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He seems upset that I’m leaving him, but the lines in the sand have been clear from the beginning.
This had to be a secret, that was the only way it would work.
He’s always seemed to understand that, so why does he look like he wants to tell me to stay?
And why did I feel bad about that?
Somewhere between our little talks and his face between my thighs, things were beginning to get a bit more complicated than I’d signed up for.
“I’ll be at your room after the show,” he says as I open the door. “I’ll make sure no one is around.”
I don’t respond, and when I shut the door behind me, my heart sinks a little at the thought that I’ve hurt him.
Jesus, pull yourself together, Juliet.
This is the Ryan Knox we’re talking about. World-renowned rock star and ultimate sex symbol.
There is nothing that I could possibly do that would have any lasting impact on a man like that.
Whatever vibe I think I’m picking up on from him is clearly in my head.
???
I’m not sure that regularly attending rock concerts with my choice of either floor seats or side-stage access will ever feel normal.
I’m also pretty sure that my awe over the boys in their natural element will never be any less than just that. No matter how many times I’ve seen them perform now, every single time I’m completely taken by them. It’s incredible to watch them go from a group of normal guys to complete superstars on that stage.
They sure as hell know how to put on a show.
Ryan in particular is really laying it on thick tonight. His vocals are off the chart, and he takes every opportunity that presents itself to make this show one that the crowd will never forget.
My personal favorite is pulling a little boy dressed almost identically to him onto the stage to sing a song with the band. He can’t be more than eight or nine years old, but he knows every single word.
When Ryan puts the mic to the boy’s mouth he screams the lyrics into it, and the fans go absolutely wild.
Gareth gives the boy one of his guitar picks, and I swear even Neil cracks a smile at the interaction.
When they finish the final song, Ryan hands his guitar down from the stage and into the boy’s hands. He screams and hoists it above his head while every single person in the arena cheers.
This glimpse into a softer version of the band is refreshing, and by the reaction from the crowd, it’s a version of them they wouldn’t mind seeing more of.
When the boys come off the stage each of them hoots and hollers, all four clearly buzzing from the adrenaline of a great show.
Gareth wraps me in a sweaty embrace and Ant sticks out his fist looking for a bump of solidarity.
“God, Gareth, you’re soaking wet!” I wriggle free from his embrace and throw my hands up in jest.
“Oh I’ll show you wet—” he begins, but is quickly cut off by a swift punch to the shoulder.
“Knock it off, asshole,” Ryan growls at his friend and bandmate. “Keep the pervy shit to yourself, would you?”
“Such a buzzkill,” Gareth remarks with a smirk.
“You guys were great,” I yell over the noise coming from the still-cheering fans. “I think this was my favorite show so far.”
“The energy here was fucking intense,” Ant agrees before shaking the sweat from his hair like a wild dog.
I take several steps back, dodging the spray.
