Only the Mighty Fall (Dreadful Boys #3)

Chapter 1

OBSESSION

Am I a stalker? Maybe.

I push through the smelly, sweat-soaked crowd as crunchy guitars and offbeat drums thunder from the shaky stage speakers. Because I’m so fucking short, my elbow jabs and grunts go unnoticed.

Bodies move like a wave, pushing me this way and that way, while the mosh pit goes wild. Beer bottles slosh over wobbly hands, drunken cheers explode nearby, signaling that I’m going to miss it.

Devon Thatcher’s infamous stage dive.

Okay, maybe it’s not infamous. The shitty punk band isn’t anything to write home about. Anti-Ponk is about as famous as I am, which isn’t at all. They are local to the Long Beach area, have about 150 Facebook followers, and have virtually no presence outside this county.

But I know them.

Since that first show six months ago, I researched, crafted my sales pitch, and hoped my crush wouldn’t be obvious when I finally spoke to the band.

They…suck, for lack of a better word. That’s exactly why they need me.

When a flying elbow aims for me, I duck, shuffle through a gap, and suddenly a pair of unknown hands grabs my waist. I shriek, flailing wildly as some giant lifts me like a rag doll. Screaming is pointless. He’s drunk and thinks I'm a prime candidate for crowd surfing.

I hate heights and need him to drop me, so I kick at his stomach and squirm in his slippery grip. Eventually, he sets me down right in front of the stage. Almost in slow motion, I look up—and up—to find myself staring at Devon Thatcher’s plaid-covered crotch.

He always wears those patchwork plaid skinny jeans at shows: one side red and black, the other pink and grey. I gulp, swat at my hair, and try not to blush.

His brows cut through sweat on his temples. Hazel eyes lock on his fretboard while liberty spikes flash in purple, blue, pink—

“Fuck!” I bark when someone shoves into my back, and I crush into the shoddy stage. Coarse wood digs into my chest, forcing the air from my lungs.

Thankfully, Devon doesn’t see me, already gearing up to take position on the opposite side of the stage.

A surge of panic shoots to the front of my mind.

I’m going to miss it again. Every time, someone blocks my way or shoves me aside.

All I want is to touch the man—even if briefly.

He’s seven years older, so there’s no way he’d willingly let me, but here, in a crowd, it could happen.

I just want to know if he feels as good as he looks.

Determined, I force my way through bodies—stepping on feet, throwing punches—doing whatever it takes. I’m so close, electric pulses tingle my fingers, and an invisible force seems to pull me toward him.

Devon Thatcher, the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in real life.

Devon Thatcher, the bold and flamboyant punk who doesn’t take anyone’s shit.

Devon Thatcher, the man from the wrong side of the tracks that haunts every dream I have.

I’m not missing it this time. I refuse to let anyone stop me.

Not tonight.

“Watch out!” A deep voice booms, prompting me to glance over my shoulder.

My eyes widen as an exceptionally handsome blonde barrels toward me and tackles me to the ground.

I land hard, wind knocked out. Through the jumble of heads and arms, I catch Devon leaping from the stage, leaving his bass behind.

I whimper as countless hands support him, keeping him from the concrete.

The guy on top of me probably thinks he’s rescued me from becoming a human pancake. How valiant. Holding himself up by his palms, he searches my body quickly and smiles. Now is not the time for strange, sexy men to flirt with me. I’m on a mission here!

Infuriated, I shove the blonde off me, ignore his confused expression, and quickly zip through to where Devon is.

It’s horrible—frantic. I’ve never tried so hard for so little. Maybe it seems dramatic since I’m only seventeen, but honestly, I don’t care.

“Wait!” I cry just as the crowd starts to lower him down. In a matter of seconds, with the force of the moving humans around me as leverage, I’m carried right to him.

Out of breath and sore, I blink up at the punk god. Hand outstretched, fingers buzzing with need, I graze his boot. One touch of worn leather is all it takes. I beam. Endless flutters rumble my belly, and before I know it, he’s on his feet.

“You have pretty hair,” he shouts over the obnoxious guitars.

For a moment, I don’t register that he’s talking to me. After a few blinks, I straighten to my full height, which is almost 5’5 on a good day, and just as I’m about to thank him, he bends down, puts his lips right at my ear, and says, “Meet me after the show, yeah?”

“Okay,” I squeak, heart in my throat.

He winks, then jogs back to the stage. The crowd parts for him, cheering and urging him back to where he belongs.

While I watch with moon eyes as he takes up his bass and finishes the set, a nagging thought crosses my mind: You’re seventeen. He was flirting. He’s twenty-four.

Age is just a number, I think firmly.

He won’t care.

Right?