43-Zach
Fans lingered at the barricade long after the last note faded, not quite ready to let go.
Cooper and I stayed behind to get teardown footage of the lights and stage being stripped.
The few dozen crew members move like one big organism, a quiet hum of exhaustion leeching through their leftover adrenaline as they break down what they built only hours before.
Tonight’s show still rings through my ears as I make my way out of the arena.
I weave my way toward the lot, stepping over coiled cables and red confetti.
Heading to the van, I’m ready to spend a few hours editing before bed while the lot is still guarded and quiet.
The next show isn’t until the day after tomorrow, so Cooper and I decided to stay the night and catch up with everyone in the morning, though if the cute brunette he left with says anything, he’s not sleeping here.
I round the sound production trailer, and a plume of smoke pollutes my next breath.
It gets denser the closer I get to my van, curling in lazy spirals under the floodlights.
At the source, a lanky silhouette sits hunched beside the sliding door, elbows on his knees, something glowing between his fingers.
“You were in the bloody fucking pit again.”
“Kit?” I step closer, air leaving me in a rush. “What the hell are you doing here? Why aren’t you on the bus? Does Greg know you’re here? Does—”
“I wanted to speak with you,” he cuts in through a smoky exhale, ringed hand swallowing the joint behind a giant hood. “Refer to previous answer. And yes, Greg is absolutely livid, but he knows my whereabouts. Said he’d let you know that I made myself your responsibility.”
I pull out my phone, and sure enough, a notification for an unread text from Greg blares across the screen, along with four missed calls. Shit. I knew I should’ve taken it off silent mode after the show.
I send him a quick response letting him know I got Kit, not bothering to read the lengthy paragraph he sent. Two burnt-out roaches lie at Kit’s feet, and he lifts the lit one toward me. I shake my head, refusing the offering.
“How did you even manage this?”
“Easy. I told everyone to fuck off then shoved myself into my bunk and closed the drape. Then waited ’til no one was around and Yensil to take a slash before I snuck off. He’s furious, but whatever. It’s quite clever, actually.”
“What about security, it—”
“Calm down, darling.” He lifts his chin to an inconspicuous black sedan in the parking space adjacent to ours. Kit blows them a smoke-filled kiss. “I’m well surveyed.”
Yensil, square jaw clenched, looks like an exhausted dad who accidentally wandered into the wrong profession.
“Kit,” I say, squatting before him, “look at me.”
He doesn’t, but on his inevitable exhale, I smell it. Not weed or tobacco. Alcohol; strong, sharp, and sour the way only beer is.
“You’re drunk.”
The realization hits like cold water down my spine. I dip my chin, trying to peek beneath the shaded protection. Kit snickers as unsteadily as I feel.
“I had a wander and found a cozy little pub where an old gentleman offered to buy me a pint. Well…two. Okay, like six.” Bracing himself against the van, he pushes upright, wobbling like a spring doorstopper coming to a stiff halt.
He slices his hands through the air with a sloppy, triumphant grin. “But I’m not plastered.”
I grab his shoulders to steady him, glancing over at Yensil. He’s halfway out of the passenger side door when I shake my head at him. We don’t need Kit’s snarky ego getting him in a fight with his own security. I click the fob and slide the van open.
“Get in.”
He loses his footing as he stumbles inside, practically falling onto the tiny bench that’s folded out into my makeshift bed. Dirty white sneakers hanging off the edge, Kit sprawls across my fluffy blanket, his hooded head collapsing against the pillow.
“For Chip’s sake,” I mutter, closing the door as I climb in after him, “you’re supposed to be sober. What the heck? How long has this been going on?”
“Well, Zachary, this—” He waves at himself dramatically, black hood falling as he sways into a sitting position. “Has been going on for as long as I can remember.”
I reach up and flip the overhead light on. Elbows on his knees, he dangles his hands between his legs, his alien-long fingers stained red from earlier.
“No wonder they keep me chained at the bloody ankles. One hour of freedom and this is what I do with it.” Kit’s laughter morphs into a staggered sob that tears out of him as he chokes. “I hate myself. So much.”
His words land heavier than the alcohol on his breath. Kit’s lanky legs shake like a newborn fawn, slender shoulders slumping as he tries to push himself up to stand.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he slurs out, dangling upright like a marionette whose strings have been cut; long limbs and misplaced confidence.
“Stop apologizing.” I grab Kit’s elbow and gently guide him back down, sitting beside him. Prying one of his hands away from his face, I lift his chin. “I understand what it’s like to battle with sobriety. How easy it is to lose yourself in alcohol and pills because they take away the pain.”
His breath hitches, brows pinching together.
As if he’s about to say something, his chapped lips part then press together quickly, too tightly.
Shoulders rising on an intake he doesn’t quite release, his throat seems to work around a viscous swallow.
Lines crease around his eyes, as if bracing against the part of himself trying to break loose.
He leans too close. The beer, bitter and stale, clings to the warmth of his exhale. A faint smattering of freckles across his nose stands out in the low light, boyish in a way that doesn’t match the rest of him. Cheek craters catch the light in uneven dips and ridges.
Shadows carve exhaustion under his weary gaze.
His irises are a mess of blue, shades fluid and layered, streaks of warm honey cutting through when he blinks.
They’re unfocused and glassy from alcohol, but still too honest and open.
There’s a crease between his brows that never manages to smooth out.
He’s beautiful; unpolished, not hiding behind a mask or stage persona. Kit’s just a man in his thirties, with too much painful history etched into his face. Our lips hover inches apart, both of us drawn closer by some mesmeric influence.
Eyes as black as coal fall to my lips, the blown pupils leaving only a rim of flame-blue irises. Everything in me goes still, caught between instinct and restraint. This is a want and warning tangled together. His gaze settles with laser focus.
My pulse plummets between my thighs. He breathes in through his nose, slow and shaky, his nostrils flaring. Gravity shifts as he leans forward a fraction.
Kit’s lips part, the tension in his jaw easing.
His hand twitches as he grasps my shaking knee, like he’s fighting the urge to disintegrate the inches between us.
We’re close enough that if either of us moves, it’ll happen.
His face softens, the lines around his eyes and crease between his brows smoothing.
“This isn’t what you need from me,” I say, the words scraping their way out.
My hand jerks like I might reach forward to take them back. I force it into a fist in my lap, nails digging into my palm to keep from twirling the laces of his hoodie around my fingers.
“Right.” Kit blinks, then nods, his tight throat bobbing. His gaze snaps to me, startled with guilt. Pulling away, he breaks the spell. Restraint holds his rigid stature, clamped teeth, and jaw tick, erasing any tenderness. “That’s fair.”
Between us, the space widens by inches, but it feels like miles. The almost-kiss hangs unspoken, burning away the oxygen. Kit yawns, smothering the fiery tension like an instant freeze. I let out an unrestrained chuckle as we turn away, Kit stretching with another mewl of drowsiness.
The moment fractures, leaving something raw behind.
My knee hits the edge of the storage racks as I stand, and I brace a palm against the frame to keep from pitching forward. Pain shoots through my leg. I straighten as much as the ceiling allows, spine curved awkwardly, one hand still gripping the passenger’s seat for balance.
“You need to get some sleep.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, falling back onto my makeshift bed at an awkward diagonal, legs halfway to the floor.
“No, no, no,” I say, reaching for his hoodie to yank him up, “I meant in your—”
“Unless you plan on dragging me elsewhere, darling, I’m staying right here.” He smirks lazily, his feathery lashes already fluttering shut.
Fuck.
I sigh, smoothing out his shirt as I let go. “Fine.”
He’s half asleep, tension melted away. Shutting the light off, I reach for him, brushing a few strands from his forehead. I smooth the creases marring it, leaning down to press a kiss between his brows.
Kit scoots back until his spine meets the van wall with a soft thud. He turns onto his side, knees bending as he opens his arms.
“Come here.”
“Kit, I—”
“Please.”
Steadying myself, I unzip my boots and kick them off.
His arm comes around me, hauling me into the curve of his body as soon as I lay down.
Beer is bitter on his exhales. Weed clings to his clothes, the stale edge of cigarettes embedded in the fabric of his hoodie.
Kit’s erratic heart stutters then evens out, hammering as I cuddle closer, his hold fastening us together.
“Okay, Endymion,” I whisper once Kit begins to snore, closing my lids as I drift to sleep. “Let me in, you son of a bitch.”
I’m already halfway inside the walls he keeps up.