Page 44 of Knot Just A Fan

“Don’t start!”

My eyes flick back to the stage. Grayson’s facing the wings, several feet away from his mic, but his voice easily carries—at least, to my ears. His eyes are narrowed and his face is red. I’ve seen him angry only once, and it was a sight to behold. He is one of the most mild-mannered, considerate people I’ve ever known.

“What is she saying?” whispers Cami behind her hand.

“I have no idea.” I stare at him as he turns back to his pedals, stomping on them a few more times. He runs a hand through his hair. He’s frazzled. Unfocused.

Enzo’s saying something behind a hand to Ronan, who’s stepped right in next to Enzo’s drum set. Ronan throws a hand in the air alongside his response, brows narrowed. Enzo gives him a look that borders on exasperation. Shaking his head, he returns his gaze intently to his setup, fiddling with his snare drum, ignoring whatever Ronan is continuing to say under his breath.

“This is not good,” I say. The tension and discord between them wasn’t obvious during the first tune because they came out to such applause. But right now there’s an air of uncertainty. Everyone feels something. The vibe is suddenly off.

“That’s him,” hisses Cami, pointing, but I see Vance, the new photographer, the same moment she says it. On stage right is a tall, thin thirty-something with a patchy beard and a black skullcap. He’s dressed all in black but he’s not exactly camouflaged. Definitely standing further out on the stage than I ever used to.

Okay, apart from the last gig.

But his camera’s around his shoulder, resting against his back. He’s holding a video camera. A really expensive one, from what I can tell, holding it low and training it right on Ronan. About four feet away, to be precise.

Ronan turns to him and waves a hand like he’s shooing a fly. The crowd simmers down just at the right time—or wrong—enabling everyone in the front of the venue at least to hear Ronan snap, “Get the fuck away from me with that.”

But Vance, being a professional from the Artists’ Guild, isbeingprofessional, and continues to film. Which makes me wonder.

“Seems like Nicola sent them a double-agent,” I whisper to Cami, smelling her expensive perfume dabbed behind her ear.

She turns to me. “What do you mean?”

I jerk my thumb in Vance’s direction, feeling neither smug nor jealous, but concerned. “Seems like he’s more likely trying to turn this into some exposé documentary rather than grab promotional stills.”

Cami watches him for a few minutes as Ronan turns to the camera and gives it two fingers. “Bet you’re right,” she says.

Meanwhile, the crowd is definitely antsy and someone’s yelled, “Get the fuck on with it, Cove!” to a chorus of cheers. Grayson ignores this and storms over to the side of the stage.

“Jesus,” I whisper.

“Well, if you wanted to get over them—” Cami starts.

Grayson’s standing at the far end of the stage now, clearly having a heated discussion with someone that can’t be seen from here. But—I realize—she will be visible from the other end of the crowd.

Cami stomps her foot and her dangly earrings dance around her shoulders. “Oooh, I wish we could see what’s going on! Where’s my popcorn?”

Grayson strides hurriedly back to center stage, strumming the chords for their best-selling album’s opening song. An immediate rush of relief, exhilaration, and gratitude boils up from the crowd and everyone’s shouting the lyrics happily.

Grayson’s not smiling. His face looks like thunder and his grip on the neck of the guitar looks like its trying to throttle a chicken. He storms through the lyrics and since this is one of their angrier numbers, it suits. But I get the feeling from Ronan and Enzo’s exchanged looks and neutral expressions that this was not next on the setlist.

I see a stagehand changing out a few of Grayson’s guitars on the very edge of the stage, switching them around since Grayson doesn’t usually play this song with this guitar, and now he’s messed with their setup.

I can just about hear Ash’s disapproval, but it’s Willow I’m more concerned with, and whatever she’s done or said to upset him like this. All my instincts, honed through years of wishing, of wanting to be someone he confided in, of yearning to tell him I will listen to anything he wants to offload—they fight against the reality that I’m here tostop caring. To see them delighted to have their Omega. To see them floating on love hearts and Cupid’s ass, and being the three-headed love-beast you see in dramas about packs romancing their perfect Omegas.

But none of that is happening.

The show wears on. I’ve gone to the bar twice, once with a gin & tonic for me and an energy drink for Cami, and the second time with two gins.

“Just drink it,” I say wearily. “Might as well not be entirely sober for this.”

“It’s a double,” Cami says, goggling but taking it gratefully and downing a big slurp. “Thank you, you sure?”

I nod as a more somber tune starts. This one picks up urgency as it unfurls, but it starts so quiet you can almost hear a pin drop.

Clearly Willow hasn’t left the side stage as Grayson continues to shoot looks over there and sometimes mouths things. Were they mid-fight before the gig even started? That’s all I can think. But it doesn’t make me let go like I’m waving a ship out of the harbor.

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