Page 11 of Of Heartbreak and Harmony
Becket chuckles and grabs my belt loop, tugging me toward him. My stomach flips as he lowers his mouth to mine. He tastes like coffee and watermelon bubble gum, and I sink into him, humming as he kisses me.
“I told you I’d get you here.” He slips his hands into the band of my shorts and holds me against him. “Didn’t I promise you?”
I smile and nod. “You did.”
I rise on my tiptoes and kiss him again, this time reveling in the way his hands move to my backside and squeeze.
This thing with Becket is only a couple of weeks old, but it makes my toes curl and my chest ache in the most exciting way. I like him, and I know he likes me. He’s been trying to stoke the spark between us for a few months now, but I’ve been hesitant. I don’t want it to go sideways and blow up in my face. The last thing I want is to get us into a Sav Loveless/Torren King kind of situation.
The lead singer and bassist of The Hometown Heartless are infamous for their toxic off-again, on-again love affair. It hasn’t stopped the band from rocketing to the top of the music charts, but I don’t wantthat kind of press—not that we’re popular enough to warrant any press at all. But still, it looks miserable, and that’s not just my jealousy speaking.
“Jesus, get a room.”
At Rocky’s exaggerated groan, Becket and I break apart, and I spin around to face my bandmates.
“Or get atent,” Ezra adds with a wink.
My cheeks pinken, and I drop my eyes to the ground.
Becket and I are sharing one tent, while Pike, Rocky, and Ezra are in the other. It’s not out of the ordinary. We’ve slept in closer quarters before—motel rooms, living rooms, the van—but this feels different.
I think he’s expecting something to happen. Somethingmorethan a hot make-out session and groping. Truth be told, I’m expecting it, too. If I weren’t so damn shy about this shit, I’d probably haul him into the tent now and go at it, but I can’t. I’ll wait until tonight when the festival is in full swing, and I’ve acquired some liquid courage.
Becket laughs, and I feel it vibrate in his chest. He tips my chin up so I’m looking back into his eyes.
“Want to go explore?”
I nod. “Yes.”
He laces his fingers through mine and tugs me toward the festival grounds.
The opportunity for people-watching is unmatched. The festival is estimated to have sold out at 125,000 tickets. One hundred and twenty-fivethousandattendees. That’s not even including security, volunteers, and festival staff. That’s more than the whole population of Santa Monica, where I grew up. The numbers will fluctuate from day to day, but most people are here for the long haul. Five days and five nights of music, art, and culture. Probably a lot of drugs, too. The schedule boasts things like body painting, goat yoga, meditation, silent dance parties, fire spinning, candle making, yodeling, and my favorite part, more than 200 bands performing on six separate stages.
I’ve wanted to come to ArtFusion since its conception four years ago, and not only am I finally here, but my band is showcasing.
We’re on the fucking poster.
Our text is the tiniest and we’re at the bottom of the list, but I don’t care. I’d take playing on the smallest stage in the afternoon of the fifthday over not being here at all. I still can’t believe it’s real. I keep wanting to pinch myself, but I don’t want to be weird.
I’ll do it tonight when no one can see me.
“Oh shit.”
Ezra’s voice has me turning in his direction, and I find him staring at a large line-up poster taped to the side of an information tent.
“What?”
He turns to me with a grin. “Guess who’s headlining the main stage on night five?”
I raise my eyebrows. “The Pantomimes.”
We’ve known this. It’s been announced for months.
Ezra shakes his head. “Nope. Try again.”
I sigh and step up next to him so I can read the poster for myself. The moment my eyes land on the main stage line-up, my jaw drops and nerves stir in my stomach.
“No way.”
