CHAPTER eleven #2
He finishes his set and moves toward the standing punching bag, pulling white tape from his gym bag. His sweat-dampened waves fall into his face as he concentrates, wrapping his knuckles with a quiet intensity.
And there I go again—watching.
Jesus, Ramona. Get a grip.
I scold myself and try to refocus, only now realizing that I never even started my music. Too distracted by the walking enigma about to beat the hell out of this punching bag.
He moves into a stance and begins to throw punches.
They’re measured, precise. Each hit reverberates through the bag with a satisfying thud, the dark strands of his hair are dripping with sweat with each movement.
He grunts and grits his teeth, brows furrowed in concentration.
There’s emotion simmering beneath the surface that hooks me.
Something about the way he moves feels personal. Not just training. Release.
My treadmill beeps, signaling the end of my mile. I slow to a stop, heart thudding.
I slide my headphones down around my neck and start toward another machine, my focus already on the next set until I catch the edge of a barbell with my foot. I stumble forward, palms shooting out, catching myself against a weight bench just before I face-plant.
He notices instantly. His workout screeches to a halt; he’s at my side in a heartbeat, warm fingers wrapping around my arm as he offers his other hand.
“You alright?” he asks.
Heat floods my cheeks. I give a sheepish smile and let him pull me upright.
“Yeah, just… chronically clumsy,” I mutter, wiping my palms on my leggings like that’ll erase the embarrassment.
He huffs out the smallest smile—barely there, but kind. The silence stretches between us, heavy and awkward, so I grasp at the first thing that pops into my head.
“I would hate to be on the receiving end of one of those,” I say, nodding toward the punching bag he’d been demolishing a moment ago.
Sweat drips from his brow, carving a trail down to his abs. His breathing is a little uneven, but his stare is steady.
“Sorry for interrupting…” I murmur.
He peels the tape from his fingers slowly, then finally speaks; his voice is slightly ragged from the exertion.
“You know how to throw a punch?”
His question startles me more than if he’d barked at me to leave.
“Not really,” I admit with a nervous laugh. “I’ve never had a reason to.”
“Give me your hands.”
He pulls out a fresh roll of tape. I hesitate, but offer my hands, and he begins wrapping my knuckles. His touch is surprisingly careful despite his harsh appearance.
When he finishes, he slips on a pair of training mitts and raises them in front of him.
“Show me what you’ve got.”
His tone is flat. No teasing, no challenge, just instruction.
I clear my throat, suddenly hyper-aware of how ridiculous I must look. I mimic a stance and throw a punch. If it had a sound effect, it would be a squeaky honk. Useless.
Still, he doesn’t mock me. Doesn’t even smirk. He peels off the mitts and steps behind me, placing his hands gently on my elbows.
“Punching isn’t just arms. It’s your whole body. From the ground up,” he says, guiding me through the movement, his voice low and close to my ear. The sensation of his warm breath against my skin spirals through my body.
He adjusts my stance, rotating my hips slowly.
“Now throw your whole body into it.”
He steps away. I try again. This time, it connects with more force. Not great, but not as laughable.
“Better. Do it again.”
I punch. He nods.
“Use the power from your legs.”
I obey. He nods again.
“Good.” He praises, but there’s not even a hint of a smile, no judgment either.
“Now alternate. Both hands.”
We fall into a rhythm. My breathing gets heavier, my arms start to burn. I keep going, the memory sinking into my muscles. Each hit feels less foreign. My last punch lands with a satisfying thwack, and I sag slightly, breathless, hair sticking to my face.
Elias removes the mitts and starts unwrapping my hands. His touch is patient, careful. Like he’s handling something breakable. When he finishes, he looks up at me, his expression is still unreadable.
“Now you can throw a decent punch,” he says.
Then, without waiting for a response, he grabs his bag and walks past me, out the door.
Cleveland, Ohio
Me: I can’t wait for you to get here!
Heidi: I’m so excited! Should be there within the hour :)
Me: Perfect! Let me know when you pull in and I’ll bring your VIP stuff.
Heidi: *Star eyes emoji*
Heidi had decided to drive up from Nashville for our Cleveland show, and I can’t wait to see her—introduce her to the guys, flex my VIP powers a little.
I slip my phone into the back pocket of my torn-up jeans and step off the bus, grabbing one of the heavy totes packed with t-shirts and haul it toward the venue. Inside, the space has a faint smell of cigarette smoke, and the black-painted walls and dim lighting give it a gritty, underground vibe.
I kind of love it.
I’m almost finished setting up the merch table when my phone buzzes again. It’s Heidi, calling. I answer.
“I’m here!” she beams through the line.
“I’m coming to get you now.”
I skip over to the entrance, heart lifting, and when I throw open the door, she’s standing there with a dazzling grin. Without hesitation, I wrap her in a hug, and she squeezes back tightly.
Her platinum blonde hair is styled in a sleek half-up, half-down twist, and she’s rocking a tight black mini dress and ankle boots. She looks killer.
“You look hot!” I tell her, grinning wide.
“This old thing?” she teases, fluttering her eyelashes.
Her gaze drops to my jeans, lingering just a beat too long. “Could your jeans be any more ripped?” she says, the teasing edged with something sharper.
I glance down instinctively, suddenly more self-conscious than I want to admit.
“Probably,” I joke weakly, brushing it off with a laugh.
She holds out her hand expectantly, and it takes me a second to realize she’s waiting for her VIP pass. I slip the lanyard from around my neck and place it into her palm.
“This is the life I was meant for,” she says, breezing past me into the venue without so much as a thank you.
I swallow the flicker of irritation rising in my chest and trail after her, showing her around the setup. She nods along until the guys wander over.
“Hey guys, this is my best friend, Heidi!” I say, gesturing to her like a proud host.
Her whole demeanor shifts—brighter, flirtier—as she steps forward to shake hands with Cody, Jasper, and Grady.
“Nice to meet you all,” she says, voice syrupy sweet.
“Likewise,” Jasper smiles. “Ramona’s been our saving grace out here, you’re lucky to have her.”
I beam at the compliment, feeling a little more anchored until I catch Heidi’s small, tight smile in response. She leans closer and whispers, “Where’s the mysterious frontman?”
I scan the room until I spot Elias leaning casually against the bar, arms folded, watching the venue fill.
“There,” I say, tipping my head toward him.
She immediately perks up, smoothing her hair. I wave him over, and he pushes off the bar and strolls toward us.
“Elias, this is my friend Heidi,” I say.
She thrusts her hand out eagerly, and he shakes it, but she doesn’t let go right away, lingering just a little too long.
“So nice to meet you,” she says, tilting her head and flashing him a coy smile. “Can’t wait for the show. I’ll be front and center.” She punctuates it with a wink.
Elias reclaims his hand without missing a beat.
“Good to meet you,” he replies flatly, barely masking his disinterest. His eyes flick to mine with a raised brow, as if asking, is she serious?
Heidi, undeterred, continues to beam at him like he’s something she plans to unwrap later.
“You guys should probably head backstage,” I say quickly, sensing the shift in energy. The guys nod and drift off toward the green room.
As soon as they’re out of earshot, Heidi fans herself dramatically. “You weren’t lying. He’s sexy as hell.”
“Yeah, he’s... he’s a really interesting person. It’s been cool getting to know him,” I say, choosing my words carefully.
She rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised she doesn’t strain something.
“Please. ‘Interesting’? He’s walking sex.”
“So, are we still on for dinner after the show?” I ask, ignoring her comment about Elias.
“Of course, bestie!”
Before I can respond, she tosses a wave over her shoulder and heads toward the pit to snag her front row spot. I force a tight smile and watch her go, my excitement about tonight dimming just a little.
The show kicks off soon after, and I dive into work—selling merch, chatting with fans, sneaking glances toward the stage where Elias commands the crowd with his magnetic energy. It’s always hard to look away.
In the chaos, I spot Heidi at the barricade, playing the perfect groupie—hair flipping, dancing, reaching toward the stage.
My phone buzzes. A new text.
Heidi: Can you bring me a beer?
I frown, glancing at the growing line in front of me.
Me: Not right now. I’m slammed over here.
Heidi: Come on, Ramona. I don’t wanna lose my spot. Just a quick favor!
I bite my lip, my fingers tightening around the edge of the table. I could probably slip away for a minute, but it grates at me.
Me: Yeah okay, give me a second.
Heidi: You’re the best!
I finish ringing up the last few fans and hurry to the bar, grabbing a beer and weaving clumsily through the packed crowd. I finally reach the front and tap her shoulder. She beams, grabs the drink without even a thank you, and turns back toward the stage.
Between songs, I catch Elias glancing down from the stage, his expression dark. His eyes narrow slightly when he spots me by the barricade, a flash of irritation crossing his face before he turns away to grab his guitar.
I duck my head and retreat back to the merch table, heart sinking a little.
The moment the band’s set ends, Elias is there, like he appeared from thin air, standing beside me with his arms crossed and that same hard look in his eyes.