Chapter Two
“You lost?”
Of course I’d meet Dax Nakamura for the first time after sweating my ass off all day. I can feel the Georgia humidity pasting my baby hairs to my neck and forehead.
It doesn’t bode well for my future in journalism that I’m completely tongue-tied, but I’d argue that I should get a pass when it comes to Dax.
I didn’t think people this attractive existed in the real world.
The headline “Hot People: They’re Just like Us!
” flashes through my mind, with placeholders for images of Dax doing mundane activities like grocery shopping and taking out the trash.
I can’t fathom it. Surely his trash just sets itself on fire to save him the hassle, much like I want to do right now.
After a day in the stifling Georgia heat, I look like a sad, twice-warmed-up lasagna.
Dax looks insufferably perfect. The way his warm brown skin drinks up the blood orange of the sunset has my cheeks reddening worse than my sunburn.
I’ve been silent way too long, staring—gawking—at him.
To my horror, I realize my mouth is hanging slightly open. A moment longer and I may be drooling.
His whiskey-colored eyes, which have been so intent upon my face, flick down, assessing me briefly.
It’s like breaking a spell, the instant he relinquishes me from his gaze.
The sounds of the festival come rushing in, as if it, too, had been holding its breath.
I breathe shakily, and my tongue unsticks.
Unfortunately, it chooses to form a completely nonsensical response to his question.
“I’m allowed to be back here,” I hear myself saying like a dolt.
The corner of Dax’s mouth twitches up, not quite a smile. “I know.”
His response makes even less sense than my statement. He couldn’t possibly know. Tour started yesterday, and I’ve only seen him 1.5 times—from a distance. (Not that I’m counting.) There’s no way he knows me. He must have glimpsed the VIP badge hanging from my back pocket.
He jerks his head in the direction of the festival. My desire to get out of this parking lot maze overrides my desire to get away from him before I can embarrass myself again. I nod, falling into step with him as he confidently begins cutting through the rows of buses.
I can’t help but try to smooth over my weird proclamation. “It’s just, I left my badge in the van this morning and security had me escorted out. It was a whole thing.”
I’m boring myself with this line of conversation.
I can hear myself talking, droning on, but I can’t stop, can’t find more interesting words to say to this industry icon who will forget this entire interaction in a matter of hours.
I, on the other hand, will spend the rest of eternity cringing about The Time I Met Dax Nakamura and Was a Complete Wet Blanket.
This is not the way it goes in my daydreams. In those, I always have the perfect quip, some scintillating story where the punchline always lands. This is… not that.
He nods. I don’t know him well enough to know if he’s also bored by me or if that’s just his face. “You’re with Post Humorous, right?”
I trip, barely recovering before I face-plant.
He gestures down, and I realize my shoes are untied. Kneeling, I pray he keeps walking so I can’t embarrass myself further. Alas, his beat-up black Vans stay firmly pointed in my direction as I make bunny ears out of my laces, a rote task that shouldn’t feel as mortifying as it does.
I try to remember what he said before I tripped.
Dax speaking to me, I can wrap my head around.
Dax knowing who I am? That doesn’t make sense at all.
But it does remind me that I’m not some groupie trailing after him.
I am here of my own merit. (Okay, a slightly fudged merit that I’m my friends’ band’s PR manager.) Despite being escorted out earlier today, I am allowed to be here.
When I straighten, my posture is less slouchy than usual.
“You didn’t have to wait on me,” I tell his shoes because I cannot meet his gaze.
“It’s not like they can start without me.”
There’s that famous Dax ego. Alas, he’s not wrong.
Glancing up, he looks abashed for half a second before shrugging it off.
He doesn’t care if some random girl thinks he has an ego—earned or not.
He jerks his head, taking off again. I fall into step with him and try to reconcile the guy I’ve heard about—a diva, a lush, a liability—with the guy who patiently waited for me to tie my shoes before safely seeing me back to the venue.
It doesn’t feel like I’m talking to one of the most famous people on the tour. He’s just… a dude.
“Besides”—he speaks as languidly as he walks—“I could use the company.”
We’re through the chain-link tunnel now, reentering the fray of backstage. I glance meaningfully at the crowd we’re weaving through. “Yeah, company must be so hard for you to come by at such a massive festival.”
Dax scoffs, something akin to surprise flickering across his perma-bored expression.
As the youngest of five and the only girl, petulance is in my DNA. Based on the way he’s eyeing me, I don’t think he minds.
Our steps slow to a halt as we near the main stage—time for us to go our separate ways.
His gaze is sharper, like he wasn’t fully paying attention before, but he is now. “I’m Dax, by the way.”
As if I don’t know that. He knows I know that. “I know.”
Brilliant, Sloane. You make words in the right order so good.
Dax shakes his head, looking away and laughing under his breath.
I want to drown in the deep, husky sound of it.
“I figured, but—” His full attention is on me now, the corner of his mouth quirking up in another not-quite-smile.
This time, a ghost of a dimple winks at me.
Is he—Oh my god, is he flirting? Or is he just hot and talking?
Do I want him to be flirting? God, no. I’ve barely made it through this laughable excuse of a conversation.
I have no desire to continue mortifying myself in front of this man. “I was trying to get your name.”
“Ah” is all I can manage, still struggling to wrap my head around the concept that Dax Nakamura could maybe, possibly, be flirting with me.
Surprise flickers across his face once more. He’s losing the fight against his smile, one corner creeping higher and higher the longer we drag this out. “Are you… are you really not going to tell me your name?”
My mouth twists off to the side in a show of consideration.
I don’t know why giving it to him feels so big.
As an aspiring journalist, I should want one of the biggest names in the industry to know my name.
But… if he knows it, he can forget it, and in this moment, nothing feels more tragic than telling him my name, crossing paths with him again in a year, two years, and he’s forgotten it, forgotten me.
I don’t want to invite the opportunity to be so devastatingly disappointed, so I shake my head.
If I thought I had his full attention before, I was wrong. Challenge lights his irises from within, his pupils dilating.
I fear I’ve only made him more interested, somehow. Before I can figure out how to assure him I am a lot more effort than I’m worth—just ask every single guy I’ve ever dated—I’m enveloped in a sweaty, sticky hug that smells like cheap beer. My friends have found me.
“SLOOOOOOOOANE!” my friend Drew bellows from across the backstage area before hugging whoever is hugging me from behind. Soon, all five of my friends are squeezing the ever-loving shit out of me.
To his credit, Dax is completely unfazed by the spectacle. Worse, he’s smirking. “See you around”—he says each word like it’s delicious, savoring each syllable—“Sloane.”
Goddamnit, Drew. But god bless Drew and my friends for hugging me so tight right now because my knees are inexplicably weak.
“Let’s hope not.” I was aiming for snark, but it comes out on a wheeze thanks to the sheer number of limbs still squeezing me like a long-lost husband returned from war.
Oh, fuck me. There it is. Dax’s full smile. A quick flash of white teeth, a singular dimple in his left cheek. As quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. He hums thoughtfully, giving me a curious once-over, like he’s memorizing me, like we’ll be doing this again.
I don’t know what to make of that. When he turns and waves two fingers lazily over his shoulder, I breathe fully for the first time since we crossed paths.
I blink back to the present, the noise and smells of the venue rushing back in. Dax’s voice echoes in my ear and I shiver, goose bumps rising on my skin.
Hi, Sloane.
Three years ago, he won my name. Three years later, he still says it like a prize.
I’m not a coward for hiding in the alleyway between sets.
I’m not.
It’s been three years with no contact. I don’t know Dax anymore, but too much has happened between us to make small talk like strangers.
So, after the final supporting act’s set ended, I feigned needing to use the restroom, slipping out of the sound booth that was much too tiny for all that history, and retreated to the alleyway to do breathing exercises.
I don’t actually know how to do breathing exercises, but now seems like an ideal time to start.
The alley smells like stale beer and cigarette smoke.
I get far enough away from the ragtag group of people clustered out here and rest my forehead against the brick wall, still warm from the sun that set a while ago.
For half a second, I’m ashamed for hiding back here, but the idea of exchanging bland pleasantries with Dax—as if we didn’t spend a summer stealing moments together behind tour buses with desperate hands and pleading noises—sounds like my own tailor-made purgatory.