Chapter 5
Joseline
What the hell did I get myself into?
I turn this way and that in front of the full-length mirror in my hotel room, admiring my outfit for the evening.
It isn’t fancy—a pair of black skinny jeans that look painted onto my thick thighs, a studded black tank that shows just enough cleavage, and some silver jewelry—but somehow it feels like the most important thing I’ve worn in a long time.
Tonight, I’ll be making my photographer debut.
With a band.
On stage.
Nerves have my stomach in a knot, and I can’t tell if it's the clothes that aren’t really my style or the fact that I’ll be in front of thousands of people.
Posting pictures of myself online has never been a problem.
I can block the trolls and ignore any hate comments I get from fucking mouth-breathers, but this is different.
Tonight, it’s like I’m putting myself on display, even though I’ll just be creeping around the stage snapping live-shots of the band.
The tiniest nugget of self consciousness sparks like an ember in my brain, but I quickly snuff it out. I’ve worked hard to love myself and my body, and I’m not going to let a simple concert undo any of that progress. Besides, no one will be paying attention to me; they’ll be watching Rhage.
I’m making something out of nothing, and I need to chill.
“I’m a fine ass bitch,” I mutter the affirmation as I reach for my lip gloss and touch up my makeup. “I’m fierce, sexy, cool.”
I tug at the jeans, wiggling to pull them higher, and turn to check them out from the back.
Damn my ass looks good in these.
Satisfied and afraid to stall any longer, I grab my camera bag and my purse and head for the door. Is my equipment a little less fancy than a band photographer would typically have? Yes. But it’s better than whatever cell phone these rockstars were using to take pictures before.
Any improvement is better than nothing.
I fire off a quick text to Niki while I’m on the elevator, telling her to let me know if she needs anything before Rhage goes on stage. I probably won’t check my phone until after the concert—I don’t know if I’ll have time—but I want to make sure she’s okay.
Then I’m marching toward the sidewalk to wait for my Uber.
It’s late in the afternoon, and crimson has started to bleed into the blue sky.
There’s no telling what time I’ll make it back tonight, but it’ll probably be after midnight.
There are two bands playing before Rhage even takes the stage, and I plan to stick around for the meet and greet afterward for behind the scenes photos.
I would wait until closer to time for Rhage to go on, but since I have no idea where I’m going and I don’t know anyone outside of the band, I decided to get to the convention center early. I’d rather be sitting around waiting and listening to music than show up late and not be allowed onstage.
Getting to the venue so early feels borderline taboo.
A line has just started forming at the front doors, but the opening band doesn’t go on for an hour.
Before I can second-guess showing up so early, I veer off the sidewalk and head around the side of the building where Niki told me to go, walking until I see a set of doors with two burly security guards standing watch.
Bingo.
I unzip the front pocket on my bag and pull out the STAFF lanyard I was given, tugging it on over my head as butterflies erupt in my stomach. Even though I know I’m supposed to be here, a little voice of doubt creeps into my mind.
What if they don’t let me in? What if I have to call Niki and tell her to have the band meet me at the door? What if, what if, what if…
Swallowing my nerves, I lift my chin and strut toward the security guards. One of them lowers his dark glasses to look me over, and I don’t miss the way his eyes roam. I’m flattered, but I keep my expression emotionless. I’m not here to flirt with beefcake security guards. I’m here to work.
“Where ya headed, ma’am?” The one with a buzzed head asks.
“I’m Rhage’s photographer,” I say, lifting the lanyard away from my chest and wagging it like a treat.
“Hmm. I haven’t seen you before,” he says, tilting his head slightly to the side. “I think I’d remember.”
“Yeah, I definitely wouldn’t forget a face like that,” the other chuckles, even though he's ogling my chest.
I force a smile, quickly losing my interest in this conversation and my patience. I didn’t consider being heckled by security when I factored in things that might slow me down.
“It’s my first night,” I assure them. “Now, am I in the right place? Or do I need to go through the front?” I already know the answer, but I want to redirect the conversation. I’ll go through the goddamn front door if it gets me in at this point.
A third voice replies, this one from behind me. “This is the right door. Let her in, Randall, she’s good.”
Ice slips up my spine as recognition sinks in, and my stomach sours.
Oh no.
Slowly, I turn to look over my shoulder and find myself faced with a familiar black leather mask and a pair of golden yellow eyes locked on me. He’s wearing a glimmering navy suit, perfectly tailored to his muscular body.
Of course, Tobias would show up right now.
Somehow, even with his entire face covered, he still looks like a cocky bastard.
The security guards move aside, but before I can thank them and step inside, Tobias shoves past me and disappears through the door. Heat prickling over my skin, I scowl and follow him, wondering if I should risk asking him where I can find the band or just follow along without a word.
Should I thank him for getting me past the security guards?
As I stare at the back of his mask, watching him saunter to the end of the hall, I know my answer. I’m not thanking him for shit.
He hangs a left, and I follow, my eyes roaming as I go.
There isn’t anything special indicating this as an exclusive backstage area.
Just plain white walls and unadorned doors.
Pretty boring for a venue, but I guess they host things aside from concerts.
It’d be hard to book a ballet or orchestra if the walls were graffiti’d and it smelled like sweat, tobacco, and piss.
“Are you following me?” Tobias asks without looking back.
Fuck. I was trying to be quiet. Maybe he heard the squeak of my boots after all.
“It’s better than asking you for directions,” I answer, keeping my tone tight and sharp. I refuse to let this man know how much he gets under my skin, even as it's crawling.
He doesn’t reply, and I consider turning the other direction and finding my own way. But despite my pride, I have to admit that Tobias knows more about this venue than I do. Following him, as much as I hate the thought, is better than getting lost.
Or running into more weird security guards…
“I was going to take some pre-show shots,” I say, just loud enough for him to hear. “It would help if you all were together.”
Again he doesn’t reply, and the heat burning under my skin surges, my annoyance flaring.
He has to be ignoring me, and I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of repeating myself or demanding an answer.
I just bite my tongue, clench my hands into fists, and suppress the urge to call him everything but his name while he leads me through the backstage labyrinth.
Finally, when I’ve almost talked myself into giving up, he pauses next to a closed door.
A simple gold plaque says DRESSING ROOM in black letters, and I stop short.
Is this his personal dressing room? Is he leading me here on purpose, or does he expect me to keep walking? Is this his way of ditching me?
I blanch, stumped on what I should do next. If I follow him alone into his dressing room, that’s going to be awkward as hell. That is, if I get that far, and he doesn’t slam the door in my face… again.
He pushes the door open and voices spill out into the hallway.
We aren’t alone. Gracias a Dios.
I linger for a second to see if he welcomes me inside or shuts the door, but he doesn’t do either.
He leaves the door gaping open in invitation and disappears inside without a backward glance.
Assuming I’m not being sent away, and that this isn’t some sacred band space, I step in and close the door behind me.
My eyes race around the room taking it all in, trying to keep my professional composure. There are three couches situated around the room, all aimed at a flatscreen in the corner. On the screen is a perfect image of an empty stage—I’m assuming the one they’ll be performing on in a couple of hours.
Tobias plops onto one end of a couch, draping his arm over the back of the sofa, and my attention moves to the three other band members sitting on the furniture with him. I know them well—at least, I’ve seen them before and heard a ton about them from Niki, so it feels like I know them.
The twin guitarists, Steele and Daire, are dressed in matching teal outfits and glittering silver masks.
They’re sitting together on the couch to the right.
The keyboard player, Emrys, is wearing a shiny metallic suit and a steampunk-style mask, sitting alone on the third couch.
All of their eyes shift in my direction.
“Hello?” Emrys says, his tone warm and gentle. That makes sense; Niki’s mentioned him being super sweet and nurturing several times. Like the band’s own little mother hen. His head tilts to the side as his green eyes linger on me.
“Uhm, hi…” I force a smile and offer a little wave. “I’m Joseline, your new social media manager.”
“Oh, you’re the new photographer, aren’t you?
” One of the twins leaps to his feet and crosses the room in a few steps, his hand outstretched.
“I’m Daire. It’s nice to meet you in person.
Niki’s told us a lot. Just a head’s up, I’m naturally the most photogenic, so you’ll probably have to work a little harder when it comes to everyone else—”
“Don’t listen to him.” Steele, his twin, is on his feet, shoving the first guitarist out of the way. “He’s full of shit. Ask literally anyone. I’m actually the photogenic one—”
“The word you’re thinking of is fucking annoying, brother. Don’t worry. It’s a simple mistake.”
“Can you buffoons please not scare her off?” Emrys groans as he shoves off the couch, making his way over and cutting in front of the twins as they bicker. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Joseline.”
I shake Emrys’ gloved hand and he gives a polite little bow. The corners of my mouth tug upward at how adorable he is. After meeting Sebastian and Tobias, I was worried they would all be rough and gruff, but obviously that isn’t the case.
And thank fuck all of these men are more tolerable than Tobias.
Maybe this gig won’t be so bad after all…
“I was wondering if I could get some pre-show pictures of you all,” I ask, gesturing to the bag slung over my shoulders. “We could even do them here. I just want to give the fans a little sneak peek of what it’s like backstage. Make you all a little more personable.”
“That’s a great idea,” one of the twins—I think it’s Daire—pipes. “Just tell me where you want us, boss.”
“Where you were before was perfect,” I say, moving to set my bag on the coffee table between the couches. My gaze flicks briefly to Tobias, who’s scrolling on his phone and not paying me a bit of attention, before I pull out my camera. “These will just be casual candids.”
“That works out because our girlfriend goes on stage in just a few,” Steele says, gesturing to the flatscreen. Suddenly, everything makes sense; they’re in here to watch the openers perform.
As soon as I’ve got my camera ready, the dressing room door bangs open and Sebastian struts in, crashing onto the couch next to Tobias. Figures that those two would stick together. Two assholes in a pod, or whatever the saying is.
“Perfect, the gang’s all here,” I say, holding up the camera and aiming it at the group. “Smile. Just kidding.”
I snap a photo and check the lighting, zooming in on their faces. Everything is in focus and the lighting is decent enough for candids, but there’s one thing in the image that I hadn’t noticed when I took it.
Tobias’ vibrant golden eyes glaring right at me.