Chapter Seventeen #2
I don’t know who to look at first, trying to analyze their costumes.
They don’t match at all, but the red lightning across Marcus’s face and Jonah’s hat with concho hatband are immediately recognizable as Bowie and Slash.
With his round black glasses, Cain is unmistakably Ozzy.
Barrett appears on the drum riser. His costume is vaguely ’70s, and I can’t place him until he sits behind his kit.
Of course he’s paying homage to John Bonham.
“Where is Dax?”
As if in answer to Brooklyn’s question, the crowd to our right parts, the telltale arc of flashlights heading toward us.
Dax posts up next to us like he’s not supposed to be starting the show right now.
His hand ghosts along the back of my arm, twirling a lock of my hair around his finger.
He gives it a gentle tug that unlocks a cascade of memories, a montage of him grabbing my hair, holding me where he wants me while he slowly obliterates my self-control.
His gaze snags on my lips before flicking up to meet mine, and my mouth goes dry.
It’s a watered-down version of our old preshow routine, but I’m as breathless as his kisses used to leave me.
Knowing he hasn’t forgotten our old routine any more than I have—
Not for the first time, I’m grateful Drew is at my back, keeping me upright. But for all the attention Dax pays to him, Drew may as well not be there.
Dax pushes away from us, his touch a brand against my skin.
“When the pit opens up, take care of that one,” he says, finally acknowledging Drew, an unwitting third wheel to this entire interaction. “She’s important to me.”
If Drew weren’t behind me, I’d topple over. Every cell in my body riots, needing to get closer to Dax, my brain waging war against that instinct, reminding me where we are, who is watching. Him coming to find me is risky enough.
“I think I just got secondhand pregnant from that,” Drew whispers in my ear.
I notice Isaac for the first time, camera in hand, following behind Dax with two security guards. The stage lights flash out onto the crowd, Barrett’s slap of his sticks like a war drum. When he does it again, Dax joins in. “Final,” he growls, each syllable in sync with Barrett’s drums.
Good god. This man is going to undo me. On a normal day, Dax is attractive, drawing people’s eyes even when he’s trying his damnedest to fly under the radar.
Even if you don’t listen to metal or have never heard the name Final Revelations, he has a presence about him that immediately lets you know he’s someone.
Dax dressed as Freddie Mercury wearing a literal crown and coronation mantle, no shirt, and the iconic white pants with the red stripes down the side? Lord help me.
“They’re legends,” Charlie says in near-reverent awe. He’s referring to their costume theme paying homage to iconic rock bands, but also, Final Revelations themselves.
The crowd parts for Dax as he meanders through, he and Barrett perfectly in sync as their chant grows faster and faster, the crowd joining in.
Dax climbs over the barricade into the gap in the middle of the venue floor, and I can sense security’s dismay as he jumps the barrier to general admission.
Isaac and the security guards struggle to keep up with him, but the crowd parts for him like a school of fish would for a shark, letting him make his way to the stage as the chant of Final, Final, Final reaches a near frenzied tempo, Dax somehow holding the note as security drags him over the barricade in front of the stage.
“He is fucking unreal,” someone next to us breathes in awe.
My proud grin stretches more broadly across my face.
The room goes dark as Dax lets out one last, long, low guttural, the lights coming back up once he’s on stage. He launches immediately into their first song, folding in half with a synchronized headbang with the three guitarists.
Dax is having far too much fun with his Freddie Mercury costume, prowling across the stage, fur-trimmed mantle trailing behind him. Fuck. Even the way this man walks turns me on.
When the song ends, Dax props the crown at the base of Barrett’s kit, coming to greet the audience by bracing one foot on the riser, his crooked smile making his dimple pop.
The crowd cheers enthusiastically, only quieting when he brings the mic to his mouth.
“What’s good, Cleveland?”
The room explodes again, and Dax shares a private smirk with the rest of the band, the crowd positively eating out of their talented hands. Final hasn’t played a venue this small in years, and they’re relishing it.
Dax slots the microphone back into the holder, and the way his hand slides down the stand is indecent.
As he works the crowd up, getting them to make some noise for the opening bands, Brooklyn glances back, brown eyes wide and sparkling more than the glitter on her cheeks.
I shake my head because I can’t talk about it. He’s so my id that it hurts.
They launch into their next song, and Dax straddles the mic stand between his legs, walking forward until it’s parallel to the ground as he gets low, walking it back up…
Brooklyn leans back, resting her head on my shoulder so I can hear her. “I fear you’re in a throuple with that microphone stand.”
I shake with laughter, lust and longing rattling around inside me like a palpable thing. “Good thing I know how to fight,” I joke.
“I don’t think there’s any competition,” Drew chimes in fondly from behind me, his arms around both of us squeezing slightly. “That man has eyes for one person and one person only.”
I flush, remembering Dax’s comment from our faux fight earlier, how easily it slipped past his lips, leaving no doubt in my mind that it was true and not just part of our ruse.
I never stopped. Not for one fucking minute, baby.
I’ve had a lot of nicknames over the years. To most people, I’m Donavan. To some, I’m Boston. To my brothers, I’m Sammy—what they wanted me to be named, refusing to call me anything else for twenty-four years. But only one person has ever called me baby.
That person is currently putting on one hell of a show and having the time of his life doing it. The happiness on his face as he performs reverberates in my chest, an invisible string connecting him to me, his joy my joy.
And I know with absolute certainty that he’s the only person I ever want to call me that.