Chapter 20 #2
Hell, the yearning to slide into his arms and chase that same wild energy we shared weeks ago was getting impossible to resist.
Now, at the arena, he pressed a quick kiss to my temple by the elevator and winked.
‘Make yourself useful, babe. Working FOH at a Six Sinner’s concert is an experience many would die for.
Find a crew lead and muck in. All those TT-worthy concert moments, where the lighting hits rocks, and the venue acoustics make you transcend yourself?
It’s all thanks to our crew working like mad to give our fans the experience of a lifetime. ’
‘Aye aye, captain,’ I said, sashaying away, sensing the heat of his gaze on my ass.
The production team began the five-hour setup.
Keen to get my hands dirty and be useful, I hooked my fingers into my denim pockets and stepped close to a maze of black audio cables.
The band’s sound engineer, a pleasant-faced Australian named Charlie, held a bundle of fiber-optic leads.
He grunted in surprise when I knelt beside him.
‘Can I help?’
‘You’re Jude’s bird, aren’t you?’
I arched a brow at the slang.
‘Sì, I’m his chica,’ I quipped, leaning into my Italian accent.
He laughed.
‘You’ve done this before, love?’ he asked, his Aussie inflection thick over the rattle of road cases rolling across the floor.
‘I’m good with my hands,’ I said. ‘And I don’t mind getting dirty.’
He grinned at me.
‘Takes a whole new skillset, honey.’
Charlie showed me how to wind a cable in circles so it never got tangled.
For two hours, I hauled dense rubber snake cables and helped the riggers secure the connectors.
Occasionally, my eyes drifted upward toward the expansive roof structure.
The lighting grid was a spectacular engineering marvel, a motorized array of hundreds of moving-head lasers and strobe arrays.
LED blinder pods hung from the structural steel like a high-tech constellation as sound speakers were strung up.
The intricacy of the setup blew my mind.
At one point, Jude came by to check on me.
‘Is she helping or stirring shit?’ he called out to the sound crew.
‘She needs to be banned, mate.’
Charlie grinned and winked as he spoke, and everyone around us chuckled.
‘Yeah, nah, she’s way too cool, and giving us a laugh with her wild stories of life in Italy.’
Sitting on a nearby crate was Mason, the Six Sinners’ business manager.
The lean, intense, and boisterous Australian man sported a thick blonde beard, a booming guffaw, and an endless supply of dry jokes.
‘How dare you accuse your wife of causing chaos, brother?’ he ribbed Jude.
‘You’re the freakin’ chaos agent around here.
If your man misses his opening chord change tonight, Sofia, like he did last week, we’re swapping him out for a new co-lead.
I’ve got a few young guns with voices that leave you weeping lined up. ’
Mason’s blue eyes crinkled with mischief as he handed me a bottle of mineral water.
His other half, Nari, slight, dark-haired and always in jeans and Converse sneakers, appeared on his other side.
Clutched in her hand was a glowing tablet computer as she finalized the logistics and bookings for the upcoming tour dates in Berlin and Rome.
She chuckled, nudging her husband with her elbow without lifting her eyes from the screen.
‘Ignore him, Sofia. Jude hasn’t missed a cue since our first gig. Mason just likes to hear himself talk.’
I smiled, thinking how I gravitated toward the dry, rapid-fire speed of Australian banter, finding that my natural Italian acuity allowed me to match their wit.
Still chuckling, Jude pulled me into a hug.
‘Later, babe,’ he rasped before he prowled away to get ready for the show.
When the arena doors opened at seven o’clock, the roar of twenty thousand Parisian fans filled the space with a deafening, vibrating energy that made the benches shake.
I got a seat at the front of the house alongside Mason and Nari.
‘Trust me,’ Mason grinned. ‘These are the best ‘seats’. Front of house is where you get to see the band up close. Alongside the true magicians of the festival, our lighting and sound crew .’
The location was indeed sublime, just 100 feet from the main stage, with an unobstructed view of both the platform and the surging ocean of the crowd.
The opening band was French and decent.
However, when the house lights dropped to black at eight p.m., and a spotlight fell on my husband, I was at once transfixed.
He stood head bowed in front of his mic, guitar hanging off his strap, so tall, muscled, and freakin handsome.
Devastatingly handsome, he wore his black hair pulled back into his signature man bun, with rebellious wisps falling around his chiseled face.
A grey printed tee molded to his corded, rippling chest, every hard line flexing under the material as he opened with a throaty, heartfelt lyric.
At the sound of his signature rasp, the amphitheater erupted into a thunderous roar.
Jude hit the opening power chord of their first track on his Strat, and a wall of sound exploded from the stadium speakers.
Colored lasers swept across the stadium, painting the swirling smoke in emerald and violet light, turning our gritty backstage labor into an immense sonic and visual tapestry.
However, it was Jude who pulled me into a world of pure, consuming musical bliss.
His guitar work was pure artistry as he kicked off a triumphant set with an uptempo rocker.
The band unleashed a storm of reflective tunes full of immersive feelings and piercing, dangerous storytelling.
His voice, the same raw, gravelly timbre he used to call out my name in pleasure, sent my entire body into euphoria.
With a deep vibrato that triggered goosebumps across my skin, his vocal delivery shifted from a vulnerable, throaty whisper to a desperate, full-chested growl that vibrated straight into my core.
It was an unpolished, unfiltered, and dominant vocal cadence, raw power made manifest.
He drove my heart, and the hearts of thirty thousand people in that stadium, careening into deep emotion.
Angel brought pure electric thunder as co-lead, throwing his raw alpha energy into the mic while exchanging brutal, seamless vocal riffs with Jude.
Beside them, Levi’s violin wove intricate, haunting melodies straight through the heavy walls of driving rhythm.
Deacon commanded his section on sax, pouring smooth, fiery brass runs into the mix, alongside Bishop’s slamming bass guitar.
In the back, Reign pounded his drums like a man possessed, delivering a crushing, unstoppable beat.
Individually, every guy played with dominance, but together with Jude, they delivered a powerhouse performance that almost blew the roof off the arena.
Later, when the band bowed out after two encores, flowers, confetti, and even a few pieces of lace underwear rained on stage.
Amused by the unadulterated passion of the fans and charged up by the show, I went along with Mason and Nari into the green room.
I found Jude packing away his gear while holding court with suit-clad label executives, followed by a quick Parisian press interview and a flurry of album signings.
I stood aside, witnessing the whirlwind around him with awe.
When he finally turned to grab his flight case, his green eyes locked onto mine.
He extended a calloused hand toward me, his gaze cutting through the crowded room.
I approached him with a shy smile, stepping close.
‘You were magnificent.’
‘First time you’ve seen me live onstage, babe?’
I nodded, still taking in the electric atmosphere, his gravitas, the huge production, and the press swarm hanging on his every breath.
He slid a muscled arm around my waist and hauled me flush to his side, burying his face in my hair as his lips pressed hard on my temple.
‘Too much?’
I glanced up into his intense gaze and shook my head. ‘No. Just perfect.’
‘Shall we roll, and escape it all?’ he growled, his thumb tracing the curve of my hip through my clothes.
My pulse spiked as he took my hand in an iron grip.
He maneuvered us past his security detail and out through a private side entrance, shielding me.
Back at our hotel, we ordered Baileys and espresso affogatos to be sent to the suite.
We took them out onto the stone terrace as the sprawling beauty of Paris unfolded before us under the moonlight.
With my glass chalice in hand, I leaned on the wrought-iron railing, studying him.
The adrenaline from the show still radiated off him in waves.
I set aside the decadent dessert and stepped closer, emboldened by the romance of the city, and reached up to rest my hand on the hard muscle of his upper arm.
‘I meant it, Jude. You own that stage.’
Jude’s eyes gleamed, turning to liquid fire.
He set his cup down on the stone ledge with a clink and stepped close, towering over me until the night air vanished between us.
His hand slid up the nape of my neck, his calloused fingers tangling in my hair, tilting my face up to his.
‘I don’t give a damn about owning the stage, Sofia,’ he rasped, his hot breath sweeping over my mouth, making my knees go weak. ‘The only thing I care about is if you enjoyed it.’
‘I more than did.’
He bent his head, his mouth coming down with a fierce, possessive intent that made my breath catch in my throat.
I parted my lips, waiting for the bruising claim of his kiss.
At the last second, his restraint won the war.
Instead of taking my mouth, his lips veered off, pressing hard and slow along the side of my mouth.
So agonizingly close, a scorching touch right at the corner of my lips that set every nerve ending in my body on fire.
He lingered there, his jaw locked, his body rigid as he inhaled the scent of my skin, as if fighting the urge to consume me whole before pulling back just an inch.
‘Drink your coffee, babe,’ he rumbled. ‘Before I forget my own damn rules.’
The yellow Paris taxi jerked through the morning gridlock.
Sunlight streaked through the glass, baking the limestone facades of the Boulevard Haussmann under the bright summer heat.
Nari adjusted her blazer in the fold-down seat opposite me.
Her eyes tracked the delivery bikes weaving between bumpers.