Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Quinn
Crush, Crush, Crush
Paramore
The lights drop, and the roar of the crowd swells until it feels like it’s vibrating inside my ribcage.
I’ve been to concerts before. Big ones. Loud ones.
But this, this one feels different. The energy in the arena sharpens the second Devil’s Halo takes the stage, like the entire arena inhales at once.
And then Mikey sits. There’s something about the way he settles behind the drums that makes my attention lock in whether I want it to or not. No wasted movement. He rolls his shoulders once, grips the sticks, and in that moment, the chaos around him seems to organize itself.
He’s in complete control. The first beat hits, and I feel it in places I don’t bother naming.
Heavy and precise in a relentless way I don’t mind.
He’s not flashy. That’s the thing that surprises me.
The drummer stereotype is wild, unhinged, all brute force and sweat, but Mikey is so much more than that.
He’s exact. Deliberate. He plays like someone who needs order the way other people need oxygen. People who need that much control are usually compensating for something. I note it. I don’t run from it.
My gaze tracks him almost against my will.
His jaw is set, eyes focused, body loose but contained.
He doesn’t look out at the crowd the way the others do.
Luc commands attention effortlessly, a born front man.
Dean plays like the guitar is an extension of his spine, intense and inward.
Hayden is steady, unreadable, grounding everything. And Mikey, he holds them all together.
He is the beat. Their spine. Their quiet center.
And it’s unexpected. Because offstage, he doesn’t read like this at all.
Offstage, he smirks, exudes charm, swigs tequila like its water.
And there’s the maddening way he looks at me like he already knows how this would end if I let it. Like he’s daring me to prove him wrong.
I didn’t miss the way he glanced toward the wings earlier.
I didn’t miss the flicker of tension that passed through him when our eyes met.
He felt me watching. Good. I let myself appreciate the attraction for exactly what it is.
Physical. Chemical. It’s absolutely real, but I’m not sure if it’s special.
Attraction is easy. It’s information, not instruction.
And the information I’m getting from Michael Sarris is definitely tempting.
He finishes the set slick with sweat, breathless, and fully alive in a way that makes my stomach flip unexpectedly. When the band finally takes their bows, after playing three encores, and disappear backstage, the crowd’s roar follows them like a living thing.
Sadie grabs my hand and drags me to follow behind the band. “Come on,” she grins broadly. “Post-show chaos waits for no one.”
Backstage is a completely different kind of loud.
Crew members shouting, bottles being opened, laughter bouncing off concrete walls.
Someone cranks music that competes with the ringing in my ears.
The energy is manic, celebratory, and a little reckless in the rockstar way I expected, but even better.
Mikey disappears right into the center of it all.
I watch him from the edge of the room as people swarm the band; friends, family, industry hangers-on.
He’s handed a new fifth of tequila at some point, the bottle already fogged, and it doesn’t leave his hand after that.
He laughs louder. Moves looser. A woman I don’t recognize slips under his arm, her hand resting easily on his chest like she’s done it before. Maybe she has.
His smile changes when he drinks. It’s less restrained and a bit looser.
Like something is being deliberately exaggerated.
And I know and recognize it for what it is; the armor he’s hiding himself behind.
I don’t judge him for it. I’ve seen this pattern a hundred times in different forms. The persona people adopt when they don’t want to be examined too closely.
When they’d rather be wanted than known. He plays the part well. Too well.
The woman laughs at something he says, head tipping back, hair brushing his shoulder.
He takes a swig straight from the bottle and presses a kiss to her temple that looks practiced, automatic.
Not at all intimate. The distinction matters.
I take it in for what it is. This is who he is when no one’s asking for anything real.
It’s an awareness that Michael Sarris is wrapped in a very pretty package.
I turn to grab a drink, needing space from the noise in my head as much as the room.
When I turn back, I nearly collide with him.
He’s closer than I expect. Too close. The scent of sweat, tequila, and something distinctly him hits all at once.
Heat sparks between us, quick, sharp and impossible to ignore.
“Easy,” he drawls, his grin already there, lazy and knowing. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” His body language saying the complete opposite. He’s relaxed. Intentional. Almost inviting.
“Great show,” I deflect, not giving him the satisfaction of thinking I feel cornered. I lift my drink and clink it against his bottle. “You were amazing.”
His brow jumps like he didn’t expect sincerity. “You sound surprised.”
“I don’t get surprised by talent,” I take a sip. “Just people who hide behind it.”
That earns me a real reaction. A laugh. Short and rough around the edges. “Damn,” he cocks his head. “Is that your way of trying to flirt with me? If so, it’s a little aggressive.”
“I said talented,” I reply smoothly. “Not irresistible.”
He takes a drink, eyes never leaving mine. “You’ve been watching me.” A statement. Not a question.
“I am at a concert,” I remind him. “It would be weird if I wasn’t.”
Something shifts. He steps closer, not enough to trap me, just enough to shift the air. Heat, confidence, expectation. It’s performance Mikey. His voice is low when he speaks again. “You see something you like, Quinn?”
“I like the music, Michael.” I hold his gaze a second longer than necessary. “That’s all.”
“If you say so.” He chuffs again before taking another sip from his bottle, watching me over the rim. That lands. I see it in the way his smile tilts. It’s sharper now, like he can see through my bullshit, but he’ll let me have it if it makes me feel safer.
I glance at the tequila bottle in his hand, then back to his eyes. “Is this part of the act, or just how you unwind?”
“Are you always this much work?” His tone sharpens slightly. “Or is that just for me?”
“Only when I’m interested enough to pay attention.”
For a second, the grin slips. Just enough. Then he puts it back on like muscle memory. “Maybe I just don’t like the quiet.” His shoulders tense. He straightens, putting space between us like he’s recalibrating. “Try and enjoy the party, Quinn.”
I lift my glass. “I am.” And after a small pause, I add, “You’re the one who looks like you’re trying not to.”
He disappears into the crowd, my pulse a little faster than it was a minute ago. He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t put his arm around the woman again. I notice that. Attraction is dangerous when you actually notice it.
Michael Sarris is complicated. Tempting. And very much not someone I should get involved with. Which means, I’ll keep my distance. Even if part of me is already curious what would happen if I didn’t.