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My friends scored front-row tickets to the first-ever concert at Revolutionary Field, and although it’s not my normal scene, I got swept up in their excitement, and I am so damn glad I did.
The roar of the crowd surges as the first chords of the opening act reverberates through the stadium. The music is like a tidal wave, crashing over everyone with an irresistible force. Lights flash in time with the beat, throwing the audience into a frenzy of movement, until they stop and shine down on the lead singer, standing like a god on the stage, commanding the attention of thousands with every note that escapes his lips.
“Hello, New Jersey!” He holds the mic out for the crowd’s roar then pulls it back in. “I’m Memphis Black, lead singer and guitarist extraordinaire for Steel Total Destruction! Are you ready to get rocked so hard you’ll still feel it tomorrow?”
Oh. My. God.
I watch as Fawna pumps her arms in the air, screaming, and past her to Dromida, who’s bouncing up and down, yelling something. I’m not a lip reader, but I’m pretty sure she just screamed, “Rock me,” which is much tamer than most of what the crowd is screaming and shouting as the lead singer holds the mic out for them.
He adjusts himself with a sexy smirk. “I like the way you think, but safety first.”
Memphis Black nods to the left of the stage, where one of the guitarists stands behind something that resembles a cannon with the letters STD on the side of it and starts shooting out shiny items. And one of those things flies at my freaking face. Luckily, I catch it before it hits me. I can’t help but laugh when I see it’s a condom. The label has the band’s logo on one side and Papa Stopper on the other. I look around as everyone is scrambling, screaming and grabbing the condoms like they’re pieces of candy at a parade.
A crack and pop of the drums begins, joined by the guitars, and then it all comes together.
“Come on, CeCe! Let’s fucking rock!”
If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, I think as I toss back the rest of the fruity drink in the red plastic cup and do just that. I surrender myself to the rhythm, letting it carry me away.
When the song changes to something a bit heavier, so does the atmosphere of the crowd. A ripple of excitement surges, growing into that tidal wave of energy that spikes my anxiety, and I fight it back like the warrior I’m becoming.
Bodies press in on all sides, jostling and pushing with an almost-primal urgency. I try to maintain my balance, but the ground seems to sway beneath me as the crowd surges forward like a stampede of wild animals. My nemesis—panic—claws at my throat, choking off my screams as I’m swept along by the frenzied mob as they rush the stage.
The air in my lungs begins to thicken with fear and desperation as I cling to my dwindling sense of control, fighting against the tide of bodies that threatens to trample me. That’s when an arm wraps around me and pulls me back against something hard and large.
I look down at the muscular, tattooed forearm across my midriff then up over my shoulder into soft brown eyes.
He dips his head, and his deep, smooth voice assures me, “You’re okay, Red. We’re gonna chill right here. Eventually, they’ll calm down. You’re good. Safe and on your little feet. I won’t let you fall.”
I am untrusting when it comes to people in general—men in particular—so my brain fires off red flags. He’s unreliable, untrustworthy, controlling. He’s manipulative and most likely being condescending. He’s a tough guy, overcompensating, no doubt disrespectful toward others. He’ll fail to take responsibility. He lacks self-awareness. He won’t listen to me, and he won’t respect my boundaries—hell, he doesn’t set his own boundaries.
I realize I’m spiraling. I mean, hello, I’m not in a relationship with Mr. Warm Chestnut Eyes and Bulging, Tatted-Up, Tanned Arms. He’s being nice, right? I’m sure there are still people in the wild who aren’t as batshit crazy and terrifying as they appear online or in the documentaries I devour every night.
I look around and spot Fawna with her own human shield, grinning as she gives me a wink.
His hot breath hits my ear before that smooth voice asks, “She with you?”
“Yes,” I answer, even though it’s unlikely he hears me over the crowd.
Okay, maybe he did because he’s maneuvering us through the crowd, getting us closer to them.
When we’re right beside them, I expect him to let go, but he doesn’t; he holds me in the same protective manner he did when he basically saved me from being trampled, and I actually don’t hate it.
When Fawna wags her brows, I can’t help but giggle. Since we’ve become friends, she’s been hell-bent on dragging me out of my “COVID coma,” as she calls it. Tonight, I promised the girls that I’d let my hair down and have fun, and I promised myself to fake it, even if I was having a miserable time.
TBH, I’m not hating this right now.
If I were a heroine in one of my naughty little books—with the chest of a hot man on the cover and a blurb that most likely promised what was between the sheets would melt my panties—the meet-cute could start like this.
Right now, I’m fulfilling my promise to my girls and, hell yes, I’m gonna pretend to be the heroine in that scene, if only for a few minutes.
When the song ends, another begins, and we’re swaying.
Fawna and I aren’t alone in our hot-man bubbles; Francesca and Dromida are also enveloped in the arms of some seriously hot men.
I swear I can hear my sister, Chloe’s, voice, telling me, “If it feels good, let yourself lean into it, CeCe. When it doesn’t feel good anymore, walk away.”
I lean in.
