4. Callie
4
CALLIE
PAST, ArtFusion Day One
Becket slides open the back door of the van, and I take deep gulps of the dry, hot air into my lungs.
It’s fucking hot outside, but it’s hotter in the van. Our AC cut out three states ago.
“Everyone out,” Becket says. “We got one hour to make camp before it gets really nasty.”
It’s already stifling. I can’t even imagine what noon will bring. I shield my eyes from the harsh sun and step out of the van, peering at the people around us. Tents are being erected everywhere, and I’ve already spotted license plates from thirty different states just from vehicle check-in to our assigned campsite. The nervous energy I’ve been harboring for a month starts to bubble up inside me, prickling my skin and forcing a smile to my lips.
“Fucking cool.” Rocky’s deep voice interrupts my visual exploration of our surroundings, and he throws his lanky, tattooed arm over my shoulders. “Does this mean we’ve made it?”
I grin up at him. “I think it means we’re one step closer.”
He laughs and gives me a squeeze before loping off to help Pike and Becket with the tents. I turn and look back into the van where Ezra is still sleeping. I punch his leg, jolting him awake, and laugh at his shocked expression .
“C’mon. We’re here. Can’t sleep the day away.”
He groans and stretches, but I skip off before he can hurl groggy verbal abuse at me. Ezra is an asshole when he wakes up. He’d probably cuss out Jesus Christ himself if the poor guy disturbed one of his naps. Messiah or not, no one is safe from the wrath of a sleepy Ezra.
I help Pike, Becket, and Rocky set up the tents. Ezra, conveniently, doesn’t show up until we’re almost finished.
“I’m bunking with Rock?” Ezra grins at Rocky. “We get to be snuggle buddies.”
Rocky rolls his eyes. “I swear to god, if you snore like you did in the van on the way here, I will smother you with your pillow.”
“Then who will you get to play drums?”
“Drummers are everywhere, man. We could get a fucking chimp to play drums, and he’d probably be better than your sorry ass.”
Ezra fakes a punch but gets pissed when Rocky doesn’t flinch, so then he launches himself at him. Rocky barks out a loud laugh and takes off running with Ezra chasing him, and I watch until they disappear behind rows of tents and cars.
Pike shakes his head. “Those two are idiots.”
“Yep,” I say in agreement, popping the P.
Becket chuckles and grabs my belt loop, tugging me toward him. My stomach flips as he lowers his mouth to mine. He tastes like coffee and watermelon bubble gum, and I sink into him, humming as he kisses me.
“I told you I’d get you here.” He slips his hands into the band of my shorts and holds me against him. “Didn’t I promise you?”
I smile and nod. “You did.”
I rise on my tiptoes and kiss him again, this time reveling in the way his hands move to my backside and squeeze.
This thing with Becket is only a couple of weeks old, but it makes my toes curl and my chest ache in the most exciting way. I like him, and I know he likes me. He’s been trying to stoke the spark between us for a few months now, but I’ve been hesitant. I don’t want it to go sideways and blow up in my face. The last thing I want is to get us into a Sav Loveless/Torren King kind of situation.
The lead singer and bassist of The Hometown Heartless are infamous for their toxic off-again, on-again love affair. It hasn’t stopped the band from rocketing to the top of the music charts, but I don’t want that kind of press—not that we’re popular enough to warrant any press at all. But still, it looks miserable, and that’s not just my jealousy speaking.
“Jesus, get a room.”
At Rocky’s exaggerated groan, Becket and I break apart, and I spin around to face my bandmates.
“Or get a tent ,” Ezra adds with a wink.
My cheeks pinken, and I drop my eyes to the ground.
Becket and I are sharing one tent, while Pike, Rocky, and Ezra are in the other. It’s not out of the ordinary. We’ve slept in closer quarters before—motel rooms, living rooms, the van—but this feels different.
I think he’s expecting something to happen. Something more than a hot make-out session and groping. Truth be told, I’m expecting it, too. If I weren’t so damn shy about this shit, I’d probably haul him into the tent now and go at it, but I can’t. I’ll wait until tonight when the festival is in full swing, and I’ve acquired some liquid courage.
Becket laughs, and I feel it vibrate in his chest. He tips my chin up so I’m looking back into his eyes.
“Want to go explore?”
I nod. “Yes.”
He laces his fingers through mine and tugs me toward the festival grounds.
The opportunity for people-watching is unmatched. The festival is estimated to have sold out at 125,000 tickets. One hundred and twenty-five thousand attendees. That’s not even including security, volunteers, and festival staff. That’s more than the whole population of Santa Monica, where I grew up. The numbers will fluctuate from day to day, but most people are here for the long haul. Five days and five nights of music, art, and culture. Probably a lot of drugs, too. The schedule boasts things like body painting, goat yoga, meditation, silent dance parties, fire spinning, candle making, yodeling, and my favorite part, more than 200 bands performing on six separate stages.
I’ve wanted to come to ArtFusion since its conception four years ago, and not only am I finally here, but my band is showcasing.
We’re on the fucking poster.
Our text is the tiniest and we’re at the bottom of the list, but I don’t care. I’d take playing on the smallest stage in the afternoon of the fifth day over not being here at all. I still can’t believe it’s real. I keep wanting to pinch myself, but I don’t want to be weird.
I’ll do it tonight when no one can see me.
“Oh shit.”
Ezra’s voice has me turning in his direction, and I find him staring at a large line-up poster taped to the side of an information tent.
“What?”
He turns to me with a grin. “Guess who’s headlining the main stage on night five?”
I raise my eyebrows. “The Pantomimes.”
We’ve known this. It’s been announced for months.
Ezra shakes his head. “Nope. Try again.”
I sigh and step up next to him so I can read the poster for myself. The moment my eyes land on the main stage line-up, my jaw drops and nerves stir in my stomach.
“No way.”
I breathe the words more than speak them. My voice is gone. The Hometown Heartless—or Heartless, as their fans call them—are one of my musical idols. Their sound is iconic, and they started out just like us: driving up and down the coast playing dive bars and house parties until a label rep discovered them. They’re a pipe dream brought to life. Proof you can make it without connections and boatloads of money backing you.
“Do you think we’ll get to meet them?” I’d die. I’d pee my pants first, and then I would die. But god, I’d die with a smile.
“Do you think I could bag Sav Loveless?” Ezra says, and I elbow him in the stomach with a laugh.
“She doesn’t go for drummers,” Rocky taunts, just dodging Ezra’s foot as he swings a leg out at him.
“I wouldn’t even attempt it,” Becket adds. “You’ll end up with the shit beat out of you like that roadie she screwed in Las Vegas a few months back.”
“You don’t actually believe that.” I side-eye Becket and he shrugs.
“Dude did an interview for The Star and everything. Said Torren King caught them banging in Sav’s dressing room and snapped. Beat the fuck out of him until security had to pull him off. ”
“And if that’s true, why isn’t there a lawsuit? Why wasn’t Torren King arrested?”
“Because he’s the bassist for the most famous band in the fucking world?” Ezra chimes in. “They probably paid that roadie off with album royalties and had it all swept under the rug.”
I shake my head and push past them, throwing words over my shoulder as they follow.
“ The Star is a trashy gossip magazine, and you’re all idiots for believing anything you read in it.”
I tune out their arguing as I weave in and out of the crowd. The diversity is astounding. People of all shapes and sizes and backgrounds. Some people in shorts and T-shirts and others in these elaborate costumes. And there are famous people here. I just walked past an actress who won an Oscar for a blockbuster movie last summer, and she was dressed like a monarch butterfly.
This is literally the most exciting experience of my life, and I once played a piano solo for a packed house at Barnum Hall when I was nine.
“The main is right over there,” Pike says, pushing in front of me to take over the lead. I follow him, and soon we’re standing in front of a giant stage already equipped with large speakers and massive lights. There are already people camping on the lawn for tonight’s show.
The headliner is a really popular pop-punk band who blew up about a year ago. They went viral with the first video they ever posted on social media, and they got a record deal two weeks later. The real kicker is they’d only formed the band a month earlier. I can’t help but be jealous of bands like this one. We’ve been trudging around the country playing dive bars and small venues for two years and our socials have never gotten more than a few hundred hits. This group is good, though. I can admit that. Begrudgingly.
“Dude, is that Heartless’s tour bus?”
“No way they’d be here now. They don’t play until the last night,” I say, but I still crane my neck to scan the area. I can’t see shit because Ezra is six-foot-six, and I’m more than a foot shorter.
“Right there. Behind the stage to the left.”
I take a few more steps forward, pushing past the guys and standing on my tiptoes to look where Ezra is pointing, and sure enough, there’s a bus parked behind the stage, and I can just see the edge of the The Hometown Heartless logo.
I speed walk closer until the massive bus is in full view. A giant image of the five bandmembers is plastered across the side of it with Sav Loveless front and center, but my eyes go directly to the dark-haired, green-eyed god standing at her right.
Torren King is gorgeous in a way that makes my throat feel parched, my tongue lolling about like a dehydrated sponge in my mouth.
I can’t speak. I can barely breathe. I can only stare.
I choose to ignore the way his hand is gripping Sav Loveless’s hip and instead focus on the rest of him. His stature is relaxed yet arrogant in a way that fits his surname perfectly. A surly, rebellious prince. Not quite a king, but soon enough. Slated for rock and roll royalty, no doubt.
Even in a posed photograph emblazoned on the side of a bus, his emerald irises burn right through me. He must be wearing some smudged liner because there’s no way his lashes are that dark and thick in real life, but it makes his eyes sparkle brighter. My green eyes are pretty, but his are magnificent.
My knees feel weak, and I have the urge to fall to the ground before him as if being silently commanded. Forced by some power beyond my control. His sculpted chest is bare, his low-slung black jeans teasing just a hint of his taut stomach and the deep groove outlining his pelvis. I wish Sav weren’t standing in front so I could see more than half of him.
I want to see all of him.
I don’t even realize my feet are moving until I’m less than twenty feet from the door to the bus. I only stop when my eyes land on two security guards—one at the front of the bus and one at the back.
Is the band here for the festival? Will they be sweat-slicked and dancing just like the rest of us? Could I be in the same crowd as Torren King?
I laugh at myself. Surely not. Their mere presence would cause pandemonium. Sav Loveless has had multiple stalkers in the last few years. The bus is likely roadies and security prepping for their show. I doubt the band is here at all, probably sequestered in some well-guarded penthouse in Phoenix, waiting for their call time.
I know this, but I still have to wipe my trembling, sweaty palms on my shorts .
Just the idea of Torren King makes me nervous. Knowing he’ll be breathing the same air as me in a matter of days makes my stomach tighten in a way that approaches uncomfortable.
Jesus, I’m such a fucking fangirl. Obsessing over a man I’ve only seen in magazines and social media posts. I need to get my shit toge?—
The door to the bus swings open and Sav Loveless storms out, wearing short shorts that might actually be underwear and a large tank top, with her silver hair falling messily around her shoulders.
And behind her, hot on her heels, is Torren King.
He grabs her bicep and swings her around, slamming her into his chest. I can’t see her face, but everything about her body language says she’s pissed. They engage in some sort of angry, whispered argument. I can only make out a few words—mostly expletives—and then she shoves at his chest. He doesn’t let go, so she shoves again, harder this time, causing his torso to jerk backward. I glance at the security guard, expecting him to interfere, but then a loud crack sounds through the air, and I look back just in time to see Sav stomping off and disappearing behind the bus.
Torren stands with his arms at his sides, his head still tilted downward from the slap she dealt him. Even from twenty feet away, I can see the bright red handprint blooming on his cheek.
Three deep breaths and he’s reaching into his back pocket to pull out a small silver case. He places what resembles a cigarette between his plush lips, but when he lights it, a pungent smell wafts my way.
Weed.
He takes a long drag and tilts his head to the sky with his eyes closed, holding the smoke in his lungs before blowing it out slowly.
He exudes something I’ve never felt before. Something like sadness or sickness, but not quite. Different. Elevated. Pained, yet sexy in a way that makes no sense. I want to fix him. I want to worship him back to health.
I’m intruding on a personal moment. I know this. I feel ashamed, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from him. The muscles in his neck strain, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. The harsh sun seems to soften around him, blanketing his body in an otherworldly warmth. He glows, all golden skin and sculpted angles. The only shadows around him in this moment are the ones cast in the hollows of his face by his sharp cheekbones and messy black hair. He’s haloed . A fallen angel being beckoned back to heaven.
Torren King is probably the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, and I hate Sav Loveless a little more in this moment. Jealousy flares in my gut and mixes with a possessiveness that almost knocks me over. I want to reach out and touch him.
And then his head turns, his eyes landing right on me.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak. He just stares.
I feel his gaze. A tingling that makes my ears buzz. My heart pounds loudly in my head, my lungs burning from lack of oxygen. I don’t think I even blink. I don’t think he does either.
He drops his eyes down my body as he brings the pre-roll back to his lips, taking another long drag. When he meets my gaze once more, he blows the thick smoke out his nose, then turns and climbs back into the bus.
As soon as the door closes behind him, I gasp and suck in air. I didn’t dare breathe for fear of disturbing the moment, and I nearly passed out because of it.
Now I understand swooning. I understand why fans collapse unconscious when they meet their idols. Because their essential organs cease to work due to shock—a near-death experience of the most exhilarating kind.
“Fuck, Cal.” Rock’s voice makes me jump, and I whirl around to find the boys staring at me. “I thought he was going to eat you.”
“No shit. Was that an eye fuck or an eye murder?” Ezra adds.
I chuckle nervously, and then I look toward Becket. His jaw is tight, and his hands are clenched into fists. I smile sheepishly, and his nostrils flare.
“He was definitely pissed that we saw that,” I say, trying to lighten his mood. “Such drama, right? Lethal amounts of toxicity.”
I push through Rocky and Ezra and wrap my arm around Becket’s waist, pulling him back in the direction we came. “Let’s find drinks.”
“You think I’d have a chance with Sav Loveless now?” Ezra says from behind me.
I laugh and roll my eyes as Rocky chimes in with a snarky remark.
“Dude, fuck no. If Torren King almost turned cannibal on Callie, you don’t want to know what he’d do to you if you so much as breathe in Sav’s direction.”
Rocky grunts, and I don’t have to turn around to know Ezra socked him in the gut. Before they can start brawling like siblings, I point out a food truck to distract them.
“Tacos.”
“Tequila.” Becket whispers the words suggestively into my hair. I guess his jealous anger is gone, replaced quickly with the promise of what’s supposed to happen tonight.
But my stomach doesn’t flip like it would have two hours ago.
Like it would have before my stare down with Torren King.