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My brow wrinkles in confusion at the swift topic change. “What?”
“Do you dance?” he repeats. “Like at a club.”
“Umm…not for a while?” I answer, not sure where this is coming from.
“Will you come out after the show with us? My sister’s in town for the night and wants to go out to a club after the show. We don’t have to though…” he trails off, eyeing me with words he won’t say out loud in front of other ears backstage here.
My chest constricts at that, the simple kindness of him taking into consideration that going out to a club may be hard for me and something I’m not ready to do sober. It’s a kindness many have not thought to consider or haven’t shown since I’ve stopped drinking.
“Sounds fun,” I tell him with a reassuring smile.
He nods his head once, dark curls falling over his eyes before he brushes them out of the way and heads over to be with his bandmates before they go on.
Taking advantage of the quick break between my set and theirs, I head back to my greenroom to clean up as best I can. Grabbing a few wet wipes, I pull my hair up and wipe down my neck and chest, enjoying the coolness on my hot, sticky skin. I wipe down my arms as well, before pulling deodorant out of my bag I bring with me to each show and swipe on a fresh coat.
Looking in the mirror behind the door, I quickly realize my hair is a lost cause. I spray a little bit of dry shampoo at the roots to suck up some of the moisture and finger-comb the ends.
A slow bassline booms through the walls, followed by the distant cheers of the crowd, signaling the start of their set. I throw everything back on the couch and whip the door open, hurrying to the curtains offstage.
Just as I’m arriving, Walker and the guys are stepping out. His large frame stalks across the stage, climbing up the two steps to the slightly raised platform that his kit sets on. I almost reach up to cover my ears, never hearing the crowd react this loudly before. Not even to Boone when he gets onstage and definitely not for me.
The lights are flashing, white strobes dance across each of them as they settle into their spots.
Hayden is farthest from me on the right side of the stage, swinging his bass over his head and settling the strap in on his shoulder.
Nikolai at front and center, unbuttoning an extra button on his shirt before shaking out his hands and reaching for the mic stand.
Reid is closest to me on the left side of the stage and he stands there with his guitar as if he’s waiting in line at the grocery store, cool and collected, aloof, as if their screams mean nothing to him.
But my eyes don’t catch on any of them for long. Instead they’re drawn to Walker lowering himself onto the small black and chrome stool. He flexes his arms, the cut-off shirt allowing full view of his muscles, highlighted by the strobing lights catching on the veins and grooves. He twirls a neon green drumstick in each hand, fingers dancing quickly and deftly. The ones that I gifted him. My stomach flips at the sight of it.
Walker lowers his head down, his hair hanging around his face as the bassline builds, leading into a crescendo before he yells out a muffled count to the guys, and Reid starts a dark and energetic riff, Walker and Hayden joining in for a few bars before Nikolai starts singing, the crowd instantly joining him.
As the song builds, so does the energy of each of the guys, but my attention stays focused on Walker. I couldn’t pull my eyes away even if I wanted to. As he pounds into the drums, completely controlling not only the song and each of them on stage, but also the crowd. They time their movements with the beats he’s creating, allowing him to be their puppet master for the evening. It’s completely mesmerizing to watch.
People in the crowd watch them in awe, euphoria and glee written across their faces. The same is mirrored back to them from each of the guys, even Reid’s scowl has melted and he looks at peace, in his element.
They all do.
I peer down into the pit in front of the stage and spot Carter there, large camera in hand snapping pictures as they perform. Her lens is aimed at Hayden as his head lies back, pale throat gleaming under the stage lights, fingers flicking over the strings of his bass like it’s as natural as breathing for him.
Daniel circles around the edges of the stage, camera in hand taking video of the show.
As each song goes by, Walker never loses energy or steam, beating the drums just as hardly and with even more enthusiasm. A thin coat of sweat covers him, his hair sticking to his forehead as he whips his head back and forth in time with the beat, eyes often closed and zeroed in on what he’s doing. His arms bulge with his movement, forearms strained and strong as he occasionally throws in a flip of his drumsticks here and there.
“Show off,” a voice says to my right, startling me and causing me to cry out in surprise.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” The woman laughs. I glance over to her quickly before wanting to put my attention back on Walker as soon as I can, but I double take.
The woman is tall, close to six feet, I’d say. Her hair hangs in a glossy, dark curtain down to the middle of her back, pin straight and shiny. A black dress clings to her curves and stomach, showing off her long legs and ample cleavage.
She’s hot.
Objectively speaking.
But that’s not what catches my attention. It’s her eyes, the same shade that I’ve come to look forward to seeing everyday.
My face must show the pieces falling into place because she smiles, extending her hand to me.
