Page 3

“There he is, Mr. Intensity himself,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “What was that about tonight? You were in a whole different world up there.”

I shrug, taking another sip of whiskey. “Just feeling the music.”

“Bollocks,” says our bassist, leaning in so others can’t hear. “You were staring at that redhead all night. The one in the orange top who I think I’ve seen at some of our shows. Hard not to notice her. She’s smoking hot.”

My jaw tightens. I’m not as subtle as I thought. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” He smirks. “Just remember we have that interview for that rock magazine tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah, yeah, Mom,” I mutter, which makes them laugh.

I pretend to join their conversation about tomorrow’s schedule, but my attention keeps drifting across the room. Vivian has moved closer to the bar now, standing alone for a moment as her friend has disappeared somewhere. The lights catch her curls cascading to her shoulders, highlighting those subtle red hues I’ve only been able to admire from a distance until now. She tucks a strand behind her ear, revealing the graceful line of her neck.

My mouth dries.

A memory flashes—her in high school, hair pulled back in a ponytail as she helped me gather my scattered books after those fucking bullies knocked me down. “You okay, Andy?” she’d asked, her American accent standing out among our Welsh classmates. I’d been too stunned to form coherent words, just nodding like an idiot.

She probably doesn’t even remember.

“Earth to Andrew,” Rob says, waving a hand in front of my face. “You with us?”

“Yeah, sorry.” I drain my whiskey. “Bit tired after the show.”

Our manager joins the circle, launching into talk about the plans for a European tour next year. I make appropriate noises at appropriate times while monitoring her in my peripheral vision. She checks her phone now, frowning slightly. Then she leans in to say something to her friend who’s returned, gesturing toward the exit.

My pulse quickens. She’s leaving.

It’s now or never.

“Speaking of tired,” I interrupt whatever our manager is saying, “I think I need some air. Head’s pounding a bit.”

Rob gives me a knowing look. “Air. Right.”

“It’s the stage lights,” I insist, already backing away. “I’ll see you lot tomorrow.”

I weave through the crowd with more urgency now, careful to maintain enough distance from Vivian that she won’t notice me. She’s gathering her small purse, finishing her drink. My hands are clammy, throat drier than the desert.

This is it.

The exit door is on the opposite side from where she’s standing. I’ll need to circle around, get to my car before she leaves. My heart hammers so hard, I’m surprised no one can hear it over the music.

I push through the exit door into the cool October air, gulping it down like I’ve been underwater. The parking lot is dark, lit only by scattered security lights that create islands of yellow in the blackness. My black SUV sits in the far corner, away from the others—deliberate positioning from when I arrived hours early for soundcheck.

The chill helps clear my head as I stride toward it, keys already in hand. I need to be in position when she comes out. Everything has to be perfect.

Inside the car, I sit for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel. My reflection in the rearview mirror startles me—eyes too bright, face flushed beneath the dark hair falling across my forehead. I barely recognize myself.

Is this really happening? Am I really going through with this?

I think of the nights I’ve spent imagining her, reading those dark romance novels, highlighting passages that made my breath catch, writing my own twisted versions with her as the starring character in my lyrics. The way my chest aches when I spot her in the crowd at shows. How I’ve tracked her movements through social media, learning her routines, her likes, her world. How much I’ve wanted her since high school. How much I still want her.

Yes. I’m really doing this.

The glove compartment creaks open, revealing my worn notebook—black leather with dog-eared pages and multicolored sticky notes jutting from the edges. I pull it out with trembling fingers, the weight of it familiar in my hands.

“Dark Romancing Vivian,” I whisper, tracing the silver letters I carefully painted on the cover of my bucket list months ago.

The name is fucking ridiculous, and the whole idea of having a dark romance bucket list is a bit… odd. My bandmates called me weird because I read dark romance novels. God forbid a man who wants to be educated, broaden his horizons, have a good time and feel turned on by the spice in a story. That’s why I keep it with me at all times. The potential for scandals is too big.