Chapter 18
The wings backstage were hotter than the Louisiana night outside — thick with the smell of dry ice, sweat, and anticipation.
I stood just off to the side of the stage, the bass vibrating up through my thigh-high boots and straight into my bones.
The opening band had finished twenty minutes ago, and the crowd was feral now, chanting “Black Psalm! Black Psalm!”
Dahlia stood beside me, fanning herself with a laminated backstage pass. “You ready for this? They always go hard on hometown shows.”
I nodded, but my eyes were glued to the stage as the lights dropped to a single blood-red spotlight.
Then the drums hit — I couldn’t make out Brett through the fog, just the blurry outline of his drumsticks — and then the rest of the band exploded into the opening riff of one of their biggest singles.
On Your Knees. It was exactly as filthy as it sounded.
The roar from the crowd on those first chords was deafening.
Milo stepped into the light.
Fuck.
Leather jacket open over a bare chest, tattoos gleaming under the sweat already starting to sheen on his skin. His dark hair fell into his eyes as he gripped the mic like he wanted to fuck it. That sharp, beautiful face scanned the crowd before his gaze sliced sideways, straight toward the wings.
Straight to me.
A slow, wicked smirk curved his lips. He knew I was watching. He wanted me watching.
“She got that backstage glow, cherry lips and sinner’s soul…” He launched into the first verse, voice raw and gravelly. The crowd sang every word back at him. Hundreds of phones in the air, lighters swaying, girls screaming his name. Hell — I almost screamed it, too.
“I’m your secret VIP — your unholy greed — c’mon, touch me here — make me scream—”
Oh, baby. I had to borrow Dahlia’s backstage pass ‘cause I was starting to feel some sorta way.
Dahlia nudged me with her elbow, grinning. “He’s performing for you, babe. Look at him.”
He was. Every time the chorus hit — that dirty, grinding “On your knees, baby, worship me” — his eyes found mine.
He dropped to one knee at the edge of the stage during the bridge, mic stand tilted like a lover, sweat dripping down his chest, and mouthed the next line straight at me: “Swallow every drop, don’t you stop… ”
My thighs pressed together. I wanted to climb him right there in front of three thousand screaming fans.
The song built to a screaming crescendo, Milo’s voice breaking into that ragged snarl he was known in the music industry for. When the final chord crashed and the lights exploded white, the entire venue lost its mind.
Now that was one hell of a way to open a show.
The set flew by in a haze of heat, noise, and Milo’s larger-than-life stage presence.
Every song felt like foreplay. He prowled the edge of the stage like a predator, leather jacket long gone, sweat carving shiny paths down the grooves of his abs.
During the slower ballad they closed with, he sat on the drum riser, guitar in his lap, voice dropping into something intimate.
His eyes were closed as he sang, and for a moment, I thought I saw something I hadn’t before.
The actual Milo. The man he was beyond the arrogance, the stage lights, the leather jackets, and the tattoos.
And I think…
I think I fell in love with him at that moment.
“[..]you said we’ll meet tomorrow, but tomorrow always stays the same — you said we’ll save each other, but we still float astray[..].”
By the time the house lights came up and the encore chants started, I realized my cheeks were wet.
Burgundy reached out to wipe a tear from my cheek. She said nothing, but I still felt heat rush to my face.
What the hell was wrong with me? I’ve never cried for any man, and yet here I stood, bawling my eyes out because the song had struck a chord. No pun intended.
The encore hit like a second wind. The crowd was stomping and screaming for one more song, and Black Psalm gave it to them — a raw, stripped-down version of their breakout hit that somehow sounded even dirtier live than on the record.
Milo’s voice was thoroughly wrecked by the end of it, that gravelly rasp turning into something almost broken on the final note.
When the lights finally cut to black, the roar that followed shook the walls.
I was still wiping at my stupid tears when Dahlia slung an arm around my shoulders. “Girl, you good?”
“Yeah,” I lied, laughing shakily. “Just… the lights. Or allergies. Or something.”
Burgundy smirked but didn’t call me on it. “Sure. The lights made your coochie throb too, I bet.”
I didn’t even deny it. My whole body was buzzing.
Security cleared a path for us back to the dressing room.
The hallway felt narrower now, charged with leftover adrenaline and the bass line that was still echoing inside my head — or maybe that was tinnitus, who the hell even knew anymore.
When we pushed through the door, the party had already restarted — bottles popping, laughter, the smell of weed and victory thick in the air.
Milo spotted me instantly.
Still shirtless, still sweaty — actually, more than sweaty — he was thoroughly drenched — he crossed the room, grabbed my face with both hands, and kissed me like he’d been starving for it the entire set.
When we broke apart, I was breathless and he was grinning.
“I was serious about what I said,” I told him in a low voice.
He frowned, his hands still cupping my face. “About?”
“I want you to fuck me here. Clear the room, rockstar.”
My pulse was still hammering from the show, from the tears I couldn’t quite explain, from the way he’d looked at me across the stage like I was the only person in the entire screaming venue.
Milo’s grey eyes sharpened then clouded over with pure feral lust. His thumbs brushed my cheekbones, smearing a little of the sweat and glitter from my skin. For a second, the whole noisy dressing room faded to nothing.
Then he turned his head without letting me go. “Everybody out. Now.”
Owen let out a low whistle. “Damn, bro. We just got here.”
“Out,” Milo repeated, voice rough from singing. No room for argument. Killian clapped Brett on the shoulder and started herding people toward the door with a knowing smirk. Dahlia caught my eye as she passed and winked. Burgundy grinned and shook her head.
The moment the last straggler was out, and the door closed with a soft click, I looked up at Milo. “Okay, so let’s be professional about this.”
He grinned and let go of me, moving for the couch. “Let’s,” he said, dropping down.
I reached inside my little bag for my phone. “Okay. Right.” I didn’t know why the hell I was so nervous about this — but I was. My hands were literally shaking, and for no good reason. I blamed the adrenaline. “I’m thinking you rip the fishnets, right? Maybe eat me out for a bit—”
Milo reached for a glass on the coffee table. “You want to come?” He sniffed the drink, tasted it, winced, and put down, opting for the bottle of JD instead.
“If it’s not too much trouble.” I smirked.
Milo took a long pull from the JD bottle, his throat working as he swallowed. Then — “I’ll do my best, doll. Anything else?”
I licked my lips, surveying the dressing room. “You ever filmed a sex tape?” I asked, trying to find the best spot to set the phone for the best angle.
“Yeah, a couple.”
“I meant not the ones with me.”
Milo took a deep breath and laughed. “Yeah, baby. A couple that I filmed not with you. Why?”
“I dunno. Just trying to gauge where your head’s at, I guess.”
He looked at me. “You’re fucking nervous. That’s cute.”
“Shut up.”
I fiddled with the phone, trying to find the perfect angle — propped against a stack of water bottles on the makeup counter, tilted just right so it would catch both the couch and the wall.
My hands were still trembling. Adrenaline, I told myself again.
Not nerves. Definitely not the fact that I was about to let the man I’d just realized I was in love with fuck me stupid in a room that smelled like stale beer and rockstar sweat while thousands of people were still screaming his name outside.
Definitely not that.
Milo watched me from the couch, legs spread wide, that lazy smirk playing on his lips. His chest was still glistening, my name on his bicep catching the soft dressing-room lights every time he moved. He took another slow mouthful from the Jack Daniel's bottle, eyes never leaving me.
“You’re actually cute when you’re nervous,” he said. “Never seen you like this.”
“I’m not nervous,” I lied, hitting record and stepping back to check the frame. “I’m a professional. This is content. High-value content.”
“Uh-huh.” He set the bottle down and crooked a finger at me. “C’mere, professional.”
I walked over, hips swaying. When I got close enough, Milo’s hands shot out, grabbing my waist and yanking me down onto his lap. I straddled him automatically, knees sinking into the worn leather couch on either side of his hips.
His mouth was on mine before I could say anything else — spreading the bitter taste of whiskey from his tongue to mine.
I melted into it, fingers threading through his damp hair, tugging at it to make him groan into my mouth.
One of his hands slid under my skirt, palming my ass, fingers digging into my thigh.
“I want to leave bruises all over you,” he growled against my mouth.
I pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, my breath shallow. “Rough?” I asked, trying to figure out what he was thinking.
He gave a small nod. “Pull out my belt.”
I shifted in his lap, sliding back an inch before my eyes fell to the space between us. My fingers worked the belt buckle, still weirdly cool against his hot skin. I pulled at the leather, and it slipped out of the loops effortlessly.
“Are you gonna spank me?” I asked, handing him the belt.
He smirked. “Not quite.” And reached out to wrap it around my neck. “Do you trust me?”