Page 98 of Next Time I Fall (Excess All Areas 2)

Pulling out her phone, Cerys captured a photograph too, in case Jase wanted it.

Half an hour later, at the side of the stage, Cerys stood with Willow as they watched.

“They’re incredible, aren’t they?” Willow asked.

“They are.” Two words that seriously downplayed the impact of their performance in front of a live audience. They were phenomenal in the studio. But watching them inhale the waves of energy coming off the crowd, and the pulsing beat of the floor vibrating as people danced and jumped around to their songs, was beyond any video she’d seen of them before.

Jase had confided in her that ninety percent of the time they played, they were high, or pissed, or both. Tonight, he’d stuck firmly to the lemon and honey hot water he now swore by like it was his vocal cords’ lucky charm. She’d seen the rest of the band with bottles of beer dangling from their fingertips, but none of them had overindulged except Luke. Switching between shots of vodka and pints of pale ale, it was a wonder he could count to four, let alone play drums.

But somehow, he did.

They all did.

Jase dripped with sweat as he bounded across the stage, one hand holding his microphone, the other raised in the air in a fist.

It was mesmerising. And seducing. And he’d be lucky if they made it home before she jumped on him.

“Are you the only girlfriend here?” Willow said, her eyes fixed on Luke, who occasionally looked over and winked at her or twirled his drumstick in her direction.

“Tonight, yes,” Cerys answered. It was the most diplomatic thing she could think to say. She wasn’t aware if Matt and Izabel, who she’d heard so much about, were public with their relationship. And to be honest, despite overhearing Ben and Luke talking about some bet they had to see who could sleep with the most staff at the hotel, she wasn’t certain if any of them had girlfriends at home.

Who knew what rock stars got up to on the road?

The thought hit her in the chest, harder than if Willow had punched her.

Would Jase be faithful?

“They need to loosen up,” her father said, stepping up behind her and saving her from Willow’s questions and her own thoughts.

“It must feel strange to be on stage again after a month in the studio. They look amazing considering they’re still finding their new footing.”

The crowd surged forward, the odd plastic pint glass flying through the air, spraying people with lukewarm beer. Smiling faces on the front row, chanting song lyrics like a prayer to the songs they knew. Cheering for the songs they didn’t.

“They’re going to have to nail it before they perform in front of Moseley and Upper Street Records.”

“But the band is different,” she argued. “And I don’t think the crowd is noticing what you’re seeing. I mean, the gig is far less cavalier than sets we’ve watched online. And I think substances have been used to take the edge off in the past. This set list is tightly nailed down. The arrangements are so freshly rehearsed and practiced from their time in the studio, and this is the first time they’ve played them in front of an audience. There are a lot of firsts happening for them tonight, so it’s bound to have bumps to the trained eye.”

Jase glanced her way and grinned, her heart skipping a beat.

Oh God. She was dating a rock star.

Like, of course she knew that. But she knew him in the context of carpet picnics, and the guy who perpetually left the toilet seat up in her apartment, yet made her a cup of coffee before she even got out of bed.

And she knew him in the context of the studio. Tentatively expressing new skills of collaborating with his brother. She witnessed the flicker of vulnerability as he stood in the middle of something he’d normally react to, trying to figure out how to stay with what he was feeling.

Seeing him on stage revealed a different side to him. With his hand holding his damp hair off his face, the other cupping the microphone, he owned the stage. When he added his guitar, she was transfixed. The way he stroked the frets and plucked the strings as his foot stamped to the rhythm and his voice soared over the notes made her giddy inside. He made eye contact with the audience, inviting them to meet him where words and music transported them to another place. He exuded a confidence that was impossible to define or ignore.

Certainly, the woman on the front row clad in a lacy black cami and come-fuck-me smile seemed to agree.

A momentary flicker of worry was replaced with a confidence that despite Jase’s jitters about building a relationship, he wanted more than what cami-girl was offering. Still, she wished she’d worn something more seductive than skinny jeans with those ridiculous moon boots of hers. Her only saving grace was the plaid shirt tied around her waist and the tight white T-shirt she’d worn beneath it.

Jase had traced a finger down the V-neck just before he’d stepped on stage and told her Little Jase approved.

The thought made her laugh.

“It is a much slicker presentation than they’ve put on in the past, even with the bumps,” her father acknowledged. “And Jase’s voice, stone-cold sober and properly warmed up, has that throaty tone without the slurring of words or damage to his vocal cords. It’s good you got him to take that seriously.”

“For all the critical observation, they’re good, right?” She looked to her father.

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