Joel champions himself now as he synchronizes our arrival and immediate escort to the stage. I spend what minutes I have left touching up my half-assed makeup job, having spent three of the ten minutes I had to pack in the shower. Thankful my curls are in decent shape, I spruce them up with a bit of dry shampoo, and they bounce back due to the lifesaving miracle in a bottle.
Stilettos nervously tapping the floor of the SUV, I finish myself off with a spritz of perfume while glancing over at Joel, who grins as he composes a text. “Don’t be nervous. You look beautiful.”
“I don’t know why I am. He’s seen me at my absolute worst.”
“As you have him,” he adds, “don’t forget that.”
Nodding, I grip his hand and squeeze as he glances over at me. “Thanks, Joel, seriously, for everything. I don’t know what we would do without you. I hope Easton makes you feel appreciated because I know I do.”
“He does, and so do you, and you’re welcome, sweetheart.”
Unable to help myself, I pull out my compact again and run my fingers around the edges of my lips, catching a little excess of the deep rose matte lipstick I decided on. I barely packed, and in my excitement, I have no idea what’s in my suitcase, but I don’t care. Clothes have seemed optional during our previous times together, and I send a quick thanks to the cosmos that my period came and went last week. All I can imagine right now is the feel of his lips, the emotion inside his kisses, the weight of him, and the sound of his groans. The ecstasy that comes every time we connect, the pillow talks that can last for hours, the way he gazes down at me, and the way I can predict what he’ll say. All of it.
My stomach begins to flutter uncontrollably as Easton-induced butterflies dance around my insides while we race toward my supernova. After what seems like an eternity, we finally pull up into the garage of the auditorium, right next to an elevator.
“Ready?” Joel asks as I eye the five monstrous security guards who swarm the SUV.
Jesus, Crowne.
“Let’s do this,” I take Joel’s hand and step out, keeping my eye-roll inward as security engulfs us on all sides. In seconds, we’re out of the service elevator and being led by the guards down a series of halls. The noise level heightens the closer we get, in turn amplifying my need to get to Easton. If I knew which direction we were headed, I would already be running.
“How long have they been on?” Joel asks one of the mute guards.
“A little over an hour,” the guard answers before barking at a few girls loitering outside a dressing room door. “Get back!”
“Damnit to hell,” I grumble in disappointment. Easton’s sets normally run an hour and twenty minutes. When we take a hard right down another hall—this one abandoned—I curse that I missed the show as the click of my heels echoes with my hurried steps. When LL’s guitar rings out in introduction—the last song of one of two sets Easton rotates—the roar of the audience explodes.
“Hurry, please,” I beg, unable to help myself, speeding up, spirits dipping with the knowledge I’m close to missing the entirety of the concert. Joel grips my hand and squeezes. I manage to muster a smile when he grants me a reassuring wink.
Even a song away from his encore, I find myself thankful we made it in time to catch at least some of it as security stops and parts for us at the foot of the stairs. Joel leads me up by the hand, and in the next second, my anxiety-ridden reality morphs into something more on a fantasy level when Easton appears in my line of sight.
Already midway through “Brimstone,” one of my favorite songs, which just claimed number one on the Billboard charts, I inhale my first full breath since we landed. Soaking him in, Easton reigns hell on the mic, wringing out chords while wailing on his guitar, T-shirt predictably soaked and clinging to his chest, his hair dripping sweat. Closer to him but unable to find my chill, I feel the innate need to fly to him. Immersed in seconds, the rest of the world blurs as I zero in on Easton and see the slight change in his posture the minute he senses me standing there. I don’t miss the faint smile that upturns his lips just before he flits his gaze to mine. My entire body heats as he sweeps me in one long drink, his eyes lingering on his jacket. Even from where I stand, I don’t miss the satisfaction in his expression as I beam at him.
Keeping out of view of the first row, I find myself inching toward him when he breaks eye contact, bowing his head while ripping through his guitar solo. Tack pounds the drums into submission as LL and Syd rock alongside Easton, the song roaring through the packed auditorium. His audience has grown staggeringly in size in the two months since Dallas, which isn’t surprising. Being present to witness it brings the truth of it next level. The second the song ends, the lights go out, and the auditorium filled with thousands upon thousands of fans scream out their praises. Refusing to remain disheartened, I missed the show—save Easton’s encore—I clap enthusiastically along with them as the lights come back up.