Page 40 of Crave

“What’s up, fuckers?” I holler, slamming the mic into the stage. Mikki explodes on the drums, and the guitars kick into overdrive.

Performing is an out-of-body experience. I’m possessed, swirling in an orgy with my bandmates. I pump energy into the crowd and it rolls back to me.

Normally, I don’t pick out faces in the audience. Lines are blurred. We’re all one. But this time, a single face beams from the darkness like a lighthouse.

Ben’s pretty green eyes are shellshocked as he takes refuge by the merch table. He huddles near the stacks of T-shirts and CDs.

Next time I catch a glimpse, Jett at the merch table is hanging him a pair of earplugs with a shit-eating grin. Ben takes them gratefully and stuffs them in his ears.

But he doesn’t flee the scene. He doesn’t look away.

“We’re the Aftershocks!” I yell, and the crowd roars back.

We’re halfway through the set now. I’m drenched in sweat. I rip off my crop top, and the room screams at the sight of my black bra.

Thoughtlessly, I hurl the perspiration-soaked shirt straight at Ben.

His mouth opens in an O. And holy fuck, the desire to see his real O-face is suddenly so strong, it seizes me in its fist and whips me up like a milkshake.

He catches the shirt to the sound of wolf whistles. Jett claps him on the back, grinning. But Ben stands still, frozen like he’s the Statue of Liberty and my shirt is the goddamn torch.

“Kate,” Jules says in a low voice, her hand on my shoulder, “I think you broke Ben.”

Mikki, bless her little soul, charges into an impromptu drum solo that puts everyone’s attention back on the stage.

Slowly, Ben lowers the shirt. He holds it like it’s a lost kitten he has no idea what to do with.

Stepping to the side to give Mikki the spotlight, I grab the bottle of Jameson on the stool by Amanda and knock back a swig.

“Be gentle with Ben,” Amanda whispers. “We need him to last for the next four shows.”

Jules snorts. “You think he will?”

“Well, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” Amanda bobs her head to Mikki’s solo.

We jump back into place as Mikki smashes her way to a finish and make the perfect crashlanding into our next song.

Our music is visceral. We’re called the Aftershocks for a reason. It’s not just about what we hit you with, it’s how you feel afterward as it reverberates through your body.

I don’t look at Ben in the merch corner for the rest of the night. But his gorgeous green eyes, the shock on his face when he caught my shirt, reverberate throughmybody.

The energy I put out has been tossed right back at me.

The butterflies have gone berserk.

When we close the show and I yell out our thank-yous, I point to him. Yep, still there. He’s survived. And he’s…sweaty. His brown curls are darkened and plastered to his forehead.

Was he dancing? Did I miss it?

“Let’s all give a great big hand to Benjamin Lewis, our insanely talented opening act. He filled in on short notice and is an absolute poet. He didn’t know what he was getting himself into, but now he’s going to be stuck with us for the next four shows. We’re so glad he’s here.”

Everyone cheers. Ben looks overwhelmed, but he gives a little wave to acknowledge them.

It takes awhile for the club to empty out. When it does, I slip out to the back alley for a solo smoke and find Ben there.

He’s leaning against the building, one Converse-clad foot propped on the wall and his hands in the pockets of his frayed jeans. Sweat sheens his forehead. I want to run my fingers through his damp curls.

I join him and light my cigarette. For long minutes, neither of us speaks in the warm summer night.

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