37-Zach
“Cry-so-thee-mus pul-chel-la,” Cooper sounds out, looking at the shiny silver plaque, “also known as sunset bells, or black flamingo.” He leans up and inspects the plant, a smirk widening between his bearded cheeks. “My brother.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, shaking my head as I peer at the stunning flower.
It’s a cluster of long, tubular blooms that hang like tiny lanterns, each petal shifting from deep coral to dusky plum. They sway gently from the overhead vents, releasing a ripe mango scent. The tips flare outward, catching filtered sunlight that spills through the tinted glass.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Cooper murmurs, the sleeve of his beige hoodie lifting like a spotlight toward the Flowers of the World walkway.
Louanne holds hands with her wife, Alyssa, Louanne’s free hand gesturing animatedly as she talks. Alyssa’s constellation of freckles shift as she crinkles her nose, listening with a soft smile. Her mane of wild, fiery spirals refuses to be tamed, and they remind me of Nicole.
My chest twinges every time I see her.
Whitney and Liane are hooked arm-to-arm like mismatched ornaments. Seth and Pamrata trail just behind, whispering to each other like they’re sharing a secret. Seth’s grin is bright enough to power the entire conservatory.
And then there’s Judas—except he’s not Judas.
No paint or performance mask, replaced instead with a simple black cloth that covers his nose and mouth.
He’s wearing baggy black sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt, hood down to reveal his hair, tied into a small knot at the back of his head.
Loose blond strands fall around his temples in a very ’90s boyband kind of way, framing his irises.
And Yensil, his bodyguard, shadows him like usual.
It’s been a few days since the pulled pork incident, and I still can’t look at Judas without replaying the moment our hands touched. The way he said tempt him felt more like a provocation than a warning.
Louanne spots us and waves, tugging Alyssa along the stony path. “Hey, strangers!”
The others follow, their footsteps crunching softly over gravel. Judas sticks close to Yensil, not sparing me a glance. Which is fine. Great.
Yensil oozes a coiled readiness that only comes from years of training, ex-military stamped into every line of his posture.
With broad shoulders and a steady gait, his dark eyes are always scanning.
He’s dressed in a black tactical jacket that blends into any crowd, but my gaze snags on the matte black holster at his hip.
A firearm sits there like a silent warning. Present always. A cold ripple crawls up my spine. The humid air thickens, pressing against my skin like a sweaty hand.
I understand why he carries it; fame is a magnet for the unhinged. And after everything I’ve learned about the stalkers and break-ins, I pray that Yensil never has to use it.
But I know what it feels like to be on the receiving end of a barrel.
The metallic taste of fear as your ears keep ringing. A single point of black steel at the edge of a breath you’re not sure you’ll get to finish.
Yensil isn’t a threat to me; he’s one of the safest people in this entire garden, but my body doesn’t care. Trauma doesn’t care.
It’s a reflex that whispers danger in the back of my skull.
I force a slow breath, grounding myself in the soft rustle of leaves overhead. I remind myself that Yensil is here to protect, not harm.
Still, I keep a respectful distance—just enough space to breathe.
“Where’s Silver?” Cooper asks, trying to peer over Judas and Yensil.
“They’re getting a bite,” Liane says, leaning into Whitney’s shoulder.
She, Louanne, Alyssa, and Cooper, wander toward a display of carnivorous plants, chatting about the garden layout and the weirdly aggressive signage warning visitors not to feed the Venus flytraps. I hang back, adjusting my camera strap.
“The girls and I are taking our post-show shot tonight.” Pamrata turns to me as she unhooks her hair from a gold hoop earring. “We thought it’d be cool if you filmed it. You fancy a drink?”
My lips purse as if expecting the bitter release at the mere mention of alcohol. “I’ll certainly have a shot of pop.”
“Crap!” Pamrata snaps her mauve-painted fingers. “That’s right; you’re sober, like Kit.”
She looks away; a story for another day. Sobriety isn’t linear, and I’m not about to judge anyone’s slope.
“I’d love to come. It’d make great footage; a quirky little moment for the three of you.”
“Exactly!” Whitney claps as sunlight filters through the canopy of broad tropical fronds, dappling her new red-tipped braids in shifting patches of gold. “I knew you’d get it.”
Her excitement ripples through the humid air, the sound of her palms echoing faintly.
“Meet us in our room after the show,” Pamrata says, brushing her fingers along a cluster of hibiscus the size of dinner plates, “1579.”
“No,” Whit interjects, “we’re 1608 now, remember?”
A cold prickle of dread crawls up my spine. I thought the techies were just getting tossed into cheaper rooms, but if the band has to shift around without the rest of the crew knowing, it means there’s a leak in security.
I look at them. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” Whitney nods, distracted by a cluster of pitcher plants hanging from a wooden beam. She leans in close, peering into the deep red cups as if expecting one to blink back at her. “Apparently the heater’s busted.”
Her tone is too breezy, practiced. Sweat slides down my back, and not from the heat. I know they’re sworn to their own secrecy, so I’m not going to push. Still, I can’t help but feel awful, knowing how rare it is for a band to get a chance to rest in a real bed while touring.
“Don’t worry, security always sends Steven and Isaiah with us after the shows.” Pamrata takes my clammy hand in hers, her palm warm and grounding. The faint scent of jasmine clings to her from the flowers she’d been admiring earlier. “Meet us at room 1608.”
She points at me, eyeing me up and down with a dramatic tilt of her pointed chin. Her bangles clink softly as she shifts her weight from one heel to the other.
“Wear something flirty. No—” She snaps her fingers, the sound sharp against the soft rustle of leaves. “Slaggy. With a red lip.”
Whitney snorts, eyes warm and mischievous. I shake my head, smiling despite myself. The earthy scent of soil mixes with the sweetness of blooming orchids, and for a moment, the dread loosens its grip.
“Why?” I ask, though I already know they won’t tell me. They exchange a conspiratorial glance. Pamrata’s lips twitch. “Okay, well, now I’m definitely intrigued.”
Across the walkway, Judas and Seth balance along the curb like overgrown children. Seth shoves Judas’s shoulder, and he stumbles right into a sprinkler head. A jet of water blasts upward, drenching him from chest to hairline.
He freezes for a beat, then bursts into laughter, bright and unguarded. Water dripping from his long lashes, he shoves Seth back, his grin wide enough to split his face as he lowers his mask.
His smile is so precious, like spotting a shooting star in daylight.
Without ceremony, he tugs the soaked sweater over his head, and every coherent thought in my skull evaporates. Heat punches low in my stomach, humiliatingly obvious.
My mouth goes dry.
His chest is bare and toned, freckled across the collarbones and abs. A faint vertical scar curves beneath his left ribs, ending near the trail of stubble disappearing into his waistband. He’s not overly muscular; just defined, sculpted by movement.
A withered laurel crowns the top of his left bicep, the leaves curled and brittle.
Below it, a broken bow arcs across the muscle, snapped clean through the middle.
I don’t need the story to feel the fracture.
Tucked closest to his heart, a falling star trails down his inner arm in a bright, delicate streak.
Mirroring the falling star, a bird’s eye view of a phoenix rises along his inner right arm.
Red thread winds around his right bicep in looping, impossible patterns, like someone stitched it into him by hand.
An open eye stares outward from below the string, not eerie or ominous, just awake.
Unflinching. The gaze of someone who’s lost too much to ever blink again.
Clever. With the cloak covering most of his upper body onstage, he never has to paint them. They’re his—not Judas’s.
I exhale slowly, trying to collect myself. I’m staring; I know I’m staring.
I can’t stop staring.
“All right?” Pamrata asks, snapping me out of my trance.
I blink. “What?”
“You were gone for a second there.” Warmth threads through her tease.
“Hey, the man is fine,” Cooper says, raising his hands in surrender, and I have no idea when he came back around. “Honestly, if I could, I’d figure out a way to become the painter.”
I swat at him, my face flaming.
“Ah, leave off, Coop,” Alyssa says, her golden-green eyes sparkling. “I get to travel the world doin’ what I love, and I get to watch me wife absolutely batter the drums every night like some feckin’ goddess. I’m not givin’ up this gig for anyone.”
Judas’s gaze shifts to me as he turns, and I immediately spin around.
Chip, I’m like a twelve-year-old with a crush.
Yes, he’s good looking. We all know this.
Millions of people know this. He’s the internet’s favorite red skinned demon prince with abs.
But I’ve actually exchanged words with him. And he’s a prick.
A very eloquent, genius, creative prick—but a prick, nonetheless.
Silver approaches with a caramel apple dipped in chopped nuts. Whitney turns to them, mouth open for a bite. They oblige only for Whitney to take a massive chomp.
“Whit!” Silver protests, gawking at the half-eaten treat. “That was half the bloody apple!”
“You love me,” Whitney says, cheeks stuffed full.
“Debatable,” Silver mutters, but they’re smiling as they take a bite.