Page 42 of Wild Obsession

Keannen

OUR FINAL TOUR STOP is Chicago. At last, we’re pointed west, pointed toward home.

Exhausted as we all are, everyone buzzes with excitement and anticipation as we roll up to our final venue. The end of this grueling adventure lifts everyone’s flagging spirits.

I catch Tim watching me while we’re helping unload the buses and vans. I look away quickly, not wanting to promise anything even accidentally. Not that he needs my promises, apparently. Part of me is still reeling from his aggression back in Boston. The Tim who shoved me up against the wall and demanded my attention was a far cry from the good boy straight-A student I grew up with.

We haven’t enjoyed a repeat performance. We’ve beentoo busy racing through the end of this tour. Living on buses doesn’t provide a lot of opportunities to get someone alone, especially someone I don’t want to be seen with, but the end of the tour offers a slightly terrifying possibility. It’ll be all driving and pit stops from here on out. No more shows. One rest in South Dakota, but otherwise straight home.

That’s a lot of downtime.

I only meet Tim’s eyes for a moment, but that same thought sparks in them, like distant firelight, a beacon calling out to me. I don’t know if I should follow or push it away. What we did in that bathroom was definitely fun, but can Tim actually play by my rules or is he going to get too attached?

Will I?

What am I thinking? Of course I’m not getting attached. I barely had time to fall for him in high school; I’m not going to be stupid enough to fall for him now. I don’t need an inexperienced idiot who’s also damaged goods. That phone call with his parents laid out all of Tim’s baggage, and I’m determined that shit won’t become my problem. He’s the one who left. The fact it took him twenty-five years to stand up to his parents and go for what he wants says it all — this guy is a problem. Even if we didn’t have the complicated past we have, he is barely ready to be himself, and I’m not about to regress ten years to guide him through gay 101. I’ve been there. I’ve done theunsupportive family, the awkward coming out, the mistakes in bathrooms with guys who should have known better. I got that out of my system years ago, and I’m not going back for a guy I should hate.

I haul equipment into the venue. Technically, I don’t have to, but I’m used to helping with this stuff. Besides, everyone is exhausted and sore. Some of the crew are injured from the repetitive heavy lifting. I can carry some drums to lighten the load.

The rest of the day passes in a whirlwind of preparations and routine. Hair and makeup, clothes, sound check, all the usual things.

Then it’s time.

The air in the cavernous, packed venue all but crackles. If you lit a match, raw, uninhibited excitement would set this whole place ablaze.

I feed off that as I step onto the stage with my band. We roar through our set, playing loud and aggressive, giving fans and skeptics alike the raw, loud rock sound we’re building our brand around. This time, we’re completely in sync, my drums beating out the rhythm while guitars race up and down scales and Jacob’s voice fills the venue, larger than life. We almost shake the damn ceiling down by the time we’re through and I raise my sticks victoriously.

We don’t go far after we stumble off the stage. Everyone hugs, a huge, sweaty five-man embrace. We’re so high off our final performance I barely notice The Ten Hours passingus for their turn. It’s the sudden quiet that makes me release Jacob and turn back toward the stage. The Ten Hours are just about ready, and the entire venue holds its breath in anticipation.

The lights flash, pouring down on Tim and his bandmates, but I never manage to tear my eyes off him. Not for the entire set.

He doesn’t look at me, but I can feel him, and I’m sure he can feel me. Every vibration of his drums, every note he beats through the venue — it echoes in my chest. I’m not sure I breathe throughout the entire performance.

When was the last time I watched him play, like, really watched him play? There were performances where I stood to the side and sneered, performances where I watched a couple songs, performances where I glared and glowered until my teeth hurt. But have I ever actually stood and listened to him?

He’s incredible.

Now that I’m paying attention, it’s so obvious I feel like a fool for not noticing it sooner. Tim isn’t as ostentatious as me, but his whole band hangs on his drumming. The rhythm he sets flows through his bandmates, holding them together as they move through the music. That guitarist, Cameron, takes more risks because of it, adding flourishes he might not if he didn’t know Tim was there to catch him. The bassist, Kelsey, plays in and around the beat like a dancer. And Erin, that singer of theirs — her voice rivalsJacob’s when she’s unleashed like this.

She can do it because of Tim. She can let go like that because he’s there at her back, promising her she always has a safe place to land.

How can a guy I’ve deemed too fragile and damaged to deal with be this pillar of support for his band? It doesn’t make any sense, but if there’s one language I know, it’s music, and Tim’s music says, clear as day, “I’ve got you. I’ve got all of you. I’m not letting you go.”

Then why did he let me go?

I shake my head at myself and finally stalk off to grab a few minutes of peace in the greenroom. The contradiction makes no sense, and I’m not going to unravel the mystery tonight. It won’t matter once we get home anyway. This ill-advised thing between us will certainly end when we’re not on tour. Tim didn’t want me back in high school; I can’t see why big rockstar Tim would want me now when I’m a loser following in his footsteps.

Visitors flock to my little island of calm. My band piles in first, but The Ten Hours aren’t far behind. The room is meant for one band at most, so we’re almost on top of each other as we cram everyone into the tiny space. They’re all so hyped they can’t stop talking and hugging and slapping each other’s shoulders, and even I can’t blame them for it. This was a hell of a tour. It should do good things for every single person in this room, but perhaps Baptism Emperor most of all. It definitely raised our profile to put on a show on parwith The Ten Hours night after night. And yet, somehow the celebratory spirit isn’t sweeping me up like it is everyone else.

“Let’s go out,” Erin says.

“Hell yes,” Jacob agrees immediately. “We absolutely need to celebrate. Everyone has to go. No staying in tonight, guys.”

Jacob’s gaze goes right to me, his demand clear. I shrug, but don’t dare disagree. I’m not getting out of final show celebrations, though I can’t say I’m bursting with excitement over this.

The energy level is high, and we’re going to throw booze on top of it from the sounds of the plans Erin and Jacob are hatching. That is not going to help in the Tim department. We’re staying in town tonight, so if Tim and I want to slink off to our own hotel room, no one is going to stop us. I shouldn’t be thinking about it, but when I glance across the greenroom, I find my thoughts mirrored in Tim’s soft brown eyes. His lips lay slightly parted, like he’s already imagining opening up for my cock, and shit, if that isn’t making this whole thing even worse.

Tim’s bandmate, Cameron, nudges him, and he looks away. I drag my gaze elsewhere as well, but the damage is done. The possibilities whirl through my mind as everyone discusses where we should go and how much of the crew we can bring with us. Apparently, they’re going to try to rent out a whole bar so we don’t have to worryabout fans and stuff. Not that anyone is getting close with that muscle-bound freak Seth running security for both bands.

---