Page 87 of The Heartstrings of Harry
“I got you,” I panted. “I got you, babe.”
The surge of fans kept coming, more of them clambering onto the stage, climbing over monitors, grabbing at the scaffolding, screaming Dean’s name like they weren’t even seeing the panic they were causing.
I dropped my shoulder, barreling through them like a linebacker, shoving bodies aside as I fought my way toward the backstage entrance.
“Move!” I roared, my voice loud and furious. “Get the fuck out of the way!”
Dean’s arms clung tighter around my neck, his breath hot against my ear. “Harry—”
“I’m here. I’ve got you.” My grip tightened, sweeping him up higher in my arms, carrying him like he weighed nothing.
We hit the curtain line at the side of the stage just as another crash echoed behind us—another truss going down, cables sparking, smoke filling the air.
I pushed through the side entrance, burst into the green-room marquee—but fans were already breaking through, spilling into the backstage space, pushing past the rattling fence line.
“Harry!” Dean gasped, eyes wide, coughing from the smoke. “We gotta get outta here—get me home. Please—get me back to my room. Now!”
I didn’t stop to argue.
Didn’t stop to think.
I just tightened my hold on him, turned on my heel, and ran for my truck.
* * *
His bedroom studio was quiet and dim, the curtains drawn tight against the outside world. The sounds of chaos from the concert felt a lifetime away, but the panic was still in his eyes.
I cupped his face, my thumbs brushing his cheek as I kissed him softly—once, twice—trying to slow the thundering pace of both our hearts.
“Are you okay?” I asked, my voice low, gentle.
Dean shook his head, eyes glassy. “No.”
I stroked my thumb along his jaw, feeling the tremble under my fingers. “It’s alright, babe. You’re safe. I’m here.”
But Dean pulled back a little, lips pressing tight together. There was something else beneath the panic. I could sense something weighing down on him, threatening to break him. “Dean? What is it?”
“I need to ask you something,” he whispered, pacing across the room toward his desk.
“Anything,” I said. “You can ask me anything.”
He turned to face me, hands gripping the edge of the desk like he needed to hold onto something solid.
“If I told you… if I told you I’d done something bad…” His voice cracked. “Would you still love me?”
My chest tightened. I crossed the room to him, closing the space between us, my hands resting lightly on his arms.
“Dean,” I said softly. “Of courseI would. I love you. Nothing’s gonna change that.”
Dean didn’t say a word. He only swallowed hard, nodded once, then turned and reached into the top drawer of the desk.
When he faced me again, he was holding a copy ofRolling Stonemagazine.
There was a picture of him on the cover—shirtless, hair messy, electric guitar in one hand, red leather pants unbuttoned just a little and a smoldering look on his face that made my knees feel weak.
“Is this it?” I asked. “Is this the something ‘bad’?”
Dean held it out to me, eyes downcast. “Look at it.”
