Chapter 20
Reese
I'm literally vibrating as I race down the stairs, my combat boots barely touching each step. Holy fucking shit. Chaos Theory. PIT TICKETS. I can't believe Ramsey actually did this.
"Don't fall and break your neck before we even get there," Ramsey calls out, his voice deep and amused.
I skid to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, my hair flying around my face.
That's when I see him, leaning against the wall in the entryway looking like sex on legs.
Black jeans that hug every inch of his thighs, those black Timbs I always tease him about, and a dark gray t-shirt that's stretched across his chest like it's hanging on for dear life.
His biceps are practically bursting through the sleeves, and I have to force myself not to stare.
"Holy shit, Rams!" I squeal, bouncing on my toes. "I still can't believe you got tickets! And pit tickets!"
His eyes drag over me, lingering on the sliced-up sides of my shirt where skin peeks through, then down to my fishnets. Something dark flashes in those blue eyes.
"I know how much you love this band, and I figured if you're going to be in the pit, I'd better be there to make sure some asshole doesn't crush you."
I launch myself at him, throwing my arms around his neck. His hands instinctively go to my waist, and I feel his fingers brush against the bare skin exposed by my DIY shirt alterations.
"You're the fucking best," I say into his neck, breathing in that scent that's so distinctly Ramsey.
His hands tighten on my waist for a second before he sets me back. "Yeah, well, don't make me regret it." His voice sounds strained. "If it gets too rough in there—"
"I know, I know. We bail," I finish for him, rolling my eyes. "But it won't. It's gonna be amazing."
"Your definition of amazing and mine are clearly different," he mutters, but there's a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
I spin around, showing off my concert outfit. "What do you think? Reagan would kill me if she saw what I did to this shirt she gave me."
Ramsey's jaw tightens, and his eyes darken as they track over my exposed skin again.
"It's..." he clears his throat. "You look fucking good, Reese."
The way he says my name makes heat pool in my belly.
"You don't look so bad yourself," I say, trying to lighten the moment. "Though I think your shirt might be a size too small."
"It's not," he mutters, grabbing his keys from the counter. "Let's go before I change my mind about the pit."
The drive to the venue is full of bass and screamed lyrics as we blast Chaos Theory through Ramsey's ridiculous sound system. His truck eats up the miles, and I can't stop fidgeting in my seat, the anticipation making me practically levitate.
"Fuck, I can't believe this is happening," I say for probably the twentieth time as we pull into the parking lot. The venue looms ahead, already swarming with fans.
Ramsey puts the truck in park, his lips twitching with amusement. "You've said that about fifty times now."
"Because it's true!" I flip open the visor, checking my makeup in the mirror. My eyeliner is still sharp enough to kill a man, lips still that perfect deep red.
When I look over, Ramsey's watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with heat. He clears his throat and climbs out, circling around to my side before I can even reach for the handle.
He swings my door open, standing there like some badass chauffeur.
"I feel like such a fucking badass right now," I laugh, sliding out past him. "Like a mini-Reagan."
Something shifts in his expression. His hand catches my wrist, stopping me.
"You're not mini-anything," he says, voice low and firm. "You're you, Reese. Your own fucking person." His thumb brushes against my pulse point. "And a badass in your own right."
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight.
"Now c'mon," he continues, letting go of my wrist to slam the door shut. "Let me go buy you some overpriced fucking pretzel and popcorn and all the fucking merch you want."
I actually squeal, grabbing his arm. "Really? Even the hoodie? It's like seventy bucks."
"Did I fucking stutter?" He raises an eyebrow, but there's that smile again, the one that transforms his whole face. "Whatever you want, it's yours."
"You're going to fucking regret saying that," I warn, already dragging him toward the entrance.
"Doubt it," he mutters, so quietly I almost miss it.
Inside, the venue is already packed, bodies pressed together in anticipation. The air smells like beer and sweat and excitement. Ramsey keeps his hand on the small of my back as we weave through the crowd, that possessive touch sending little sparks up my spine.
The merch table is packed with sweaty bodies, but Ramsey's height gives him an advantage. He towers over most of the crowd, his shoulders creating a path for me to follow in his wake.
"Holy shit," I breathe when we finally reach the front. The display is fucking glorious. T-shirts with their signature skull-and-lightning design, hoodies in black and blood red, limited edition tumblers that change color.
"What do you want?" Ramsey asks, his wallet already out.
"Um, maybe the black hoodie?" I point hesitantly. "And—"
"We'll take two of each hoodie," Ramsey tells the guy behind the counter, cutting me off. "The crew neck too. And give me two of each of those t-shirts also. Matter of fact, two of literally everything. Size medium, she likes it comfy."
My jaw drops. "Rams, what the fuck?"
He ignores me, continuing to point. "The messenger bag too. And that tumbler—is that limited edition? Yeah, we'll take that."
"That's going to be like almost a grand, I think," I hiss, tugging at his arm.
He glances down at me, eyebrow raised. "And?"
The merch guy starts piling everything on the counter—two different hoodies in multiple sizes, a crew neck, five different t-shirt styles, the bag, the fucking tumbler. Ramsey doesn't even blink when the total comes up. He just hands over his card like it's nothing.
"You're fucking insane," I tell him as the guy bags everything up.
"You mentioned that before," he says, lips quirking. By the time we're done, Ramsey's arms are loaded with bags, and I'm still standing there in shock. His biceps flex with the weight, and I have to force myself not to stare at how the veins pop along his forearms.
"C'mon," he says, nodding toward the exit. "Let's go drop this shit in the truck before the opener starts."
I follow him through the crowd, watching his broad back as he effortlessly carries what must be fifty pounds.
"You know I'm never going to be able to pay you back for all this," I say when we reach the parking lot.
"Who asked you to?" He pops the back of his truck open, tossing the bags inside. "It's a fucking gift, Reese. Just say thank you and move on."
"Thank you," I say softly, and something in his expression shifts.
"Don't look at me like that," he mutters.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm some kind of fucking hero for buying you band merch." He slams the truck closed with more force than necessary. "Let's go back in. I'm starving."
Inside, the smell of concession food hits me hard. My stomach growls loudly enough for Ramsey to hear over the crowd.
"Pretzel with spicy nacho cheese," he tells the concession worker before I can even open my mouth. "Popcorn. Two waters."
"You know, I can order for myself," I tease, nudging him with my hip.
His eyes find mine, intense and dark. "Tell me that's not exactly what you wanted."
I can't argue. It's exactly what I would have ordered.
Arms full of snacks, we make our way toward the stage. "Here," he says, finding us a spot with a perfect view of the stage. The pit isn't fully formed yet, but I can see where it will be.
I take a massive bite of the pretzel, moaning as the hot, salty dough hits my tongue. The nacho cheese is nuclear orange and so fucking spicy it makes my eyes water, but I don't care. I dip again, letting the cheese drip down my chin.
"You eat like a fucking animal," Ramsey says, but there's something in his voice that doesn't sound annoyed at all.
I'm about to flip him off when the lights dim and the crowd roars. The opening band, False Gods, takes the stage with a wall of sound that hits me like a physical force. The lead singer's voice is like gravel being dragged over barbed wire, and I'm instantly obsessed.
"Holy shit, they're actually good!" I scream to Ramsey, who just nods, his eyes never leaving me as I start to move.
I can't help it—my body responds to the bass like it's hard wired into my fucking DNA. I shimmy in place, one hand clutching my pretzel, the other in the air. The nacho cheese is probably going everywhere, but I don't give a fuck.
"Eat your food first, then dance," Ramsey says into my ear, his breath hot against my neck.
"Make me," I challenge, looking up at him with what I know is cheese on my face.
His eyes darken, and for a second, I think he might actually try. Instead, he wipes the cheese from my chin with his thumb, then—holy fuck—licks it clean. The move is so casual yet so fucking filthy that my knees go weak.
I turn back to the stage before he can see what that did to me, stuffing more pretzel in my mouth.
Some drunk guy stumbles backward, nearly crashing into me, but Ramsey's arm shoots out, stopping him with a flat palm to the chest.
"Watch it," he growls, and the guy mumbles an apology before disappearing back into the crowd.
I dance in my little bubble, protected by Ramsey's presence. He stands behind me, close enough that I can feel his body heat but not touching. Every few minutes, someone gets too close, and without fail, Ramsey shifts to block them or gives them a look that sends them scurrying.
"You're my own personal bouncer," I laugh, looking over my shoulder at him.
"Someone's gotta keep these fuckers away from you," he says, and there's no humor in his voice at all.
False Gods wraps up their set with a scream that makes my ears ring. The crowd goes wild, surging forward as the stage goes dark. I chug what's left of my water and shove my empty pretzel wrapper into the nearest trash can.
"Holy fuck, here it comes," I whisper, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The silence stretches for one beat, two, then three. The anticipation is so thick I could fucking choke on it. Then—BOOM—a single spotlight hits the stage as the first chord rips through the air. The crowd erupts as Chaos Theory emerges from the darkness.
"HELLO MOTHERFUCKERS!" Daymon King, the lead singer, roars into the mic, his voice like liquid sex wrapped in barbed wire. His tattooed arms flex as he grips the stand, the stage lights catching on his piercing. "ARE YOU READY TO FUCKING LOSE YOUR MINDS?"
The crowd loses its collective mind. So do I.
"Stay close," he growls in my ear, but I barely hear him over the music. He grabs me by the neck and forces me to look at him and I know he means business. It’s not like I would want to go far from him anyway. This place is fucking crazy.
The bass is so heavy it feels like my heart is syncing to its rhythm. The drums pound through my body, and when Daymon starts singing—holy fucking shit—it's like being hit by lightning.
I'm dancing before I even realize it, my body moving of its own accord. The music takes over, and I'm fucking gone. This is why I love Chaos Theory. Their music crawls inside you, makes you feel like you're being torn apart and put back together all at once.
The pit churns around us, bodies slamming into each other, but Ramsey creates this bubble of space. His height and build and the don't-fuck-with-me energy he radiates keeps most people at a distance.
The music shifts to "Midnight Confessions," their most sexual track, and the crowd goes absolutely feral. Daymon's voice drops to a growl as he sings about tasting sin on someone's lips.
I lose myself completely, my body rolling with the beat. Without thinking, I press back against Ramsey, my ass connecting with his hips. His grip tightens instantly, but he doesn't push me away. I turn to face Ramsey instead of the stage now, dancing just for him.
His eyes widen slightly, the muscle in his jaw jumping as I move. The sliced sides of my shirt are sticking to my skin with sweat, and I know he can feel it with the way he’s gripping me.
Feeling bold, I step closer, slipping between his thick legs and pushing my body against him.
I press my thigh right against his crotch and roll my hips, feeling the unmistakable hardness growing there.
The friction of his jean-covered leg against my fishnets sends electricity straight to my core.
I'm soaked, and the rough denim against my pussy through the thin mesh is almost too much.
His eyes go midnight dark, pupils blown wide. For a second, I think he's going to push me away—set those boundaries he's always so careful about. Instead, his hands slide down to my hips and grip hard enough to bruise.
I roll against him again, feeling his cock stiffen even more against my thigh. The music throbs around us, but all I can focus on is the heat between us, the way his fingers dig into my skin.
Ramsey bends down suddenly, his mouth right against my ear. His teeth scrape against my earlobe before he bites down—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make me gasp.
"Reese," he growls, my name like a filthy promise in his mouth.