Page 180 of Seven Lost Summers
I’m backstage with my camera, passes clipped to my belt. I tell myself I’m here to work. To document everything. To stay focused. But every time they step out on that stage, I forget what the hell I’m supposed to be doing.
Because I can’t take my eyes off them.
Nate behind the drums is sex on fire. His shirt clings to every hard line of his chest, sweat dripping down his neck, hair plastered to his forehead as he hammers the beat like the kit owes him something. His thighs flex wide, shoulders tense with every strike, and an unholy rhythm drives the way his body moves. Animalistic. Powerful. He throws his head back, lips parted, that wicked grin spreading across his face—the one that says he owns the fucking stage and everyone in the crowd knows it.
Theo stalks the stage with his bass slung low, hips rolling to a beat that makes the whole damn stadium feel dirty. Sweat glistens on his skin, catching in the lights as he moves. He doesn’t smile. He smirks, the kind that makes girls and guys lose their minds. His fingers drag over the strings with obscene precision, coaxing a sound that thrums straight through your spine. There’s no apology in the way he plays. No permission asked. He owns it. The stage. The crowd. Me.
Xander commands the crowd with nothing more than a smirk. Shirt half-open. Voice soaked in sin. One verse in and thousands are his—pulled straight into his orbit, drunk on the sound of his voice. He doesn’t flirt with the spotlight. He devours it. Takes every cheer, every scream, and turns it into fire.
And then comes Ace. Always off to the side. Head bowed. Hands moving with violent grace. He doesn’t look at the crowd. Doesn’t need to. Every note he plays cuts deep. The sound spills out of him, gritty and bruised, music that bleeds before it burns.
Together, they’re sex in stereo.
All swagger and sweat, a four-part fever dream that doesn’t ask permission to crawl under your skin. This isn’t a performance. This is a striptease for the soul, a slow burn scorching across soundwaves and stage lights. They walk onstage and the room tilts. Bodies lean in. Mouths part. Minds go blank. You don’t witness them, you ache for them.
They aren’t a band.
They’re a goddamn fantasy.
And I’m right in the middle of it.
You’d think I’d be jealous of the groupies. Every city, there they are, crowding barricades with glitter-splattered signs, shouting Theo’s name like a battle cry, begging Nate to sign their tits while batting lashes. Some press up against them in the chaos, trailing their nails along tattooed arms or slipping hotel keys or phone numbers into their pockets.
They flirt with no intention of stopping. Laugh too loud, touch too long, make promises with their eyes and fingers. They purr compliments, pretend they’re whispering secrets when they’re really issuing invitations. And every single one of them thinks she’ll be the one they’ll remember.
It’s never subtle. It’s grins too wide, dresses hiked too high, and vodka-laced breath purring things no girlfriend would ever let slide. They ask Nate what he’s hiding under his jeans. They pop the buttons on Theo’s shirt, dragging their fingers over the ink on his chest as though reading braille. Some even have the nerve to look surprised when security escorts them out, as if grabbing at them wasn’t crossing a line.
And yeah, it’s a circus.
I don’t know how Poppy or Scarlet can stomach it.
Maybe they’ve taught their hearts to flinch quieter. Perhaps they’ve made peace with the circus.
But for me?
I’m drowning in it twice.
Twice the hunger clawing past security. I watch two men worshipped by strangers who want to turn screaming into something dirtier.
But I know they will never feel Nate’s hands the second the door shuts or wear the bruises his mouth leaves when the crowd’s roar fades.
They don’t know the sound Theo makes when he’s wrapped around me, breath tangled in my hair, hips pressed close, whispering broken things into the hollow of my neck.
They think the high is on that stage. They’ve never had the after. The sweat. The tremble. The fucking. The quiet. I get the parts no one else sees. I get the music when the stage has gone quiet.
Tour life is a beautiful chaotic mess. But in between the madness, Nate and Theo make time for me. For us.
Theo takes me on the most ridiculous dates.
Last night, he dragged me to an art gallery in this tiny Czech village. He looked like a delinquent shoved into a tux. I could tell he was bored out of his mind. While I explored the exhibits, Theo set his sights on the poor girl carrying around a tray of hors d’oeuvres. He kept sneaking snacks when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. But when she finally caught him mid-swipe, she didn’t scold him—she stayed and chatted with him for twenty minutes while he ate nearly everything on her tray. That’s what I love about Theo. He doesn’t bend for the world. He brings the world to him.
Nate’s different.
He plans things. He’ll rent out a whole restaurant and tell the waitstaff to leave us alone, then spend the evening talking with his hands all over me. One time, we didn’t make it out of the place before ending up in the bathroom, his mouth on mine, my back against the door, fucking, while both of us whispering that we’d missed each other even though we’d spent the whole day together.
Another night, we hit up a football game, Theo with one of those giant foam fingers, yelling insults at players he couldn’t name. I don’t think he even knew which team we were rooting for, but he screamed his heart out anyway. I couldn’t stop laughing.
And now it’s midnight in Prague.
