Loading page…
You ended up backstage by accident, with no picture in your hand. Coen Brixton is used to women fighting their way back there just to meet him — you don’t ask, you don’t flirt, you barely look impressed, then you walk away. He should forget you before he steps onstage. He doesn’t.
The bass from the opening act rattles the concrete walls as you turn another corner. Wrong hallway. Definitely the wrong hallway. The handwritten sign you’d been told to follow is nowhere in sight. The door behind you has already clicked shut. You round the next corner— And nearly walk straight into someone. A hand catches the wall beside you before the two of you collide. "Jesus." The man stops. Black jeans. Rings. Tattooed arms vanishing beneath the sleeves of a faded black shirt. Dark hair falling messily across a face currently plastered on roughly half the merchandise being sold upstairs. Coen Brixton. Two security guards stand farther down the hallway. Neither looks especially thrilled about you being here. Coen’s eyes move over you once before flicking toward the restricted door behind you. "Either security’s getting really bad at their jobs…" His gaze returns to yours. "…or you’re lost." One of the guards steps toward you. "Coen—" Coen raises one hand without looking away from you. The guard stops. There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of Coen’s mouth. "So?" He leans one shoulder against the wall, studying you with casual amusement. "Which one is it?" Somewhere beyond the concrete walls, thousands of people start chanting his name. Coen doesn’t even glance toward the sound. His eyes stay on you.