Chapter Thirty
Eighteen months later
Sloane Donavan.”
Tugging my press pass from my back pocket, I hold it up for the beefy man in the overtight black shirt that reads SECURITY.
He waves me through the barrier without consulting his clipboard. I’ve already been in and out multiple times at this point.
Undead Kings just finished their set, and the roadies are rushing to flip the stage for Final Revelations. The sky overhead groans, and I cast a wary look toward the roiling gray clouds. I cross my fingers that it holds off long enough for the guys to finish their set.
In the melee of backstage, I spot the blue hair of my intern, Murphy. She jerks her head in my direction. She’s covering tonight’s show.
I’m far too emotional tonight and far too close to the band now to write an unbiased piece. Even Gabe, Undead Kings’ frontman, was getting choked up when I saw him backstage earlier—and they’re not even the ones retiring. Thank god. I couldn’t bear to lose two of my favorite bands in one year.
“You ready for this?” Murphy asks when I reach her.
I shake my head, staring wide-eyed at everyone running around backstage. I’m scared to blink, to miss a single moment of it. I can’t believe this is the last show, that we’re not waking up in a new city tomorrow to do it all over again.
The past year and a half has been a roller coaster, to say the least. The morning after Thanksgiving, I woke up to a stark email from John—You were right about the article.
I’m running it with your edits. Fuck the haters.
PS: Could you kindly let Robb know I’m making this right and to stop hounding me?
—with an offer for a full-time staff-writer position attached.
Trent—the alleged nepotism hire—was only ever an unpaid intern.
John was never planning to pass me over.
Despite the internet trolls’ hot takes about me, the Alternative Press issues with my Final Revelations articles still did off-the-charts numbers.
I’m not holding out hope for an apology.
Final Revelations finished their album, which, upon release, quickly went gold, then platinum and hasn’t slowed down in the months since.
They put Nixed on their website as a pay-what-you-can setup, all the proceeds going to various nonprofits dedicated to helping those who struggle with the topics discussed on the album.
Over the past year, the guys have given more interviews to more magazines, and Mike Song’s shitty 2002 article is now buried six pages deep when you search “Final Revelations.”
They started touring last year, traveling around the US through the summer and Europe in the fall. They took a break over the winter before doing a second US leg in the spring, and now they’re back in Cleveland for their final show.
The final Final.
Dax got back into town yesterday, and we spent the afternoon alternately tangled up in each other and napping it out.
But today… I’ve barely seen him. He was already gone when I woke up this morning.
I don’t fully know how to explain the energy in our apartment—our apartment.
The concept is still a little foreign. I was basically living there anyway, but once my lease was up, I officially moved in while Dax was touring in the UK.
But as I went about my morning routine in our condo this morning, my things amongst Dax’s, his half-unpacked duffle at the base of our bed, I felt a trickle of excitement.
No two days of our life have been the same—but we’ve figured out how to make it work, even when there was an entire ocean between us.
I’m sad to see this chapter of our lives close, but I’m also endlessly excited at the prospect of being boring and domestic together.
Dax already has multiple requests to produce on albums, and I can’t wait to see what he does, how he’ll thrive in this new role, a new side of him I can’t wait to discover.
My new column launches next month, and I’ve spent the spring mentoring Murphy, who I convinced John to bring on as an intern a few months back.
But right now, I’m trying really hard to stay present, to soak it all in. “Ask me literally anything else,” I say to Murphy. “Like this isn’t the last night.”
Murphy nods once, jerking her head toward where my friends are standing. They surprised me by showing up for this, insisting they wouldn’t miss it. Drew is standing with his arm around Brooklyn, and she’s tucked into his side, arms around his middle. “What is the real story there?”
I laugh under my breath. I will not be the one to undo their yearslong, mostly faked will-they-or-won’t-they PR schtick. “No comment,” I say, and Murph sighs. If only she knew the truth was much more interesting, that they’re both desperately and devastatingly in love with other people.
“There you are.” A zip of excitement shoots up my spine at the low, smoky voice. Dax’s arms come around me, and I sink back into him on instinct. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he whispers in my ear.
Murphy immediately makes herself scarce.
“You’ve been busy,” I counter. And he has. So many old friends have come out of the woodwork for today, so many people vying for the attention of Dax, Marcus, Cain, Barrett, and Jonah.
Dax hums noncommittally. “Yeah, but I thought I’d get to spend more of today with you.”
I shrug. “We have tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day.”
Dax presses his lips to the crown of my head, sighing contentedly. “Thank god.”
He twirls my hair around his finger, twisting it off to the side before burying his face in the crook of my neck as he squeezes me tighter against him. “You wore this shirt the first time I saw you,” he mumbles against my pulse point, making it jump. “Well… the second first time I saw you.”
I angle my face so I can look at him. “Really?”
The brush of his lips against the hinge of my jaw gives me goose bumps. “At Battle of the Bands. My first thought was how I thought I was hallucinating. My second thought”—he places a kiss at the hollow spot behind my ear—“was how I wanted to do that.”
I shudder at the low timbre of his voice. “No, it wasn’t.”
His laugh coasts across my cheek. “It was. I kept trying to find a way to casually touch you, to make sure you were real. I couldn’t understand how the whole venue was going on like nothing monumental was happening.
I never thought I’d see you again, and then…
There you were. I felt like I’d been holding my breath for three years and could finally breathe again. ”
My fingers drag along his forearms wrapped around me, idly tracing the shapes inked there. “When I kissed you—for the second first time—it felt like coming home after being gone for a long time.”
Dax grunts, nuzzling his face in my neck. “I know that feeling too well right now.”
Placing my hands atop his, I squeeze gently before spinning in the circle of his arms, stretching up onto my tiptoes to kiss him. “I love you.”
He nudges my nose with his. “I love you.” Dragging his mouth to my ear, he whispers, “This is my formal request to not leave the apartment for the next three days.”
“Kinky,” I murmur.
He laughs. It seems to come more easily to him now, laughing, smiling. “That, too, but also: naps.”
“Very metal of you,” I tease.
His lopsided smile fills me up.
“Dax,” their stage manager calls, signaling it’s almost time for them to go on. They’ve been playing a game of chicken with the impending storm all day, and the rush to stay on schedule is necessary if they want to finish their set.
Dax nods in acknowledgment before turning to me. “You watching from backstage?” he asks, already knowing that I won’t. I wouldn’t dream of wasting this final show by only half hearing it. I shake my head and he grins. “Going into the pit?”
I snort. “You know I prefer my nose unbroken. I’ll be in the sound booth tent with Murph.”
An unreadable expression crosses Dax’s face.
“What?”
He presses a kiss to my forehead. “You’ll see,” he says, slapping me on the ass like he does before every show.
I arch a brow. “Alright. Have fun,” I say, blowing him a kiss.
“Always do,” he says, walking backward away from me.
I don’t find out what he means until the fifth song.
“Cleveland,” he says on a heavy exhale into the mic. His attention goes to the tented sound booth in the middle of the field, and I’m rooted to the spot. “This next song is my girl’s favorite, and she wants to get in the pit.”
I cannot fucking stand him. I love him so much.
“So,” he says, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm. “This is gonna be the softest shit we’ve ever done. Anyone who’s ever wanted to get in the pit but been too scared—get in the fucking pit. And to make sure you all stay on your best behavior—”
The crowd’s screaming is near deafening as Dax jumps down from the stage and approaches the barricade. Security watches him, too baffled to stop him.
“Open up for me, please.” Like an undulating wave, the people near the front press back, parting like the Red Sea. “Good, good.” He knows exactly what he’s doing, how many people just captured that on video and will be listening to his low voice praise them on a loop.
A spotlight turns on, highlighting Dax as he hops the barricade and makes his way to the massive open space in the middle of the crowd.
“Sloane,” he calls off-mic as he reaches the center of the pit. “C’mere, baby.”
My face flushes, and I’m glad it’s dark out.
The sound tech nudges me out of the tented area, and I relent.
The crowd parts, making a path from me to Dax.
He grins when he sees me, beckoning me over with a finger.
Once I’m within reach, his free hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, holding me steady as he kisses me fiercely.
On stage, Barrett drumrolls on a cymbal.
Breaking the kiss, Dax mumbles against my mouth, “I told you I’d get you in the pit.”
I shake my head at him.
Turning toward the stage, Dax brings the mic back to his mouth. “Ready?”
Jonah, Barrett, Marcus, and Cain all nod in confirmation.
“Okay,” Dax says, strolling around the middle of the pit, the spotlight tracking him.
The usual suspects who mosh have dutifully taken up residence at the edge of the pit, forming a protective wall, as people of all genders, races, sizes, and ages pour into the vacated space. It’s the most diverse pit I’ve ever seen.
I can’t believe no one has touched Dax, the person they all came here to see. He’s undisturbed in the middle of hundreds of fans as they share this once-in-a-lifetime moment together.
“Can we dim this?” he asks, shielding his eyes.
The bright white light switches to indigo, and he looks so beautiful, his edges bathed in blues and purples.
“The lights are down. No one can see you. Dance however the fuck you want.” The silence that follows as hundreds of people hold their breath, knowing exactly what comes next—
“LET’S GO!”
It starts to rain softly halfway through the song, but Dax doesn’t leave, the guys don’t stop playing, and the crowd doesn’t seem to care.
I have no idea what’s coming next for Dax and me, but here in the middle of a muddy mosh pit with hundreds of people imperfectly dancing their hearts out, I’m not worried.
Whatever we build together, if it’s a fraction as beautiful as this, it will be epic.