, what?” Georgia arched a brow, glancing between Aiden, Dylan, and Shay. “So, we’re being recorded? As in tonight? Like, now? ”
“Don’t dwell on the camera, just play. I bet it’s a freebie video for fans who like our Facebook page or follow us on Instagram,” Shay said. He handed Georgia a contact lens case and glanced at Aiden. The lights dimmed and the arena went black. “We ready?”
Aiden ran his palm along the railing on the ramp until a stagehand stopped him, corralling the band into a hidden wing. He grabbed his guitar from the instrument rack and fit the strap over his shoulder.
The introduction had changed, marginally. Swords still clashed, Théoden’s battle speech still echoed, but as the band walked on stage, war sounds faded, and the Witch-king of Angmar’s ghoulish voice boomed through the amphitheater— feast on his flesh.
They opened with Reign. Red lights shot outward, coating the stone surrounding the steep arena.
The videographer followed them from a person-sized space against the stage, focusing on Shay’s bared fangs and Aiden’s wicked grin, Dylan singing into the second microphone and Georgia tossing her drumsticks.
They played well. Crunchy, stampeding music made for war and sex and release.
Aiden curled his fingers at the crowd, beckoning ear-shattering screams and deafening applause.
Shay went to his knees at the edge of the stage, like always, and sang Glory, intimately and perfectly, to the people in the pit.
By the end of their set, long-lost desire tangled around Aiden’s bones: I’ve always wanted to play here .
Like a wish from a past life, the thought burrowed behind his eyes, capturing this moment, those faces, that world-famous amphitheater.
Death follows you. Aiden silenced Kelly’s voice, focusing on the encore, a cover of Go Your Own Way, remembering Shay’s lips pressed against his own, being held in that dark bathroom, staring into black eyes in San Diego.
Every time Shay had ever accidentally touched him—fingers linked, lips brushing cheeks, singing too close on stage at a festival—rushed into his chest.
Maybe death had always followed him.
Once the last note echoed, they loped off stage.
“Damn, I’d play here all year long,” Shay said. He laughed under his breath, pulling Georgia into a one-armed hug. “The acoustics are insane!”
She stole his water bottle and took a sip. “Fuck, I know.”
“Yeah, seriously. No wonder Jacob booked a video-thing- whatever for tonight. Acoustics, ambiance, this place has it all,” Dylan said.
Aiden nodded. Before he could speak, a hand clapped his bicep.
Westley grinned. “Welcome to Colorado. How’d you like the venue?”
“Everyone always talks about how awesome Red Rocks is, so I’m not surprised. Can’t believe we actually got to play here, though,” Aiden said, glancing at Westley’s hand, shifting to his shoulder.
Dylan tied his sweaty hair back with an elastic band, grinning widely. “Anybody else want food? I’m starving.”
“I could eat,” Georgia said.
Westley nodded. “Well, I threw in for a lakeside lodge with some friends. A few of our roadies are celebrating Cassandra. I didn’t know her well, but the loss.
. . It left us all a little shaken.” He shrugged, smile thinning.
“I’m sure you know how it is. Thanks for the flowers, by the way.
I guess her mother—well, they call her mother—Cit, she really appreciated the gesture,” he said, and bumped his knuckles against Shay’s fist. “There’s food, booze, party favors, music.
Totally private. If you’re looking for something to top off your night, we’d be happy to host.”
“I’m down,” Aiden said. “It’s been a while since we crashed an afterparty.”
Westley squeezed his shoulder, setting fingertips to sweat-sheened skin.
Aiden clocked Shay’s arched eyebrow and clenched jaw.
How his bright, white contact lenses settled on Westley’s hand.
“Hell yeah, man. It’ll be a nice send-off after traveling together,” Westley said, and fished his phone out of his pocket.
“I already follow you on Insta, Aiden. I’ll DM you the address? ”
“Sure, yeah, that’s fine,” Aiden said. He glanced at Georgia, who looked skeptical, then Dylan, who mouthed the word starving again. “Yes? No?”
Shay cleared his throat, shifting his weight, heel to toe. “Not to be a dick about it, but our manager will slaughter us if we get photographed at a house party.”
“Nah, man, I hear you. We’re local, you know. Denver based. These are friends of ours, friends of friends, groupies, other musicians and such. Nobody’ll be snapping pictures without asking first, especially considering the circumstances. You’ve got my word,” Westley said.
Aiden fixed Shay with a playful glare, and said, “C’mon, Bennett. Live a little.”
The night deepened, strangling the dry, mountain heat. Above them, the moon curved like a scythe.
Shay sighed. “All right,” he said, laughing in his throat. “Let’s party, I guess.”