Page 93 of Pack Me Up
I take her hand and pull her down the hall.
The second we’re alone, I press her up against the wall, hard enough to feel the heat of her all along my chest. My hands go to her face, thumb tracing the line of her jaw, palm cradling the back of her neck. Her lips are parted, eyes wide, and she’s still panting a little from the adrenaline.
I kiss her.
It’s soft at first, just the press of mouth to mouth, slow and careful, as if she might shatter. She doesn’t. She leans in, opens for me, lets me taste the salt on her lips and the faint sweetness of whatever drink she downed at break. Her hands knot in myshirt, dragging me closer. She’s all heat and hunger. I want to drown in it.
My tongue finds hers, and she gasps. The sound is so real and unplanned that it short-circuits my brain. I kiss her deeper, let my hand move from her face to the curve of her waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. She arches into me, hips bucking just a little, and the friction sets every nerve in my body on fire.
The room is small and windowless, airless. Every inhale is just her, every exhale is mine. I let my other hand find the small of her back, pull her up until she’s on her tiptoes, and pressed chest to chest. She kisses back with an intensity like she needs it to survive, like she’s been waiting for this her whole life.
I want more. I want all of her.
She breaks the kiss first, lips swollen and red, head tipping back against the wall. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused.
I whisper against her mouth. “You can have anything you want from me. Anything.”
She laughs, a sound somewhere between a sob and a sigh. “You’re such a sap, Cody.”
“Yeah,” I admit, and press my forehead to hers. “But only for you.”
She burrows into my chest, arms wrapping around my waist. Her heart pounds wild and uncoordinated against my ribs, and I realize mine is doing the same. I let my hands roam her back, memorizing every ridge of her spine, every shiver.
We stay like that, tangled up, for a long minute. Neither of us speaks. There’s nothing to say.
Eventually, she pulls back, just far enough to look me in the eye. “Thank you,” she whispers, and I know she means more than the kiss.
I want to tell her how proud I am, how much she’s changed me, how nothing I’ve ever done matters as much as this. But thewords get stuck, so I just hold her tighter, let her feel it in the way I touch her.
When we finally leave the room, our hands stay twined, and I dare anyone to try to break the grip.
Let the world come for her. Let it try.
It’ll have to go through me first.
Colton
PHOENIX PACK SECURITY BRIEF #131
RAIN SHOW PROTOCOL
May 14th
The rain comes down like it’s got something to prove here in Seattle. Not a drizzle, not a gentle tap on the head, but a whole wall of water that flattens your hair, soaks through my shirt in under five seconds, and drowns out every other sound except the roar of the crowd and the slosh under your boots. The venue’s been open for less than an hour, and already the floor in front of the stage is more lake than dirt. Security stands like scarecrows every twenty feet in front of the stage, protecting my mate.
I’ve got the main left post, just off the edge of the pit where the crowd presses hardest against the barrier. The air smells like mud, wet denim, and a hint of ozone that prickles under the skin. I keep scanning: heads and shoulders, raised phones, the blur of flags and signs, hands in the air, mouths open wide. Every shift of the crowd, every ripple, I note and log. Some of the faces look at me, some through me, but most have their eyes glued to the stage, drinking in every second of Brittney and Tommy’s set like it’s the last water on earth.
She’s never looked more alive.
Brittney owns the stage, stomping across it in soaked Doc Martens, leather jacket dark and shiny with rain, the sleeves so tight it’s a miracle she can lift the guitar. Her hair is ruined. It’s sodden, wild, and half plastered to her cheek and half whiplashed around her head every time she jerks in time with the music. The way she throws it back on a downbeat sends a spray of water into the air, an arc of liquid diamonds that snags every spotlight and makes her look less like a frontwoman and more like a myth. I can’t see her eyes from here, but I know exactly what they look like. I know the way they go sharp and bright when the set’s going her way.
Her voice cuts through everything. You’d think the rain, the wind, and the crowd would wash it out, but no: it slices through the weather, through the noise, straight into your sternum and sets up shop. Every time she hits the chorus, the crowd answers, loud and ragged, hands beating against the barricade so hard I half expect the steel to bend.
I key my radio, voice low so it doesn’t carry: “Left front, all clear. Crowd energized, no threats.”
A crackle, then Fox’s voice in my ear, higher than usual: “Copy. Watch for stage-rushers. A couple of drunks are already hanging off the barricade, right side.”
“Roger.”
