Twenty-Two
Kat
The dressing room smells as it always does: cigarette smoke and hairspray. My bandmates buzz around in various stages of readiness, and there’s a certain energy in the air, one that I always find addicting.
The room is small for four people and their gear.
Cables snake across the floor, empty water bottles and crumpled set-lists litter the table beneath the mirrors.
Now that we’ve been playing at Headstone for a few weeks, my pre-show nerves have dissipated.
Each show seems bigger than the last and I’m fucking loving it.
We’ve racked up a small amount of savings in these last few weeks, and Ryland finally agreed to let us each have some for ourselves. It was only a hundred bucks, but that bought me a new vinyl that’s been on repeat ever since.
Luca picks a few notes in the corner as Ryland flexes his wrists and Harper sounds out some vocal warmups. I’ve learned to love these moments. The moments before everything begins.
The Hollywood mirror is so bright it hurts to look at, but I stand in front of it anyway, studying my reflection.
The dress clings to me in a strange way.
Not too tight, not too loose. It was almost as if someone had made it specifically for me.
I stand back, tugging at the fabric over my hips.
The slits are so high I couldn’t wear panties.
I’m suddenly incredibly thankful that I’m a guitarist and my instrument will cover any slips.
The sweetheart neckline dips low enough to show my favorite asset, but not too low to give everyone in the front row a free show.
What I didn’t notice until I put it on was the small cutout around my belly.
Looking at it in the mirror now, dread creeps up my spine, but I push it aside.
There’s only one person I’m wearing this for tonight.
My fingers brush the seam absentmindedly. This dress shows far more than I’m used to, but there’s obviously a reason he bought it for me. I wonder how he’ll react. Warmth hugs low in my belly at the thought.
A wolf whistle breaks me out of my trance.
“If I weren’t gay, I’d bang you,” Luca says, making an obscene gesture with his hands.
“If I were gay, I’d bang you,” Harper joins in, staring straight at my cleavage.
They turn to look at Ryland, who’s absentmindedly twirling his drumsticks. He steals a quick glance at me. “You look hot, Kat,” he says, flashing a quick glance at Harper before going back to twirling his drumsticks.
A hot blush creeps into my cheeks. “Aw, thanks, guys,” I say with a smile, although I’m pretty sure it doesn’t reach my eyes.
Harper steps closer, leaning into my ear. “I wonder who will be in the audience tonight?” she asks with a wiggle of her eyebrows. Her tone is playful, but there’s a reminder underneath it. A reminder that says, ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, girl.’
Harper spotted the dress the moment I walked into the dressing room with it draped over my shoulder. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to—that bitch notices everything when it comes to me. But she was absolutely coveting it, checking the label to see where she could get one of her own.
“We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?” I counter with a smile that reaches my eyes this time.
“You’re smiling,” she murmurs.
“I am.”
A knock rattles the door, indicating our two-minute warning.
I turn back to the mirror and reach for my jacket out of habit, but I hesitate. Staring at my reflection, I lift my chin, ignoring all the sensations in my body that are born out of habit and I slowly set the jacket back down.
I grab my guitar and cowl, pulse quickening.
Ryland opens the door, and the muffled roar and voices of the crowd seep through the walls.
My stomach dips briefly and I draw in a slow breath.
No matter how many times we play, unease still creeps in right before we step on stage—a reminder that anything can happen.
We take the same narrow hallway we always do towards the stage, each of us falling into a familiar step behind each other.
As we get closer to the stage, it’s obvious this is our biggest crowd yet.
Each time we play, the audience grows but this is the biggest leap we’ve had so far.
We exchange looks, equal parts nerves and excitement.
When we step onto the stage, the lights are momentarily blinding even through the cowl. My eyes scan the crowd; eager faces blur into one as I search for the only one that matters.
Elias stands at the back of the crowd, where he always is. But this time his gaze is a fucking inferno. Even from across the room, he feels separate from everyone else. The crowd shifts and sways around him, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder under the lights.
But his posture is dangerously still as his eyes roam over my body. I hold his gaze, feeling the heat of it pool low in my belly. I hold his stare, giving him a small smirk. His features harden, but I refuse to drop my gaze.
Ryland begins to count us down, my hands finding their place on the fretboard through muscle memory alone. Elias’s eyes do not move from me. Not when Ryland finishes the count. Not when Harper sings the first note. Not when the crowd erupts into cheers. They stay locked on mine.
This is going to be the most torturous set yet.
The cheers of the crowd fill the room, echoing against the walls as we take our final bow before exiting the stage and returning down the narrow hallway.
“Bravo, everyone,” comes a deep voice in front of us that I would recognize anywhere.
“Cheers, boss man,” Ryland says, clapping Elias on the shoulder.
Elias’s nostrils flare, but Ryland is completely oblivious, casually twirling his drumsticks as he heads towards the dressing room with Luca. Harper gives me a quick wink, nodding her head towards Elias as she follows.
He keeps his eyes trained on me. “Kat, may I see you in my office?” he asks, a formal tone to his voice—one that I haven’t heard before. The way he says it makes my stomach drop. A bead of sweat forms at the nape of my neck, and my pulse hammers in my ears.
I swallow and nod my head. I’m suddenly very aware of the way the slit in my dress brushes against my bare thigh as I follow him up the stairs.
I catch a glimpse of his profile, and his face contorts with something I cannot place.
Each step of the stairs feels heavy as a knot forms in my stomach.
What if this was a mistake? My hand reaches for the comfort of my necklace, sighing as I touch the cool metal.
He opens the door to his office and gestures for me to go inside. He walks towards his desk, and I pull my guitar over my head, resting it carefully in the corner of the room.
The silence is fucking deafening.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, although it sounds too loud.
Elias turns on his heels, his brows knitted in confusion. “You think I’m angry?”
The confusion in his voice throws me. My mouth opens and closes, no words forming. I pull the necklace tighter in my fist. Anger was the first explanation my brain had formed as I walked up the stairs. But now that he’s standing in front of me—I’m not so sure.
His gaze drifts lazily down my body and the air in the room shifts. Electricity settles between us, making the hairs on my arms stand up. His jaw tightens as his eyes reach the slit in my dress. He flicks his gaze back up to mine, and this time, the heat there makes my pulse stutter.
He walks over to me and presses his hand on my lower back, pulling me against him as his other hand tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The hardness pressing against my stomach makes my hammering pulse drop from my ears to my core, making it suddenly pulse and ache.
“Little rebel,” he starts, his hand tracing small circles on my back. “You don’t know the restraint it took not to march on stage to you, bend you over your friend’s drum kit, and take you right there in front of every single person in my fucking bar.”
I don’t shrink under the intensity of his gaze despite the wetness I feel against my inner thigh. The whole ‘not wearing underwear’ thing is really backfiring.
“I’m here now,” I say. The confidence I feel falls flat with my words, my body unbearably hot.
Elias grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls me towards him, our mouths clashing.
The tenderness of our last kiss is gone, replaced by mess and neediness.
His tongue probes my mouth as his free hand slides under my dress at the split, noticing my lack of underwear as he fists the soft skin of my hip. My nipples harden at the touch.
“Do you want this, Kat?” he says breathlessly, palming my hip.
Do I want this? Right now, I want nothing more. “Yes,” I pant.
He lets out a small rumble of approval. Letting go of my hair, his hand slides lazily over my shoulder and down my chest, his fingers coming to rest against my hard nipples through my dress.
His thumbs trace slow circles around them, the fabric of my dress creating delicious friction.
Electric shocks shoot right down into my pussy, making my hips roll involuntarily as a small moan escapes.
“So. Fucking. Responsive,” he murmurs, his eyes hooded in lust as he gently pinches both nipples.
My brain clouds over, I can’t think, I can’t speak, but I know his hands aren’t where I need them. I grab each side of his suit and pull his jacket off, marveling at the way his muscles press against the fabric of his shirt. I can’t help but lick my lips in anticipation.
“Is this what you need?” he purrs, his large fingertips flicking over my achingly tight nipples. “Or do you want more?”
I nod my head in confirmation.
“Use your words, Kat,” he says, lifting his thumbs ever so slightly so there’s only a ghost of a touch.
“M-More. Please.”
He doesn’t waste a second before one hand is spinning me, pinning my back against his chest, and his other is at my thigh, sliding it painfully slowly, higher and higher as I nearly combust at his touch.