Page 8 of To the Moon and Back

A bolt of fear went through me. No one seemed to have noticed I was down here. I was like a piece of litter.

I twisted and again tried to stand, looking for Nial and Rich.

All I saw were legs and feet. A sneaker pressed down on my fingers, trapping them against the earth.

I yelled in pain and shoved at the hairy leg the sneaker was attached to. It disappeared in an instant, lost in all the other legs.

My fear trebled as a knee pressed up against my nose and the band reached its crescendo for this song.

“Hey! Come here.”

Big, strong hands looped beneath my armpits and dragged me upward.

I straightened my legs, my heart thudding and terror a bitter taste in my mouth.

Up and up I went until sunlight burst onto my retinas.

A man with black shades and a black baseball cap stood against me, my chest pressed to his. “You okay?”

“Yes. Yes. Thank you.” I glanced around for Nial and Rich. “Shit, that was scary.”

“Yeah, it’s getting bad, this mosh pit.” A force behind his shoulders shoved him closer to me and he wrapped his arms around my waist to keep me from falling again. “You should get out of here.”

“I will, I just need…”

He didn’t let me finish. Instead he elbowed his way through the crowd, keeping me close. Everyone seemed so much taller than me, wider and heavier too.

There was no sign of my men.

Eventually the crowd thinned so there was daylight between people. The band was shouting goodbye, telling their fans how special they were.

I swallowed, my throat tight. The experience had given me a fright and now my emotions were threatening to overwhelm me.

Where is Rich?

Where is Nial?

I stayed close to the stranger, his strong body and firm grip on me a comfort.

“Here,” he said, coming to a halt to the right of the stage. “You need to catch your breath after that.”

I nodded.

“Inhale, exhale.”

I pursed my lips and did as he’d asked.

He watched me closely, his hands on my shoulders. “That’s it, keep going.”

I repeated the action and studied him. He really was very familiar. His dead-straight nose, full mouthed features. I’d seen them before. The same with his wavy brown hair that peeked from his cap and licked over his ears and the nape of his neck.

Chris Harlow.

Damn.

Lead singer of Scarlet Men.

If my heart had been racing along before, now it was doing a Usain Bolt. A strange giddiness washed over my brain and I deepened my inhales and exhales.

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