Page 53 of Soul So Dark
I nod as people bounce around behind him, but he stands firm, like a cage blocking the chaos.
I tilt my head back, looking straight up at him. “Thank you!” I shout.
He looks down with a smile and nods, tossing his dark hair out of his eyes. I can finally enjoy the show again once I’m sure I won’t end up a pile of pulverized skin and guts on the floor. And I really don’t mind being trapped between this guy’s arms right now. He’s really cute. At least I think he is, with what I’ve seen of his face when the lights flash across it every few seconds. When a song gets especially wild, he wraps one arm around my waist and braces us both against the railing while people slam into his back. But, each time, he’s unperturbed by any of it, just nodding his head with the beat.
When Bailin Marquardt announces their last song, I’m overcome with disappointment. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want any of it to end. I’ve been so immersed in the music and the feeling of being wrapped in a cocoon by some guy who saved my ass from the pit that I haven’t bothered to even look for Shelby or Austin or anyone else.
When I feel my mosh pit savior’s arm around me again, a wave of butterflies rush through my stomach and in that moment I forget everything outside of this room. There’s nothing but this song and this hotbox of reckless abandon. And the thought of having to walk out of here, back out into the dark parking lot, makes me want to crumble into a pile of dust.
But eventually, the song ends and my mosh pit savior loosens his hold around me. Randy Mondelli chucks each of his drumsticks into the crowd and Bailin Marquardt waves as he saunters off the stage. When I turn around, I suddenly realize that the guy is gone. It’s like he was never there, replaced by faceless people in the darkness who are just as disappointed to return to real life.
“Shit,” I hiss to myself as I start trudging toward the doors with the crowd.
At least I know where Austin parked, so I decide to just head there instead of trying to find anyone in this mess. The sultry night air hits my face like a wave on a beach, and everything sounds muted, likely due to my eardrums being assaulted for two hours straight. I’m not standing at the Range Rover for two minutes before I hear the pats of shoes running toward me.
“Dallas!” Shelby calls, “Where were you?”
“Nowhere special,” I narrow my eyes with an accusatory look, “just trying not to get pummeled by a bunch of dudes who smelled like sweaty underwear.”
“That…wasawesome,” Carter groans as she arrives at the car.
“Dallas, where were you?” Austin calls to me from behind her, earning himself a scowl from me. “What?” he chirps, utterly clueless.
“Were you still up front?” Shelby asks.
“We got shoved to the far end of the stage,” Maddie chimes in, “but Randy was, like,right there.”
I throw my hair back, trying to sound as pompous as possible. “I was right in the middlethe entire time.”
“Nuh-uh!” Austin scoffs, “I didn’t even see—”
“Hey, who’s that?” Maddie interrupts as she peers around me, “I think that guy’s looking at you, Dallas.”
I turn to see a group of guys standing at a couple of dirt bikes and a BMW that looks like it’s more after-market parts than original. One of them is clearly looking this way.
It has to be the guy from inside, not that I can tell from his face. It was dark except for a few flashes of light and now he’s wearing a helmet that covers everything but his eyes. But I recognize his height as well as his Navy-blue t-shirt withYamahastamped across the front. It’s all but confirmed when he starts walking toward us.
“Yeah, I met him inside.” Kind of… “He showed up just in time before I got crushed in the pit. By the way, thanks fornothing,” I scoff at them.
“I tried to find you. I swear!” Shelby squeaks. “You saw what it was like in there!”
“Did I ever. Now that you mention it, I need to go thank mynewbest friend for saving mylife!” I tease.
Shelby lets out an exasperated groan and turns back to Trey, who’s watching our exchange with amusement. I meet the mosh pit savior-turned biker guy halfway across the asphalt.
“Thanks again,” I say as I come to a halt in front of him.
“My pleasure,” he replies from behind his helmet, “did you find your people?”
“Yeah, and I had a way better view than them.”
“You’re welcome,” he chuckles. “What’s your name?”
“Dallas.”
“Da-allas…” he sounds it out slowly, like he’s committing it to memory.
“What’s your—” I start to ask his, but I’m interrupted by a shout from the shitty BMW he just came from.
