The music is so loud I can feel every beat of the drum, and strum of guitar, as they vibrate through my bones.
I’ve never been to a concert, but when I pictured it, it wasn’t like this. And it wasn’t this type of music.
Turns out I like it. I like it a lot.
I missed some of Carlton’s performance, but he is actually really good. I never would have figured him for having a good singing voice, but he does. And he looked at home with a shiny red guitar slung across his chest.
When a round of flashing strobe lights go off, I close my eyes. The laser lights and changing color spotlights on the musicians are one thing, but the strobe lights are just too much for me.
Absorbing the music, I pretend there isn’t a sea of humanity around me. If I think too much about all the people that are in here with me, I’ll slip into a panic. Not that anyone has been mean, or looked at me in any sort of bad way, it’s just more people than I’m used to. And it’s mostly men. Big, hairy, dressed head-to-toe in black men. One more reason why I found a place to stand by the back wall.
I don’t need to be close to the stage, and I don’t want to be anywhere near the people jumping wildly into each other. Plus, I prefer to not have strangers behind me. And with the balcony jutting out above me, this spot feels almost private.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I let my head bob with the beat. And even with the fast beat overwhelming my senses, as always when I close my eyes, my mind wanders to Nero.
Only today, thoughts of him make my heart ache.
I really don’t know what to think about everything that happened in the café.
And when he left that ridiculous voice mail—I’ll be done with work early tonight. I’ll see you at home.—I knew I couldn’t just go home after work. And that only became more clear when I read through the texts he sent to me while I was talking to Carlton.
Unknown: Answer me.
Unknown: Payton.
Unknown: I swear to god, if you smile at him…
Unknown: You are not going to his fucking concert.
Unknown: End this conversation.
Unknown: This is not good for his long-term health.
I eventually added Nero’s contact to my phone. Not because I plan to use it but seeing unknown made the messages scarier.
So, in order to avoid some sort of confrontation at my apartment, I found myself once again taking the bus to the mall, to spend Nero’s hundred dollars. Only instead of buying body wash, I went to Marshall’s and spent three hours pawing through all the racks looking for an outfit to wear tonight.
On the bus ride, I did some googling and found photos of Söta Kakor in concert so I could zoom in on the people in the crowd and see what they were wearing. The photos were blurry, but I got enough of an idea. And being here in person, I feel pretty good about my purchases.
When I was climbing into that Uber, I started to worry that maybe my outfit was too… showy. Now I see my choices have nothing on some of the things I’ve seen the few women wearing. Don’t get me wrong, they look amazing. Sexy as hell. But it makes my mid-thigh skater skirt seem like a nun’s habit.
The skirt was a lucky find, since it was in my exact size. Same with the thick-knit dark gray sweater. The scoop neckline isn’t super low, but it does help draw attention to my cleavage and away from my not-so-snatched waist.
The crowning glory of my outfit––the detail that makes me feel sexy, something I’m not used to feeling––are the thigh-high black stockings.
I’ve seen them in movies, and on models in magazines, but I never thought they were something that a girl like me could wear. I figured they’d be too tight and cause a weird roll in the middle of my thigh, but these ones are soft and stretchy, and there’s something along the inside of the top that makes them stick in place. Plus the thick bands act as a buffer between my legs, so I’m not suffering from having my thighs rubbing together with every step.
A body bumps into me and my eyes fly open.
“Sorry!” the dude shouts above the music, then keeps moving past me, on a mission to get somewhere.
I shuffle back a step in my not-new black ankle boots, putting my back just an arm’s length away from the back wall.
I’m thinking maybe I should just take another step so I’m leaning against the wall when a hand presses gently on my side.
Assuming the person is just trying to alert me that they’re attempting to pass behind me, I try to step forward. Except the pressure slides across my ribs to the front of my body, until the hand splays across my belly, holding me in place.
Panic surges inside me, and I’m reaching down to shove the hand away, when a body presses against my back. And a fiery masculine scent I’m all too familiar with swirls around me.
Nero.
Warm breath fans across my cheek as he lowers his mouth to my ear. “You’ve been a bad girl, Payton.”
Heat pools in my core at the feel of him. At the sound of him.
Then I remember I’m angry with him.
“Go away,” I hiss, keeping my eyes forward.
“No.” His lips brush against my ear, sending a shiver across my scalp.
“No?” I try to snap at him, but my traitorous body sinks back into his warmth.
“No, Baby. You wanted to talk. So, now, we’ll talk.”
“It’s a little loud,” I say, facing forward.
“What was that?”
I sigh since he’s proving my point. “I said”—I turn my head to look back at him—“it’s––”
His lips seal over mine.
