Beautiful Distraction (21 page)

We drive for at least half an hour before I spy the huge
tent adorned by hundreds of lights that sparkle like tiny fireflies in the
evening sky. We seem to be in the middle of a field. There are countless cars
parked to either side, and people are gathered in groups, chatting excitedly
while they’re waiting.

“What’s everybody waiting for?” I ask and crane my neck to
get a better look at what’s happening around us.

“The customary pat down.” Josh pulls the truck into an empty
spot and points at a police officer, who’s standing near what I assume is the
entrance. I don’t understand what he’s doing there, until he moves aside.
That’s when I see the two huge, beefy guys looking into every purse and patting
down everyone before they get a wristband and are ushered inside.

“There isn’t much to pat,” I say, eyeing the short skirts
and snug tank tops that leave little to the imagination. Some have skipped the
tank top part altogether and have gone straight for the underwear look.

“I’ve never seen so many women gathered in one place, unless
there’s a sale,” Mandy says.

“That’s Mile High,” Josh says, as though that explains
everything.

We exit the car, and Josh leads us around the tent toward a
closed-off area with two security guys blocking the way. I suspect this is the
private entrance for the artists. The guys’ expressions are so grim I wouldn’t
be surprised to find them ready to break a few bones if we come too close.

“You can’t be here,” one of the guys says.

“Josh Boyd,” Josh says. “The ladies are with me.”

“Of course, Mr. Boyd,” the other one says and hands us three
guest passes. I peer down, and to my surprise, find my name on it.

Without so much as a blink, the security guy opens the door.
I peer at Josh, who just shrugs and ushers me inside.

“We’re backstage,” Mandy whispers. “I can’t believe it.”

Me neither.

And why are our names on the passes?

“Mandy,” I whisper. “How did they know our names?”

She shrugs. “You won tickets, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but as you probably noticed, they’re still in my
handbag.” I point to Josh. “What did you tell him?”

“Let’s talk later, okay? Enjoy this.”

“Fine.” In spite of my repulsion for anything Mile High
stands for, a tiny bit of excitement runs through me. From where we’re standing,
we can see the entire stage. Roadies are rushing past us, setting up various
pieces of music equipment, while a band is tuning up, completely oblivious to
the commotion around them. To the far end, people are flooding in and the first
squeals of excitement carry over.

“The soundcheck’s almost over. They’re opening for Mile
High,” Mandy says, pointing to the guys on the stage.

Even though this is strangely exhilarating, I feel like an
impostor. “I don’t think we should be here.”

“Relax,” Josh says. “We’re guests. Of course we’re supposed
to be here. You guys want anything to drink?” He points at a table with various
refreshments.

I shake my head as a sign that I don’t want anything. “How
are we guests? We only won tickets.”

Josh helps himself to a chilled can of soda and hands one to
Mandy. “I know someone who knows someone,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Told you.” Mandy shoots me a warning look. “And we’re not
going to be ungrateful brats, are we, Ava?”

“Of course not,” I mumble.

The place begins to fill with people. Spotlights begin to go
off, bathing the entire place in a dim glow. The first lights of cameras and
smartphones flash all around us.

“Come on. I think they’re getting started,” Josh says.

We follow him down the stairs to a lower level, where
several security guys are standing guard, all sporting the same intimidating
expression. We take our place in front of the barriers just in time before the
opening act starts the show.

The crowd goes wild as the lights go on. It’s all so bright
I think I need sunglasses.

“TAYLOR! TAYLOR!
TAYLOR!”

“Taylor, I’ll give you
a BJ.”

“Take me, Taylor. Take
me.”

“K. TAYLOR! I LOVE
YOU!”

I’ve never heard so much shrieking in my life.

I’ve never seen so many cameras flashing.

And then Mile High hits the stage, and the crowd erupts in
cheers. Even Mandy’s shrieking in my ears.

Damn. I wish I had thought of packing some earplugs before I
go deaf.

I stare at the four guys in snug blue jeans and black T-shirts.
Their faces are painted white; black traces their eyes; their features are
hidden behind beautiful carnival masks that build a dramatic contrast to the
simulated fire burning in huge baskets scattered across the stage. I have to
admit that they look like living art, which I’m sure is the image they’ve been
going for.

The guitarist strums the guitar in what I recognize as a
slow, modern rock version of Mozart’s Magic Flute, while the vocalist stands
rooted to the spot, head lowered over the mic, his dark hair swaying in a
simulated breeze.

He’s hot.

Mandy got that part right.

He’s
really
hot.
Even though the moving shadows cast by the fires make it hard to see much of
him, I can tell by his muscular body.

With the mask, he’s like a fantasy.

No wonder women all over the world are going bat-shit crazy
over him.

They probably think he lives up to their fantasies even
without the mask.

“I wonder what would happen if he took it off, you know, the
mask, the makeup, “ I say, amused, unable to keep back a snort. “He’s probably
some old dude with a good body and nothing else going for him.”

A guy’s walking past, handing out drinks to the VIP guests,
AKA us.

“He isn’t that old,” Josh shouts and passes me a Pepsi can.

“How can you tell?” I ask.

“I just know.”

“They always play some part of the Magic Flute at the
beginning of each gig,” Mandy shouts. “It’s their anthem or something.”

I don’t want to point out that Mozart wrote it because,
while I’m not a fan of classical music, the guitarist really rocks it.

A few moments later, the music fades in the background, and
the vocalist looks up, and the shrieking starts again.

“That’s K. Taylor,” Mandy shouts. Apparently, she’s taken on
the role of narrator tonight.

“Thanks. I figured that part out,” I say and go about
opening my can and taking a long sip, hoping it’s not spiked.

My nerves are so frazzled from all the shouting and screaming,
I can barely even hear Mandy. I peer around us. Almost everyone’s wearing fan
merchandise. There are countless banners with things like ‘Taylor No 1 girl’ or
‘This girl has Taylor Fever.’

Some messages are quite rude and graphic. Apparently, plenty
of people want K. Taylor’s baby. Or to take care of his sexual needs.

My attention flips back to the stage as the vocalist looks
up from his microphone. A shiver runs down my spine.

He
is
frigging
hot.

But there is no way I’d ever go for a guy in a mask. It’s
just one of those creepy things you usually see in a movie adaptation of a
Stephen King novel.

“Hey, guys,” the vocalist says into the microphone, his
voice deep and sexy. “Thanks for being here tonight. It means a lot to us.
You’ve probably been wondering why we’re playing such a small venue. Montana is
where it all started. It’s a place that’ll always be in our hearts. It’s a
place of new beginnings, which is why I’m dedicating our newest song, Behind
This Shell, to a very special lady. Babe, come on up.”

Oh, God.

My body freezes, and
not because of his words.

I know that voice.

I’ve heard it whispering into my ear. I’ve felt it across my
skin.

But it can’t possibly be.

The singer’s gaze sweeps over the front row and settles on
us.

“You.” He points a long index finger, beckoning me over.
“Come on up.”

I’m so shocked I spill my drink over my top, not even
feeling it.

I stare at him, speechless, feeling the blood draining from
my body, every drop of it, and yet my heart continues to race to reach what I’d
guess would be a new record in the Guinness Book of Records. I’ve never felt so
faint in my life, so frozen and surreal, as if I’m in a dream.

Holy shit!

He’s looking at me.

He’s talking to me.

“Ava,” Mandy hisses.

“What?” I turn to her, confused.

“I think he means you.” Even Mandy sounds awestruck. I
notice she’s awfully pale.

“She can’t believe her luck,” the guitarist says, which
earns him laughter from the audience.

“Come on, people,” the vocalist says. “Give this city girl a
cheer before she decides to run and misses this awesome new song.”

City girl.

Oh. My. God.

His name is K. Taylor.

The K can’t possibly stand for Kellan, can it?

It’s about time I visited my therapist and asked for a
mental health check because there’s no way…no way…that’s Kellan up there.

I mean, I’ve bitched about this band. Not only to Mandy, but
to
him
.

I must have it all wrong.

It’s probably the mask that’s having this effect on me. Some
weird fantasy fetish to which no woman’s immune—not even me.

People are turning to stare at me…their eyes are countless
daggers that pierce my back.

“Up you go, Ava,” Josh says, grinning, and pushes me forward
toward one of the security guys, who takes it from there. With his hand clamped
around my upper arm, I have no choice but to climb the few stairs up.

The crowd shrieks, intermingled with a few boos here and
there.

“TAYLOR! TAYLOR!”

I barely register them though. All I hear is the pulse
pounding in my ears. I’m so certain I’m going to die because no heart can pump
so fast and not explode from the sheer effort.

The vocalist’s hand wraps around mine, his fingers like
butterfly wings against my skin. I look down and then up into his eyes.
Suddenly, the lights fall on us, illuminating his face, his beautiful green
eyes.

And in that moment, I know.

It’s him.

Good heaven.

Those are the same green eyes.

The same devilish grin.

The same broad shoulders I grabbed onto while he pounded
into me, taking me to pleasure heaven.

The same narrow hips, hard muscles, and delicious lips.

“Holy crap,” I whisper.

My mouth is dry, my heartbeat strangely elated. I don’t know
what to make of this, and yet I know.

It’s Kellan.

K. Taylor is Kellan Boyd—the guy I’ve been getting
down and dirty with.

The guy I told I hated Mile High.

The mask makes it impossible to recognize him, and yet I
know.

My legs threaten to buckle beneath me.

“Hello, City Girl.” He smiles at me. And then he turns to
the crowd, holding my hand, and I realize what he’s about to do. But it’s too
late to run. I’ve never felt so exposed in my life. Everyone seems to be
scrutinizing me, and there’s a stain on my shirt.

The spotlights above us go off and on, and the background
behind us changes to one showing city lights.

The guitarist strums the guitar, and the percussion joins
in.

I stare into Kellan’s eyes as he lifts the mic to his
gorgeous lips and begins to sing, the voice beautiful, raw and sexy, each verse
sending shivers down my spine as I just stand there, mesmerized—enthralled
by the words and his beautiful voice.

You’re the reason I
stay

You’re the reason I
wait

Behind this shell, you
set me free

In your smile, I come
undone

You become a mystery

To me

You twist and tear
this life apart

These walls that were
there from the start

You cast a light into
the night

You break it up, this
breathless heart

Under the starry
night, I didn’t mean to fall

Time passes by and now
you’re gone

You become a mystery

To me

This man of yours is
going down

This man of yours is
rising up

Behind this shell,
there’s only you

Life’s looking up, but
I’m going down

In the webs of love,
in the traps of life

One day I’ll get
caught

There is no doubt

But if I fall, I want
to fall

With you

I hold my breath as Kellan lets go off my hand and walks
around me until he’s standing behind my back, his lips and the microphone so
close, my skin begins to prickle.