Page 5 of The Omega Verse

I finally nod and grab hold, letting him take more of my weight than I want to admit. My head is still spinning in a sick circle and I sag against him for a moment, breathing through the dizziness. He’s as wet as I am, but while he’s pumping out body heat like a furnace, I’m starting to lose feeling in my toes. “Sorry.” I mutter as I lean against him. “I just got mugged… and had my VIP pass stolen.”

He pulls back to study me with a frown. “Seriously?”

“Well, I didn’t punch myself in the face.”

His green eyes lock on my lip, which feels like it’s already swelling to Jagger proportions. “Jesus. Did you get a look at them?”

“Rockstar barbie.”

He smirks. “Helpful.”

I shrug and run a shaky hand over my face, only to realise my palm is full of gravel. I stare at the nasty little stones, but can’t summon the energy to pick them out. “Problem is, I need that pass back, or everything’s screwed.”

He tilts his head, watching me closely. “What about I call you a cab and you go get checked out at the hospital?”

I pull a face and rub my stinging palm across my wet thigh. “It’s not that bad. And thanks, but I really need to get inside and talk to the band.”

Something that looks like disappointment flashes in those electric eyes. “Well, I can get you in, but I think a chat with Mike – he’s Head of Security – needs to happen first.”

I’m wondering if this guy – or Mike, for that matter – organised my pass with Tom’s friend, but before I can ask, he takes a plastic key card from his pocket and swipes it over a scanner. The door pops open and the strangest sound rolls out to greet me. I mean, I expected to hear roadies scurrying about and instruments getting tuned up, but the real music is the sound of thousands of people waiting. Like expectation has its own chord, and the whole arena is vibrating with it.

“Jesus. That sounds like a lot of people.”

“Sold out. But I guess you know that, being a lucky VIP holder.”

I don’t feel so lucky now. Although, as we enter the dimly lit hallway, I can feel some of the excitement bleeding back into my skin. I’m really here. Walking down a corridor where my brother maybe once passed through, his boot steps right here in front of mine…

The tragedy of that suddenly overwhelms me, and I sag against the black concrete wall, blinking away tears. “Fuck. I’m not sure I can do this.”

“It’s not far,” my saviour tells me, jerking his head to the left. “That way is the stage, but I’ll take you to the green room. That’s the band’s private area. They usually have a meet and greet after the show, but I’m guessing they won’t be in the mood tonight. They’ll probably go straight there to cool off.”

That sounds about perfect. While they come back down to earth, I can ask my questions about Steven. And when my curiosity is satisfied, I’ll go find Tom’s hotel and pass the hell out.

“You okay if I…?” He’s making a shovelling motion with his hands, and when I just stare at him stupidly, steps forward and picks me up, bridal style. I feel a strange whooshing sensation in my belly as he juggles me into the right position. He’s not a huge guy, maybe six feet and lean, but I can feel the slabs of muscle on his torso, and his arms are like steel bands around me. Definitely a roadie who spends his days lugging heavy equipment around.

“Is this okay?” he asks as he takes a cautious step forward. “I just really don’t want you passing out back here.”

No, that wouldn’t be good. I could wake up in a few hours when everyone’s gone, just me alone with the phantom of the rock concert…

“This is good,” I say a little shakily. I’m not sure if my head is spinning because of the mugging outside, or because of the way I’m being so gently cradled in his arms. It strikes me that I’ve just had both the worst and the best treatment at the hands of a stranger. Go to the big city. Check. Get mugged. Check. Get carried into a rock arena by a gorgeous roadie…

“You work here?” I’d slap my head at my own stupidity if it wasn’t nestled against his chest. “I mean, obviously, since you have a magic key card and everything.”

“Yeah, but I just started. And to be honest, I’m feeling a little nervous.”

Well, crap. Here he is trying to make a good impression on his first day, and instead of sucking up the rockstars, he’s lugging my bruised arse around. “I can look after myself if there’s somewhere you need to be.”

“Nah. I’ve got a few minutes.” But instead of picking up speed, he continues his languid walk along one corridor after the other. There’s nothing fancy around our surroundings - all concrete floors and black-painted walls – but I know I’m getting a rare glimpse into the whole machine behind the magic thing. In some ways, it reminds me of the bakery. People see the pretty cakes and pastries, but they don’t know the behind-the-scenes effort that goes into producing them.

Something brushes my hair and I realise he just sniffed me. “How come you smell so sweet?”

“I’m a pastry chef,” I mumble, wondering if he’s just being polite and can still smell the diesel fuel clinging to my clothes. “My Italian boss always tells me I was born with sugar in my veins.”

It’s not true; or at least, that’s not the whole story. Cookie only knows the bits of my past that I shared with her. But there are stale, sour things in my blood; the sort that gets you bumped from foster home to foster home until you barely remember where you came from in the first place.

But my saviour just chuckles, swooping down for another sniff. Only this time, his nose brushes my temple and a low, happy hum goes off under my skin. Jesus, what’s wrong with me? Am I touch-starved? Dusty tells me that’s a real thing. There are even these therapy places you can go to, where they have touch temples, and all these strangers pat and stroke you like a damn cat.

“Touch temples?”

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