Page 43 of Knot Just A Fan

One thing’s for sure. No—two.

One: Ronan is shooting daggers at me, even though it’s clear my delayed entrance only titillated the audience more than an immediate appearance would have. He’s starting to put his own feelings ahead of the band. But we areallkilling us.

Which brings me to the second thing: All four of us are guilty of something. Me giving Willow too much power, afraid of becoming my dad by breaking my promise to her. Ronan’s getting us into this mess with Briella instead of just admitting his loneliness. Enzo not stopping Ronan but instead going along with him, the peacemaker as always. And Willow—I can’t say for sure, but she never likes to admit when she’s wrong. And she was wrong to accept my offer all those years ago. Because I don’t believe she ever had an intention of taking it up.

We all fear hurting someone else, and so instead, we hurt ourselves. But I won’t let my past family hurts hurt the family I have now. Even if it means we’ve lost a chance with our scent-match, I won’t throw away our future just so I can prove I’m not my dad anymore.

CHAPTER 20

Briella

“You usedto work for these people—why the hell couldn’t Ash have put us front and center? Then there’s no way the band could miss you, and they’d stop the show to grovel and admit their fuck-up, and you could just tell them to go get bent and twirl on it.”

“Exactly,” I say patiently. “They’d clock us immediately front and center, and if at all possible, I would rather get my chance to say goodbye without them even knowing.”

“Dammit, look at that bastard, just smiling and grinning and waving.” She’s curling her lip in disgust at Enzo. ”None of them should be happy about this.” I appreciate her staying sober to be an extra pair of eyes and ears here, but a drink might’ve taken down her vitriol a notch.

Grayson’s just appeared on stage after a delayed entrance, and Cami looks like she wants to tear him a new one.

“Look,” I yell over the crowd. “I love your enraged defensiveness, but let’s just try to enjoy the show.” We’re in the third row, as Ash promised, but at the far end, so we’re having to look to our left to see the stage. That also means we have zero view of Willow, as the band emerged from stage left, which means that’s where she’s standing, too.

“We’re not here to fucking enjoy this. We’re here so you can get over him. All of them. So why the hell would I be complimentary of him right now?” She shakes her head, looking back at the stage. “’Men's vows are women's traitors.’”

I wait for her explanation, unblinking.

She taps her temple. “Cymbeline. Act 3, Scene 3. Or is it 4?”

I shake my head at her ability to memorize Shakespeare but forget to turn the lights off before leaving the flat.

She’s to my left, with me on the end seat. “Good point,” I yell back, just to put a line under it.

I may not be able to see Willow, but as Arcadia Echo dive into the opening notes of their first stateside smash success,Wasteland, her presence is felt like a sonic boom. All three guys have shot looks toward stage left, and they never do that for Ash. Unless Ash is standing over there doing cartwheels and backflips or simulating sex with a mic stand, there’s no reason for them to spare him a single glance.

In fact, that’s why Echo is so beloved. From throbbing, thrumming, darkly insistent distortions to intimate gut-wrenchers to energized anthems, they put all of who they are into their performances. To the point where Grayson’s been known as something of a perfectionist, and if he feels the vibe is somehow off, he has—at least, from what I’ve seen online—stopped more than one gig to restart the tune in question. Or draw a halt to it and do a different one altogether.

Some people call this diva behavior, but I know that’s the furthest inclination from Grayson Cove. It’s the refusal to feel like he’s letting paying fans down with anything less than their best.

“They’re looking over at her, do you see that?” says Cami. I nod but she’s just staring at the stage, snapping photos on her phone. And me, the photographer—thisband’sformer photographer—is just standing and watching. I try to move tothe music because it’s music I love with all my heart. But the pain is too deep, and I wonder when I’ll ever be able to listen to them the same way again.

I love this band. I love that man. And I know I’m meant for this pack. But all I’ve been able to hear in my head since the other day was Ronan’s heated words.

Just a damn fan.

I didn’t expect to mean anything to him, and not to Enzo, either. But Grayson, I guess I foolishly did, deep down.

My heart quivers as the song thrums on, Grayson’s falsetto reaching up and then disappearing into the wail of his guitar and the dizzying pedal effects, growing in volume above all but Enzo’s drums. Ronan’s hypnotic bass line, simple but unmistakeable, carries on unchanging throughout, like the solid support I know Ronan has been for them. So maybe if he really thinks I’m not valuable enough to keep, the others just trust his instincts.

I watch him, eyes often closing as he feels the music, but at least ten times he’s shot a glance toward where Willow must be watching. What is he thinking?She’s in our pack now?When do I get to fuck her?

I frown as the song draws to its usual screeching stop. If he is thinking those things, he definitely doesn’t seem happy about it.

Cami nudges me. “What’s wrong with Grayson?” She turns her glittery lavender-painted eyes my way, and I marvel briefly at the bedazzled stick-on jewels she managed to frame her brows with. She looks more like a rock star photographer than I ever did. I never wanted to stand out. Except for New Year’s, when I thought it was a new beginning.

Huh. Well. I wasn’t wrong.

Grayson stomps on pedals, irritably back and forth as though he can’t choose. Ronan and Enzo wait silently for Grayson to be ready for the next number. Usually this is where Grayson walksup to the mic and introduces the band, or says an awkward hello, or any kind of acknowledgement to the crowd.

The fans don’t seem hugely concerned. Everyone’s screaming different song titles, or I love yous, or “Give it to us, Enzo!” or other demands. Two girls in the second row keep holding up a big hand-painted sign. I can’t read what it says but twice a security guard has asked them to put it down. Next time it’ll be taken away.

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