Page 28 of These Wicked Hearts

I just stare. He’s magnetic.

He takes his time, strolling to each member on his way up the stage. A camera on the giant screen focuses on each member. His hand moves with what he’s feeling. It’s like the lyrics are coming straight from his soul.

The drums start slowly, and he strolls up to the front of the stage, nearly to the edge. Fans reach their hands toward him despite the barricade between them. He starts to sing again. The white and black skull paint casts shadows and hugs the sharp lines of his face. His hair is jet black, wet, and slicked back with what looks like gel underneath the hood on his head.

He’s singing louder now. He sounds incredible, Knox is right, it’s unreal. He moves to the music, not afraid to feel it. Lazy sways like the lyrics consume him and he’s helpless to do anything but move to it like he’s possessed by the melody.

I look over at Knox singing every lyric like its gospel. It’s nice to see him like this and not screaming at me at practice. My gaze fixes back on Death. He’s walking along the stage, swaying with the music and feeling everything he’s singing like he can heal the audience with his voice alone.

He turns sharply, swaying, his cloak swishing with the movement of his hips and revealing very cut abs. He walks around, the cloak moving, letting little slivers of pale skin show. He moves again and I catch it. There’s something on his hip. A tattoo. He moves again and I catch it clearer underneath the streaking paint. An albino snake.

No. No.

No fucking way.

He moves again, the robe flaring with the movement, and I see it again . . . the snake slithers over the curve of his hip. Black and red roses entwined with the animal as if it’s slithering through a rose bush.

He’s walking along the edge of the stage, singing at each one of us in the crowd as he passes us. He’s coming close to our section. So close. He’s so close. My heart thuds against my chest. I look at his arms. He’s wearing a cloak, but I can imagine the tattoos that lie beneath. The sunflower on his hand beneath those gloves. Maybe it’s a coincidence. I mean, Gage isn’t the first person to have a snake tattoo.

My eyes trail down to the tattoo on his stomach and it’s unmistakable, even behind the streaks of paint. It was one night, but I remember it intimately. The way my mouth traced over the tail. How he tasted on my tongue. Those abs. The way I haven’t felt that good since. The obsessive way my brain has fixated on it and won’t let go.

No fucking way.

“You okay?” Knox yells over the music. I nod but can’t pull my gaze away from him. His voice is insane. Haunting and sad, but so fucking beautiful. A voice forged in the fires of pain and trauma. He’s singing, and if I had any doubt it was him. If I thought maybe it was a coincidence, I’m proved wrong in the next moment.

He comes to our section, eyes briefly glancing over all of us in the VIP section. Then they linger on me. Just for a second, but I see the recognition in his eyes. Those same dark eyes that rolled at my bad jokes and hooded when my lips were around his cock.

After another second his eyes release me as he moves on to the next section. “Dude!” Knox shakes my shoulders. “You got eye fucked, bro! Lucky.” He shakes his head, singing along to the lyrics while I just watch him.

Holy fucking shit.

Gage is Death.

For a moment I forget how to breathe.

The screams around me become warbled as if I’ve been plunged underwater. All my attention solely focuses on him. The music pours out of him. He’s singing to the crowd but it’s like I’m imagining him singing just for me. He seems to have ramped up the energy since he came over here. Or maybe I’m imagining that.

I watch the way his body moves. He’s not dancing but he has these rhythmic movements that looks so smooth. Every haunting note cracks me open. When Gage comes to our section, he doesn’t react or look at me that long again.

If anything, it looks like he’s trying his best to avoid me altogether. Sometimes he slips, and each time his eyes meet mine it feels like it costs him something. Like he’s barely holding himself together. I want to know what he’s thinking. If I were in his shoes, I’d be afraid I’d be found out. There’s this restlessness under my skin, and I don’t know what to do to stop the buzz. Every nerve in my body lights up as if it’s plugged straight into the amps.

“No fucking way . . .” I can’t even hear myself think over the screams of the crowd. The music is so loud. Knox is still scream-singing beside me, completely oblivious that I’m spiraling. Singing, jumping, and living his best life while mine is currently imploding.

On stage, Gage—I mean Death—tilts his head back and lets a note rip through the arena. Raw and aching. The kind of sound that doesn’t just fill my ears, it digs into my soul. The crowd screams louder, feeding him their energy. He soaks it in like he needs it to survive.

I get it now. I do. Gage is magnetic. He demands your attention and steals your heart. This man in front of me is cool, wicked, and dangerous.

I can’t help it, though. I prefer the real him I had the other night. A little moody, a lot of fun to irritate. I know he tried more than once not to laugh at me. I like that messy, cynical version of him. This man in front of me is a god to these people. Every sway of his hips and sharp breath between lyrics tells a story. It’s like he’s bleeding himself out in front of thousands of people.

It was just one night, but I can’t let him go just yet. That night he made me feel things I’ve never even thought possible. I don’t know what to call it. I don’t believe in love at first sight. Still, I can’t let go of the chemistry between us. It was one night, but I want more. I’ve never felt this hungry in my life.

The next song shifts the tone. The drums kick softly, the guitars come to life. The entire place quiets. Lights flash like lightening, strobing over the crowd. I don’t know what’s happening. Gage walks up to the microphone. I’m not sure how the paint hasn’t sweated clean off his stomach.

He grabs the mic and looks over the crowd, and I want to know what he’s seeing. Or what he’s even thinking right now. If seeing me shocked him, he doesn’t let it show. The music fades softer now. He’s so close. I should look away, but I can’t.

Music starts up again and he begins to sing. The soft, aching lyrics do something to my chest. I can’t look away. I just watch him.

And I know I should let you fade