Page 11 of Verses Of Us

The show continued, Ciarán performing as if nothing had happened, as if unmoved by the earth-shattering event that had shaken Alexis’ world. She knew the high came from her adoration. This was the culmination of hundreds of daydreams and unrealistic fantasies. But something in her core said it wasn’t that simple. This was more. She couldn’t name it—she had experienced nothing like it—but there was another level to what had happened. Whatever it was, nothing had ever reached into her soul and tugged so…hard.

She’d felt butterflies before, but none had fluttered so violently and none anywhere but in her stomach. She was inexperienced with sex, but she wasn’t clueless and she knew enough to recognize the warmth in her lower belly, and the reason her legs shook and her thighs clenched.

The problem wasn’t the kiss. It was how disturbed and unsatisfied she felt and how desperate she was to dive back in.

Intense glares burned into her neck and snapped her back. She kept her eyes on Ciarán, even if his attention seemed drawn to anywhere else but her direction.

Was this it? Would it end like this, with her being nothing more than some girl he’d kissed on stage?

Convinced that’s all it had been—an act by the great entertainer, Ciarán Jones, to get a rise out of his captive audience—the more she thought about it, the clearer it became. He kept interacting with the other fans, focusing on their hands, their faces, but where Alexis was concerned, it was as if she’d left the building.

Questions raced through her worried brain; did he bring her up on stage because of how she’d behaved that morning? Did he assume that since she’d kissed him once, she’d totally be up to kissing him again? Had he done this with other fans and were there others like her somewhere in the world being hauled up there for the same show-stopping purpose?

She wanted to be unique, but doubted she was.

Then, a more undeniable and hurtful truth set in—maybe shewasnaïve about these things and he’d envisioned something better. Maybe he was… disappointed.

WISH GRANTED

Ciarán

Thesoundoffanswas getting louder, seeping through the concrete walls as the place filled up. Ciarán had done his workout, a quick series of crunches and push-ups meant to hype him up, but also make his muscles pop. They loved when his shirt lifted as if by accident. They thought they were being allowed in on a big secret, but if only they knew he did it at every concert to get the sexual energy flowing. Nothing got him going like seeing his fans turned on. Nothing until today, that is.

He ran through his vocal warm-up, stretching his arms and legs as he did. He drank his requisite two bottles of water before switching to beer, then headed out for his routine prayer with the band and dancers. Solange, one of the lead dancers, kept coming up to him, touching his arm, flirting as she always did, but this time, he didn’t reciprocate. Things felt off tonight. Different. But he let it in, enjoying the break from the usual.

As the band took the stage, he tried to peek through the curtains, but only saw the same boring tight hair buns atop unremarkable heads. No jet-black hair stuck out. No green eyes pierced the crowd. Alexis was short, he reminded himself, so the growing sea of fans would have gobbled her up.

Even so, he hoped she’d listened and was nearby. And if she wasn’t close enough, that was alright. As long as he could get another glimpse of her, then he’d… He stopped and chuckled, shaking his head, letting the curtain fall back. What the fuck would he do? Tell her to meet him after the show in front of thousands? He was certain the crowd would love it.

His cue came up. Nerves still hovered close to the surface. He shook them loose by jumping up and down a few times. A roadie handed him his mic and earpiece. Ready to give the audience a show they’d write about in the papers tomorrow, he ran out on stage shouting ‘Je t’aime, Montréal’.

The spotlights hit like burning flames, blinding him for a few seconds. The only thing he could see was the stage beneath his feet. He located his mic stand, gripped it tight, and leaned it to the side. In his earpiece, he could hear his voice, but beyond that were only screams and ear-splitting roars. Taken over by the rush of mass-adoration spreading through his veins like heroine,Ciarán the Entertaineremerged, shoving all other thoughts aside. Once his eyes adapted to the bright lights, he made out the first few rows of fans, all huddled together like sheep being herded.

And that’s when he saw her. Petite and beautiful, Alexis stood at the front, crammed against the metal fence, wearing, of all things, a fucking baby pinkBritney Spearst-shirt. He resisted the urge to laugh, his chest tight. Impulsively, he yearned to reach down and pull her from the crowd, but the song ended and the lights dimmed and all he could do was grin.

She’d come. She’d granted his wish and had been waiting for him at the front like he’d asked. His heart swelled at the thought, bringing him a newfound energy.

When the next song started, he did his best not to fixate on her, but it proved impossible. Her green eyes called to him, begging him to stare at her. Each time, she’d blush, the corners of her mouth lifting to create adorable dimples, and it drove him fucking wild with hunger.

Something about her was fleeting. Foolishly, when he’d rush off stage, he’d worry she’d be gone when he returned. He knew it didn’t make sense. Who’d pay to see a show and then leave before the end?

Halfway through, Ciarán sang his first solo hit. For him, the song had since lost its lustre. The radio stations overplayed it and he’d sung it live too many times, but the words now took on another meaning. There was a truth in her eyes, one he sought to explore. Forget breaking him—her smile had fuckingdestroyedhim.

While Gus stepped forward, planting a foot on his amp, and performed his killer solo, Ciarán decided he’d take the chance. Even if what he wanted to do might jeopardize his career, Alexis was worth the risk. Patience wasn’t his forte, and he was sick of waiting for something to happen.

In his business, there was one rule—never make the fans think you’ve favoured one of them over the others. He could fuck them all he wanted backstage, in his hotel, out of sight, but in a packed place like this amphitheatre, it couldn’t happen. Anthony would rip him a new one. The label would whine. It would be in the papers. Oh, the shitstorm it would create. But Ciarán despised rules and tonight, he was finding it particularly difficult to swallow this one down.

He knelt and reached out, noticing the quiet hush that spread over the fans. They were all watching, wondering what he was doing. The band was staring, too. But he didn’t care what everyone thought. Panicked, Alexis’ eyes were wide, and he saw her friend, a taller girl with bright red hair, shoving her and yelling in her ear. But her friend’s insistence made no difference. It took the security guard at the front to get Alexis to budge. She looked so tiny in the guy’s monstrous grasp, but Ciarán loved the way she snapped out of her daze and practically leapt onto the stage.

She took Ciarán’s hand, but clenched her free hand into a fist at her side. If she was terrified, she hid it behind a strong façade. For him, though, the moment their skin touched, a profound calm spread through his body all the way to his toes.

In hopes she’d settle, hoping the stillness satiating his being would reach out to her, he kept singing as if this happened all the time. When her hand loosened in his, telling him she was relaxing, he pulled her closer. He touched her cheek. She leaned in, causing his voice to crack, but the crowd was so loud, he was sure they hadn’t noticed. She watched him while he sang, her eyes glossy, casting a second spell, one he never wanted broken.

The lyrics left his mouth as if on autopilot, which was lucky because he couldn’t think of anything other than kissing her plump lips. And, before he could stop, his hand was moving into her soft hair, the long strands like silk. She responded by wrapping her arms around his waist, her small hands gripping his t-shirt as if she were clinging to it for dear life. He wondered if the fire he saw in her eyes was something she held back to preserve her good girl image, or if deep down she wished it to be set free.

Their bodies moved in closer, as if magnetized. When he rested his cheek against her head, it was as if he were singing to her alone and he loved every second. But the song would end soon and he needed more.

He had to crouch down to put his forehead to hers. She sang along with him, or rather with the crowd, since his voice kept cracking from the dryness of his throat. With everybody immersed in the show, he lost himself in her, the pull between them intensifying. He couldn’t remember getting so close to her, but once her lips skimmed against his, he was too far gone to turn back and stop what was happening.

---