And, oh God, the way his button-down shirt is wide open, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, giving me a clear view of the tattoos on his forearms and his smooth pecs.
I want to push his guitar away so my eyes can travel down from his chest, across those abs and into the dangerous zone below his navel. Watching him like this—sweaty, singing, totally immersed in the music—is pressing all kinds of buttons in me, some that have never been pressed before.
I’m frozen in place while every living being around me moves to the pulse of the music. Maybe that’s what catches Tyler’s eye. As his gaze travels from the back of the crowd to the front of the stage, he sees me.
And he stares.
My face heats with the same mixture of want and shame I felt two nights ago when he played me. He played me. That fact reminds me that I’m angry and hurt, but it doesn’t stop the chemical reaction in my body to his presence.
For long seconds that feel like years, Tyler and I plunge into a staring contest, his expression betraying nothing—not pleasure, not disgust or anger or whatever he feels for me—as his eyes bore into mine. I barely hear the screams as the lead singer, Felix Crow, dives into the audience to crowd-surf, which makes the mosh pit of people at the front even more alive.
The song changes and Tyler has to look away as The Ruins regroups and Felix crowd-surfs back to the stage. He’s deposited over the fence only a few feet from me, in the gap for media and security. Felix brushes past me to run to stage right, up a set of stairs and rejoins the band onstage.
It’s after dark and I’m blind from the night if I look anywhere but the stage, although I can see the lighted outline of the Brooklyn Bridge behind it.
Whatever hope I had of the night cooling down seems foolish now—the lights and the crowd have only made the atmosphere thicker, more heated, and I wipe sweat from my neck.
A strong, stark guitar solo kicks off the next song and Tyler plays at the front of the stage, walking so close to the edge that the journalists and photographers could reach out and touch his shoes.
“Let’s give it up for Tyler Walsh from Tattoo Thief, joining us tonight on bass!” Felix whips the crowd into a frenzy as Tyler teases sounds from his instrument that sound like they’ve never been played before.
Tyler’s a good showman, connecting with the audience at every level from the front row to those in the far back, and he works his way across the stage from left to right.
I’m mesmerized by his fingers, by the way his whole body engages in this dance with his instrument. His hips buck, his back arches, and his arms flex with effort as he plays.
It’s one of the most erotic displays I’ve ever seen and my knees nearly buckle when he stops in front of me, still playing, taking the melody to a perfect high.
I hear a boosh and silver sparks jet from twin canisters on each side of the stage, the first in what I imagine will be a massive display of pyrotechnics. It won’t be long now. When this band is done playing, people will stay in the park and party beneath fireworks lit from the waiting barges in the East River.
Tyler throws his head back and plays the final notes of his solo and I want to reach out and touch him. No, I need to touch him. My neck hurts from craning to look up at him so long and I’m exhausted from the sweaty night, but I can’t look away.
When the band transitions to a ballad, Tyler remains where he is, his body looser than when he played the intense solo. His posture shifts and his eyes seek me again as he steps toward a microphone to add his voice to the chorus.
Felix Crow belts out a line and Tyler and the rest of The Ruins lean into the chorus. Tyler’s eyes never leave me.
Threads become a rope
And lies become a story
Innocence lost
I came to tell you sorry
Too late.
The rope, the knot, the noose, the loss
Bound up tight, I come undone
Truth is the cure but a bitter medicine
What’s broken can mend
Love that’s lost can be found again.
I squirm under Tyler’s direct gaze as he sings about second chances. He could be singing to me, or maybe it’s all in my stupidly hopeful brain.
Emphasis on stupid. I filed a bland little story about Tattoo Thief’s practice space yesterday but Heath hasn’t published it. I didn’t write anything bad about Gavin, Beryl, Tyler or anyone from Tattoo Thief.
I also didn’t write a story that mattered. And for that, I hate myself a little. I let him get under my skin and he got exactly what he wanted.
I hate that my body is betraying me, stirring with yearning for a guy I met barely forty-eight hours ago. Tyler’s brown eyes narrow with intensity as he looks at me. My skin blisters with need and I want to believe that I’m not the only one affected by this chemistry.
I drag my eyes away from him and will myself to look at something else. I’ve never believed in love at first sight, only lust. You can’t possibly take one look at a person and know you love them.
Can you want to bang the hell out of them? Sure. But fall for them? No way.
I lock eyes with Tyler again as he performs. Somehow in this chaos we’ve created a quiet little connection held together only with our eyes.
The rest of the crowd falls away behind me, the lights blur behind Tyler, and I find myself cataloging the little tiny things about him that I want to believe only I notice.
He’s missing the third button on his shirt. His fingernails are short and square. His shoes are new and his hair has some kind of product in it but it still flops around. His shirt flaps open to reveal two small, shining silver studs on either side of his nipples.
My brain spins—he’s pierced. That visual sends a bolt straight to my core. Add that to the tattoos and the rock band and the attitude and put a fork in me. I’m done. If I were here as just a fangirl, I’d be throwing my panties at Tyler right now.
That’s the last thought in my head when a blinding flash of pain explodes behind my eyes.
NINE
I can’t breathe. I can’t see. But I can feel myself falling.
My chin connects with the ground. A blow to my back knocks the air from my lungs before I understand what’s happening.
Which way is up?
My palms and knees are on fire as they’re ground into sharp gravel and asphalt. I crumple beneath an oppressive weight covering my body. I scream but it’s nothing, no more than a toothpick tossed on a bonfire compared to the crowd and a driving rock song.
Pain sears my back as I’m suffocated by the weight of a scratchy plastic orange fence, crushed by people walking on it with me underneath.
I struggle to break out of it, to push the fence back up, but the weight of the crowd is heavier, like someone’s standing on me.
I hunch over to protect myself, pushing back with all my might, hoping desperately someone will see me. It’s dark under the fence and I could be the sad statistic the other journalists write about in tomorrow’s stories.
The other journalists. The photographers. Where are they? I struggle to remember as another foot is planted on my back and it steals my breath again. I draw a lungful of air and shriek for help, begging someone to notice that I’m stuck here.
Nature abhors a vacuum.
That’s what I think as I realize that a half-dozen journalists and security guards spread across the front of the stage are no match for thousands of screaming, shoving fans who want to close the gap between general admission and the stage.