Cody
brEAKDOWN OF LOOMER PACK BACKGROUND CHECKS
From my vantage at side-stage, the pit looks like a living thing, breathing in time with the bass.
Brittney’s out front, half-lit by a teal stage light, hair loose and wild around her face.
She holds the mic like a weapon. She’s transformed since the first days on tour.
Back then, she’d shrink, eyes darting to the floor, letting the space swallow her.
Now she’s got the crowd by the throat, and she knows it.
Tommy’s beside her, grinning. He’s hitting the harmonies, eyes closed, hips moving with the beat in a way that’s almost obscene. The two of them make a perfect pair.
My job is to be the invisible wall. I scan every face in the first five rows, noting those who appear too wired, too glassy-eyed, or too desperate to get closer than the line allows.
The security at this place is better than most, but that doesn’t mean I trust them.
Some are just killing time until their next smoke break.
That’s why Saint insisted we do our own coverage.
Hunter and Fox are down there, blocking the pit from the stage.
There’s a soft static in my left ear, Colton’s voice comes through, barely above a whisper.
“Stage left clear. Third row, blue hair, possible jumper.” I clock the girl immediately.
She’s small, wound up tight, legs flexing with each build in the chorus.
I file it away and keep her in my peripheral while I let my eyes move to the other weak points: the emergency exit by the pit, the cluster of kids with their phones already out, looking for an angle.
Brittney launches into the chorus, and the crowd surges, a collective lunge toward the front. The lighting catches the sweat on her temple, making her glow. I feel my chest go tight.
There’s a commotion at the barricade. The blue-haired girl made her move, leveraging the rail and scrambling over in one fluid, terrifyingly determined motion. The front-line bouncer is too slow; he goes for her, but she’s already through and sprinting for the steps.
I don’t even have to move.
Colton has her contained in seconds.
She’s shrieking something, arms up, eyes wet with that particular breed of worship that borders on mania. Her scent hits me. It’s pure panic, layered with something synthetic. Uppers, probably. She’s not dangerous, not really, but that’s not the point.
The bouncer catches up and grabs her by the arm. She looks like she might cry, but then Tommy slides over, winks at her, and blows a kiss. The girl melts and lets herself be led away.
I watch her go, then glance back at Brittney. She never missed a beat, never even looked away from the audience. Fuck, she’s good.
The set concludes on a high note, both literally and metaphorically.
The last chord rings, Brittney throws her arms up, and the crowd loses its mind.
I can feel it through the floorboards. I track her as she tosses the mic to the stand, loops her guitar strap over her shoulder, and pivots straight to stage right and straight to me.
There’s sweat running down her neck, her hair plastered to her cheeks. She’s breathing hard, but her eyes are wild and bright. She looks alive.
“You okay?” I ask, just loud enough to hear over the crowd’s dying roar.
She laughs, a breathless, bubbling sound. “I feel amazing.”
I want to say something smart, but all I can think is that I want to grab her, haul her into a corner, and kiss her until she forgets every bad thing that ever happened. Instead, I hand her a water bottle and let my fingers brush my mark on her wrist.
Colton appears at my side. “Stage is secure. Want me to walk her back?”
I shake my head. “I got it.”
Tommy’s already fielding a dozen admirers, but he catches my eye and gives a thumbs up. I nod back, then steer Brittney toward the safety of the green room. The adrenaline is starting to crash, and I feel the tremor in her arm where my hand rests.
In the hallway, it’s quiet. She leans against the wall, eyes closed, face turned up to the buzzing fluorescent. “Was it good?” she asks, so soft I almost miss it.
“It was perfect,” I say, and I mean it.
She opens her eyes, searching my face for the lie. There isn’t one.
“Thank you,” she says, then starts bouncing up and down with excitement.
The need to touch her is so sharp it’s a physical ache.
She looks at me, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any blue left. “Did you see the crowd?”
“Hard to miss,” I say, trying for easy, but it comes out rough. “They lost their minds.”
She’s still vibrating. Her hair sticks to her face in wet, haphazard streaks, and there’s a streak of black mascara, maybe, or eyeliner smudged across her cheekbone. I want to lick it clean.
She grins at me, not the practiced version from the meet-and-greet, but something unguarded. For a second, I see the omega that never thought she’d get out, let alone get up here. Then she shakes it off, runs a hand through her hair, and starts laughing again.
I tell her, “You crushed it. You owned that fucking stage.”
She ducks her head, like she can’t absorb it, and the flush that spreads across her cheeks is so honest it hurts to look at.
“I always thought, when I was a kid, that if I ever got out, I’d just… disappear,” she says, voice dropping to a hush. “Like, leave town, change my name, become a librarian somewhere nobody’s ever heard of.”
I want to say she’d hate it and that she’s too bright for any small life, but I know she needs to say it, so I just listen.
“But now, this? With you guys? It’s better than I ever thought it could be. I feel like I finally get to live, you know?”
I do know. I know exactly what she means.
I don’t think. I just act.
I take her hand and pull her down the hall.
The second we’re alone, I press her up against the wall, hard enough to feel the heat of her all along my chest. My hands go to her face, thumb tracing the line of her jaw, palm cradling the back of her neck. Her lips are parted, eyes wide, and she’s still panting a little from the adrenaline.
I kiss her.
It’s soft at first, just the press of mouth to mouth, slow and careful, as if she might shatter.
She doesn’t. She leans in, opens for me, lets me taste the salt on her lips and the faint sweetness of whatever drink she downed at break.
Her hands knot in my shirt, dragging me closer.
She’s all heat and hunger. I want to drown in it.
My tongue finds hers, and she gasps. The sound is so real and unplanned that it short-circuits my brain.
I kiss her deeper, let my hand move from her face to the curve of her waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
She arches into me, hips bucking just a little, and the friction sets every nerve in my body on fire.
The room is small and windowless, airless.
Every inhale is just her, every exhale is mine.
I let my other hand find the small of her back, pull her up until she’s on her tiptoes, and pressed chest to chest. She kisses back with an intensity like she needs it to survive, like she’s been waiting for this her whole life.
I want more. I want all of her.
She breaks the kiss first, lips swollen and red, head tipping back against the wall. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused.
I whisper against her mouth. “You can have anything you want from me. Anything.”
She laughs, a sound somewhere between a sob and a sigh. “You’re such a sap, Cody.”
“Yeah,” I admit, and press my forehead to hers. “But only for you.”
She burrows into my chest, arms wrapping around my waist. Her heart pounds wild and uncoordinated against my ribs, and I realize mine is doing the same. I let my hands roam her back, memorizing every ridge of her spine, every shiver.
We stay like that, tangled up, for a long minute. Neither of us speaks. There’s nothing to say.
Eventually, she pulls back, just far enough to look me in the eye. “Thank you,” she whispers, and I know she means more than the kiss.
I want to tell her how proud I am, how much she’s changed me, how nothing I’ve ever done matters as much as this. But the words get stuck, so I just hold her tighter, let her feel it in the way I touch her.
When we finally leave the room, our hands stay twined, and I dare anyone to try to break the grip.
Let the world come for her. Let it try.
It’ll have to go through me first.