CHAPTER twenty-one
In The Dark a Flicker Stays
Dallas, Texas
The show has barely started when I spot him making his way inside.
I keep my attention focused on setting up, pretending not to notice, but the small, knowing grin tugging at my lips betrays me.
He approaches the stand with the same relaxed confidence he had carried yesterday, eyes skimming the merch before settling back on me.
“Hey, sick setup,” Bryan says, gesturing to the display.
Feigning pride, I strike a playful pose. “You think so?”
“Absolutely.” He scans the shirts, then points to my personal favorite—the black tee with the demon cat design.
“I’ll take one of these.”
I ring him up, fingers brushing his as I hand over the shirt. He is easy, effortless, exactly the kind of distraction I need. And yet, something about the way I felt under Elias’s gaze earlier won’t leave me.
The venue is packed wall to wall, the energy buzzing like a live wire. The rush at the merch stand has me working at full speed, slinging t-shirts and posters like my life depends on it.
As the guys prepare to take the stage, Vernon gives me a nod, signaling me to grab my camera and get some shots of the set. It’s the perfect excuse to slip away from the chaos of the stand for a bit, and to find Bryan.
I spot him near the edge of the crowd, standing just outside the throng of bodies pressing toward the stage. He’s easy to find, his broad shoulders and relaxed stance making him stand out amongst the more frantic fans.
I weave my way through, tapping his shoulder softly. He turns around, and the instant smile that spreads across his face sends a pleasant warmth through my chest. His grin is inviting, like he’s genuinely happy to see me, and I can’t help but mirror it.
“Hey,” I say, raising my voice over the roar of the crowd. “I’ve got to take some photos, so I thought I’d come hang out for a few.”
“Best offer I’ve had all night,” he teases, shifting slightly so I can stand in front of him.
I stay through the first two songs, alternating between capturing shots of the band and chatting with Bryan. His hand rests casually on my hips, warm even through the fabric of my t-shirt. Every now and then, he leans in close to speak over the music, his lips grazing just near my ear.
And then he says something that makes me laugh, really laugh. It bursts out of me before I can stop it, and I tilt my head back slightly.
But when I look up, when my gaze instinctively flicks toward the stage, I feel it like a physical force.
Elias’s stare.
His eyes bore into me, sharp, unwavering, his expression carved from stone as he sings. But it’s not just focus—it’s something darker, something that smolders beneath the surface. There’s an intensity in his gaze that confuses me, a silent fury that makes my body heat.
I freeze for a fraction of a second, caught in the unspoken war between us. I don’t look away. I match his stare, my chin lifting slightly as if to say, What?
His jaw tightens. His grip on the mic shifts. He doesn’t break eye contact.
Something about his expression, the intensity in his eyes, sends a thrill of something through my veins. But frustration quickly overtakes it.
He doesn’t get to look at me like that. Not after everything.
Not after he was the one who told me I was a mistake.
Annoyance flares hot in my veins, and I turn deliberately away from him, shifting my attention back to Bryan. He’s still talking, oblivious to the silent storm brewing between Elias and me, and I force myself to smile, to nod along.
“Come with me to the merch stand,” I say, my voice light, casual, as I reach for his hand. I don’t look back at the stage, but I feel the frontman’s gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting.
His stupid, infuriatingly sexy gaze.
Damn it.
After their set, Bryan lingers near the merch table, helping me when the rush gets overwhelming. When a break in the line finally comes, he grins down at me.
“So, about that number?”
Before I can answer, a shadow looms behind him.
Elias.
“Ramona,” he says, voice clipped, sharp. “Vernon needs you backstage.”
I blink up at him, confusion knitting my brows.
“For wha—”
“Now.” The finality in his tone leaves no room for argument.
Bryan shifts slightly beside me, gaze flicking between us, sensing the sudden shift in atmosphere.
My stomach twists as I mutter an apology before stepping away, but before I can process what is happening, Elias grabs my hand and is guiding me behind the curtain, his grip firm but not painful.
As soon as we are inside, he spins me, pressing me against the wall, his body caging me in, his breath hot against my skin.
“What the fuck are you doing, Ramona?” His voice is low, dangerous, each syllable weighted with something dark.
My pulse pounds in my ears, anger and something else crackling between us.
“What the fuck do you mean, Elias?” I shoot back, eyes blazing, my own fury rising to meet his.
His gaze darkens, the edges of his control fraying. For a moment, neither of us move, locked in a silent battle, breathing heavy, the space between us too close, too charged, too much.
Then, without warning, his lips crash against mine.
It is rough, angry, devastating. His hands tangle in my hair, his body pressing into mine as if he is trying to consume me whole, and I let him, let myself drown in the fire of it. When I finally pull away, breathless, hands fisting the fabric of his shirt, I shove him back.
“I thought you said this was a mistake.” My voice is a taunt.
His smirk is lethal, his grip tightening around my waist, his other hand wrapping around my neck in a silent promise, a gentle possessive hold.
The air between us crackles like a live current, charged with something neither of us dares to name. Elias’s breath ghosts over my lips, his voice no more than a whisper, yet it sinks into my bones like a confession carved in stone.
“The mistake was thinking I could stay away from you.”
His words send a shiver down my spine, anticipation curling low in my stomach. His hands are strong, calloused, unrelenting, and they grip me, fingertips pressing into my skin.
“Thinking that I could watch you at my show with another guy, making you laugh, touching you…”
He punctuates the last two words with slow, deliberate kisses against the sensitive skin of my neck. My breath catches, my hips shifting instinctively toward him, desperate for friction, for anything to relieve the ache pooling inside me.
“The mistake,” he murmurs, dragging his lips back up the column of my throat, “was convincing myself that I could only kiss you once and it would be enough.”
His eyes—dark, molten, devastating—lock onto mine, filled with something possessive, something that threatens to undo me entirely.
I swallow hard, my pulse pounding in my ears, my hands gripping the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth.
It is never going to be enough. It never could be. We both know it.
“Now,” he breathes, nipping my ear, heat dripping from every syllable, “go tell that pretty boy to fuck off.”
As I make my way back toward the merch table, my lips still tingling from that reckless, soul-stealing kiss, my mind spins like a whirlwind.
The world feels slightly off-kilter, as if the ground hasn’t quite caught up to what just happened.
I scan the thinning crowd, eyes searching for Bryan, ready to deliver the “fuck off” Elias had so eloquently promised on my behalf, but he’s gone. Disappeared without a trace.
Maybe he saw what was unfolding and decided not to invite the fallout.
Wise choice, I think dryly.
I do my best to play it cool as we start breaking down the setup, folding shirts, stacking crates, pretending my heart isn’t still thudding like a kick drum.
One by one, the guys climb onto the bus, their laughter echoing inside.
All except Elias.
He lingers by the side of the bus, back against the metal, arms folded, a slow-burning smirk dancing on his mouth. His eyes lock on mine, silently asking me to stay.
I wander over, my shoulder brushing the side of the bus as I lean into the space beside him. He doesn’t move. He just watches me with an intensity that makes my breath falter.
“Hell of a show, rockstar,” I say, lifting a brow in praise.
He huffs a laugh, ducking his head.
“Get any good shots?” he asks.
“Oh, definitely. Got some great ones of this little band called Atlas Obsidian. The frontman? Total smoke show.”
His eyes narrow slightly, darkening like storm clouds. Before I can blink, he’s glancing around and reaching for my hand. He threads his fingers through mine and, without a word, leads me away from the bus, past the venue’s loading dock, and around a dimly lit corner.
He pulls me into a shadowy alleyway behind the venue and presses me gently against the cool brick. His hands frame my waist, his body hovering just enough to make me ache. Then his mouth finds mine again, and its wildfire.
I melt into the kiss like I’ve been waiting for it all night, hell, maybe my whole life. His tongue slides past my lips, tasting, coaxing, stealing every coherent thought I had left. My fingers knot into his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan low in his throat.
I nip his bottom lip, sharp enough to draw a hint of copper and it only fuels the heat between us. His hands roam beneath the hem of my shirt, calloused fingertips skating over the bare skin of my lower back, my sides, every inch he can reach.
He pauses just enough to hover, his breath a hot whisper against my parted lips, voice low and laced with want.
“You don’t even realize what you do to me.”
I lift my face to his, our mouths barely a breath apart.
“Then show me,” I challenge.
A smile ghosts across his lips—slow, wicked—just before his inked fingers trail up my arm, featherlight and torturously slow.
His hands drift over my collarbone, lingering in the hollow of my throat, before traveling downward in a teasing path.
“From the first moment I saw you in Nashville, I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.”
In one fluid motion, he pivots us, his back pressing to the brick wall as he draws me against him, chest to spine.
One hand finds my hip, anchoring me to him, while the other brushes my hair aside.
His mouth lowers to my neck, grazing skin with a reverent softness before his teeth catch and tug, enough to make my body tense.
“You feel that?” he breathes into my ear, his hips rolling forward so I can’t mistake the thick press of him.
“That’s what you do to me.”
A sound escapes me—half gasp, half moan.
His other hand resumes its exploration, sweeping across the curve of my stomach, grazing the edge of my thigh, and then trailing upward beneath the hem of my skirt.
My breath stutters.
His fingertips dance, maddeningly close to where I ache for him. I shift against him, silently begging for more.
His voice drops another octave, dark and rough.
“When I touch you… Will I find you as desperate as I am right now?”
He punctuates the question with a sharp kiss to my pulse, followed by a nip as his fingers continue their tantalizing motion.
“Why don’t you find out?” I whisper back, the words nearly catch in my throat.
His hand slides higher, the barest whisper away from discovering the truth, when the door beside us bursts open. The loud clang of metal slams into the quiet night, followed by the unmistakable retch of someone losing their dinner in the alley.
We freeze, breathless, startled from the moment. A beat passes before we exchange a glance, laughter and frustration mingling in the charged space between us.
Wordlessly, we step out of the alley, hands still brushing, tension still simmering just beneath our skin.
We make our way back to the bus, the hush of evening wrapping around us like a velvet curtain.
Our hands brush between steps, fingers tangling in a subtle rhythm, just our pinkies and ring fingers at first. The night air is crisp against my skin, a gentle contrast to the heat still lingering between us.
I slow my pace, shifting to step in front of Elias, halting our path. Our hands stay linked as I meet his gaze, the parking lot lights catching the edge of his jawline, painting his features in soft shadow.
“What does this mean?” I ask. “For us… for the tour?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he gently flips my hand over in his, brushing his thumb across my palm. Then he threads our fingers together fully.
“It means whatever we want it to mean,” he says.
I arch an eyebrow, pretending to scold.
“That sounds suspiciously like a non-answer.”
He grins, tugging me a step closer, mischief dancing in his eyes as he brushes a strand of hair behind my ear.
“It means we enjoy the ride. We keep it easy, no pressure. Just a good time while it lasts. And when summer winds down… when you head back home… we part ways. No strings.”
His words land softly, but still, the mention of the end presses into my chest like a slow, steady weight. This summer has already been the best of my life, and the thought of it ending makes my heart race.
I nod, schooling my expression into something casual, even as my stomach twists with something dangerously close to disappointment. I won’t let him see that. Not now. Not yet.
“Should we… tell the guys?”
His response is immediate.
“Absolutely not. They’re nosy as fuck.”
The bluntness of it makes me burst into laughter, the sound breaking the tension in the best way. He smirks, clearly pleased with himself.
“So,” I say, rising onto my toes, “our little secret then?”
“Our secret,” he echoes, just before I press my lips to his.