Page 39 of Knot My Band: Part Two
I don’t mention the bonding we discussed, but if Dax keeps this up, I might just want to bond with him, too.
Oli
OMEGA BUZZ GOSSIP COLUMN
OLI HART ATTACKED BY REPORTER AFTER SHOW
June 16th
The first show in Orlando went great. Things are running smoothly with the new security, the whole crew, and our pack. Even the lip-syncing has gone well.
I’m just settling down in my nest after my shower when the door swings open, and Dax stands there, a shadow against the flickering lights of the tour bus. He steps inside, closing the gap between us with a purpose that tightens my stomach in knots of curiosity and a flicker of anticipation.
“Hey,” I say, trying to read the serious yet gentle look in his intense hazel eyes. They always seem like they’re peering right into the heart of me.
“Oli.” His voice is low and gravelly, the way it gets when he’s got something on his mind that’s weighing heavy. He sits beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him, but there’s a tension in the air like he’s holding back.
“You were great tonight. It feels like we have all been performing together forever instead of just this tour,” I offer up, hoping to break the tension.
He smiles and shakes his head. “Even when I was an asshole, we’ve had great chemistry. It’s no surprise the tour has been a success.”
“Did you need something?” I ask, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear.
Dax takes a deep breath, runs a hand through his dark brown hair, and meets my gaze. “Would you… be willing to come with me somewhere? In Miami.”
My heart kicks up a notch because it’s Dax asking, this grumpy bassist who’s been all walls and barriers. And now he’s here, in my personal space, asking me to go somewhere with him.
Miami was important to him. He asked for an extra show there. Is this why?
“Anywhere particular?” I ask, trying to keep it light, but I’m more interested than I want to let on. Something about how he looks at me makes me want to say yes before I know what I’m agreeing to.
He hesitates, then shakes his head slightly. “It’s… personal. But it means a lot.” A muscle ticks in his jaw, and I realize how much it must have taken for him to come to me like this.
“Okay, Dax.” My response comes out softly and laced with a trust I didn’t know I had reserved for him.
A visible relief washes over him, and for a moment, the gruff exterior slips, revealing the vulnerability he so often tries to hide. It’s a look that hooks me, reels me in, and I know there’s no turning back.
The corner of his mouth quirks up in a small, grateful smile—one that reaches his eyes and softens the hard edges I’ve grown accustomed to. “Thanks, Oli,” he murmurs, the gruffness in his tone smoothed over by something that sounds suspiciously like warmth. “It means more than you know.”
Dax shifts closer to me on the nest. The intimacy of his nearness sends a thrill skittering down my spine, but it’s the next words out of his mouth that truly catch me off guard. “How about a foot massage? To help you recover from wearing those high boots all the time for our shows.”
My eyebrows shoot up, a surprised giggle escaping before I can filter it. “A foot massage? From Mr. Grumpy himself?” I tease, but the idea is undeniably appealing. The notion of his strong hands working away the day’s tension has heat pooling low in my stomach, an unexpected craving blossoming.
“Hey, I can be nice.” His eyes sparkle with mischief now, and there’s an ease between us that feels new, fragile, precious.
“Then, by all means, Dax.” I present my feet with a flourish. “Show me what you’ve got.”
My legs stretch out before us, and Dax positions himself at the end of the nest, lifting my feet into his lap with a reverence that belies his usual grumpiness.
I admire his focus on the task. When his fingers start working their magic, pressing into the soles of my feet with deliberate care, the sensation is heavenly. Each stroke eases the knots of stress, drawing a contented sigh from my lips.
“That’s amazing…” I murmur, leaning back and letting my eyes flutter closed. The tender, rhythmic pressure is intoxicating, each touch stoking the embers of attraction I’ve tried to keep at bay. It becomes clear at this moment how much I’ve underestimated Dax. He’s attentive and considerate; right now, he’s making me feel utterly pampered.
“Good to know I can impress you, Hart,” Dax says, a note of satisfaction threading through his words. The intimacy of this simple act, coupled with the spark of connection igniting between us, wraps me in a cocoon of warmth and possibility.
His fingers trace paths up toward my ankles, strong yet unhurried, pausing to apply pressure that has heat pooling inplaces untouched by his hands. There’s an artistry in how he alternates between firm strokes and gentle caresses.
There’s something undeniably sensual about how he dedicates himself to this task, the way his gaze occasionally flickers to mine, dark and unreadable. “I can’t believe how good you are at this.”
