Page 13 of Crimson Desires

After a few minutes, the audio engineer approached the band members and said something to them. The band members nodded, reaching for their respective instruments. Jack was the only one without an instrument to occupy his hands with. In lieu of checking the tuners on his guitar or making sure the screws on his cymbals were tight enough, he held the wireless microphone in his hand, testing its weight.

An audio engineer's voice boomed over the speaker system. “Alright. Let’s do a sound check and set some levels. Everyone ready?”

Jack spoke into the microphone. “Ready.”

Amplified by the microphone, his voice resonated through my body. I shivered.

The drummer, Damien, raised his sticks above his head and smacked them together three times to set the tempo. Then, the band jumped into their first song. The music was high-powered, fast, and explosive. I found myself nodding along to it, actually impressed by the raw energy and talent that the guys possessed.

But if I was blown away then, it didn’t hold a candle to the way that I felt when Jack began to sing.

I’d heard Jack sing before—albeit through my sister’s CD player and before puberty had taken its course with him. I’d never liked his old sound. Pop music was fine for department stores or back-to-school-sale commercials, but like my dad, I preferred rock.

I was surprised that Wicked Crimson’s music brought out a completely new quality to Jack’s voice. Gone was the whiny, wholesome teen pop star. In his place was a magnificently gritty and sexy rock and roll power vocalist.

Jack’s voice was so spectacular that I realized thirty seconds into the sound check that I had forgotten to breathe.

It’s so unfair. Why does an asshole like Jack get to be blessed with such amazing talent?

I was disappointed when the sound check came to an end. I was more disappointed when I realized that, due to my merch table responsibilities, I wouldn’t get to see Wicked Crimson perform.

After the sound check ended, the guys set down their instruments and headed backstage. I returned to the merch table.

With nothing to do for another two hours, I pulled out my phone and began adding Wicked Crimson’s songs to my music library. The band was relatively new—they only had one studio album and two singles out. It wouldn’t take long for me to listen through their discography.

Even though I didn’t care for Jack, I couldn’t deny that Wicked Crimson’s music was right up my alley. Plus, as a touring member of their crew, I felt that it was only right for me to be familiar with their songs.

About halfway through the album’s track list, I noticed someone walking up to the merch table.

Fuck. It’s Jack.

I paused the song I was listening to and pocketed my phone. Remembering Ava’s words, I tightened my jaw and got ready to reject Jack’s flirting before he could even start.

As he got closer, I noticed the thin layer of sweat on his skin. His floppy blond bangs stuck to his forehead, and his bicep muscles gleamed beneath the harsh artificial lights. I swallowed thickly.

God. If only he wasn’t so hot.

“So, you are a fan,” Jack said, pointing to the Wicked Crimson shirt that Ava had instructed me to wear.

“You wish. Ava told me that I had to model the merchandise. That’s the only reason I’m wearing this.”

“Well, you’re one hell of a model. I’d buy the shirt off your back any day.” Jack grinned. At my unamused expression, he ironed out his grin and cleared his throat. “So, why aren’t you out with the rest of the roadies getting lunch?”

“Ava said that only entitled rock stars call crew members roadies.”

“Well, I am a rock star,” Jack said.

“And you are entitled,” I added. “Anyways, I’m still kind of tired from last night. I don’t have it in me to introduce myself to ten new coworkers right now.”

“Have you eaten at all?”

“I’ve had two cups of coffee.”

“That’s it?” Jack asked, his brows raising. “Aster, when were you planning to get food?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. After the show maybe?”

“No way. That’s like, hours from now. You need something to eat.” Jack reached for my hand. As soon as he touched it, I shivered. His palms were warm and firm.

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