Chapter 21
IAIN
Istood in my spot on the stage and waited for the countdown.
Unlike the rest of the guys, who looked relaxed and ready to rock, I was a seething mass of nerves.
Was it the fact I had some weirdo sending me creepy messages, or that Dawson and I all but outed ourselves to the band?
Probably both. I mean, let’s face it, the guys already knew what was up with Daws and me, but knowing and seeing it happen in real-time were two different things.
But my personal life would have to wait. The show, as you know, must go on.
I checked my earpiece one last time and nodded at Brodie.
To distract myself, I replayed that kiss with Dawson in the dressing room. I was still shaken up, and fuck me, for a guy who’d done a shitload of kissing, that was saying something.
I glanced over and spotted Dawson in his usual place.
But the look he was giving me was not about protection.
It was pure sex. Instead of yelling at him, I shook my head.
He mouthed, “What?” all innocent-like, and I rolled my eyes.
Like he didn’t know he was eye-fucking me.
But the last thing I wanted was for his boss to take notice.
Then Dawson would be gone, and just the thought of losing him made me break out in a cold sweat.
And we hadn’t started performing yet.
The lights dimmed, and I turned my attention to the audience as the curtains raised.
I strummed the first chords of “Never Look Back” and felt the surge of energy from the crowd as they screamed our names and started singing the opening verse.
Man, I fucking needed this tonight. That was the power of music and live performance. It fed something inside of me and brought me out of my head.
I lived purely in the moment, and there was nothing better.
I sauntered up and down the stage, calling out to the crowd while Brodie sang about leaving home and forging a new path. As usual, our frontman was a fan favorite, and I could hear his name chanted over the din.
Without question, and knowing that Dawson was watching me, I put a little extra oomph in my strut tonight.
Thirty minutes in and four songs later, my fingertips burned, and sweat poured down my body.
“Thank you! Merci!” Brodie yelled out as we paused between songs. He leaned on the mic stand and waved at the crowd. “It’s so great to be back in Paris. We love this beautiful, magical city.”
Fans screamed so loud in response that it startled even Brodie.
“Whoa, we have rabid fans tonight,” he stated with a smirk. “Just the kind I like. So how about a big round of applause, please, for my band brothers, Holloway, Faise, and Ronin!”
We all took a bow and waved.
“Now, besides me, who here wants to hear Holls sing tonight?”
The fan screamed and clapped, and I shook my head.
“Come on over, Holls! I promise I won’t bite,” Brodie teased me. “Not too hard.”
I stalked up to him and leaned into the mic. “I thought you didn’t like to share.”
“My husband, no fucking way. But a song? Anytime.”
Hoots and hollers rang out around us.
“Let’s sing ‘Broken Doors,’” I suggested.
It was one of our slower songs. Not quite a ballad, but like Sideline, a song that Van had written for Brodie.
Faise started in on the drumbeat first, and the rest of us joined in.
I wasn’t the best vocalist, but I had my moments. As long as there were no high notes to hit, I was good.
Brodie and I had been taking the stage together for years, but this incredible feeling of creating music together never got old. No matter how many concerts or tours, every time felt like the first.
He led on the vocals, and I harmonized, back and forth, until we reached the chorus, and Ronin and Faise joined in. When our combined voices hit just right, it gave me goosebumps.
At the end of the song, Brodie playfully kissed me on the cheek.
“Let’s hear it for my friend, Iain Holloway!” Brodie shouted and squeezed my shoulder. “And now, folks, back to our regularly scheduled programming. I think it’s time we all enjoyed a little… ‘Filthy Pain!’”
I laid into the opening riff of our most popular song and walked back to my spot on the stage. Halfway through the number, Brodie threw his shirt out to the audience and kneeled in front of them in nothing but his black leather kilt.
Fans at the front of the stage were losing their fucking minds, screaming and reaching out to touch him.
Brodie threw his head back and moaned out those filthy lyrics like he was having sex right there on stage.
The atmosphere intensified, and I felt the heavy pulse of the room—the smell of sweat, the heat of the lights, the writhing mass of bodies.
Like a mass orgy, the fans went fucking nuts and threw shirts, underwear, you name it, on stage.
Brodie pumped his hips and leaned back, his dark curls now wet and plastered to his face, sweat rolling down his chest and his tattooed arms.
I glanced over at Ronin, who’d joined in and was standing in just his jeans and bare feet, his long, dark hair swaying around his face as he closed his eyes.
Not to be outdone, when the song ended, I threw off my T-shirt and ran up to the edge of the stage to launch it into the audience. Then I walked along the edge, touching hands and feeding off the excitement of the crowd.
By the time we reached our break, we were all out of breath and took a quick bow before the curtains closed.
Brodie finally got back up on his feet and shook his head, sweat droplets flying everywhere. “Fuck, you guys are on fire tonight!”
As we walked off stage, I spotted Dawson with his arms crossed, his gaze giving me a possessive once over that had all the hair on my body standing on end.
“Ooh, someone’s ready to fuck,” Brodie whispered in my ear, one sweaty arm slung around my slick shoulder.
“Shut it, Dee,” I hissed. “If Regan overhears—”
“Sorry, Holls. I don’t want to deprive you of the dick.”
“Hey, he’s not just that,” I snapped back.
Brodie grinned at me. Clever motherfucker.
I watched as Brodie walked off and into the arms of his husband.
I grabbed a towel from Tommy and went to stand beside Dawson.
“So, what’s the verdict on the show so far?” I asked him.
I was still out of breath. From performing or from being in Dawson’s presence, I didn’t know.
“It’s one of the best I’ve ever seen. You’re fucking amazing.”
I waved his compliment off. “Brodie’s the real star.”
“Don’t downplay your talent. You have a gift, and everyone can see and hear it. Fuck, the way you pull those sounds of that guitar, it is something else, sweetheart.”
“Daws,” I warned and looked around. Thankfully, no one seemed to be paying us any particular attention. “Stop with the, you know—”
“Sweetheart?”
“Jesus Christ,” I grumbled, wiping my face to hide my reaction.
Secretly, I lit up inside when he said it. Which was so fucked up. Cutesy nicknames or endearments usually made me gag. Hell, listening to Van and Brodie was bad enough.
“See, they’ll think I’m calling you that to tick you off,” Dawson reasoned. “Bickering is how we roll. Stop worrying.”
“Stop worrying?” I turned to face him. “You’re standing here eye-fucking me the whole time I’m on stage. Don’t tell me no one’s going to notice that.”
“It’s not just when you’re on stage,” he smiled down at me, his green eyes riveted to mine.
“Stop it.”
I reached for a bottle of water and gulped half of it down.
“You make drinking water look sexy,” Dawson whispered. “I am in so much fucking trouble.”
I wiped off my neck and chest, then threw the towel aside. “You? I’m the one in danger of popping a boner before I head back on stage.”
“If we had time and privacy, I’d take care of that for you. I know how much you enjoy getting head.”
I squeezed the bottle so tight that the rest of the liquid erupted like a geyser all over my hand and the floor at my feet.
“Shit.”
Dawson chuckled, grabbed another towel from the nearby table, and gently wiped my hand and then the floor.
“I’m gonna go stand with the guys, where it’s safer. For both of us,” I added.
Dawson nodded and looked around, assuming his usual stern pose. But I didn’t miss the way his lips curled like he was trying not to smile.
Dawson did what no one else ever could.
He rattled me so badly that I was now fleeing to the other end of the wings.