If it weren’t for the illuminated marquee and line of pierced, purple-haired teenagers wrapping around the building, one would assume that the Tabernacle was just another big, old Southern Baptist church. And it had been once. Now, there was enough drinking, dancing, smoking, and toking going on inside to have the original founders rolling over in their graves.

“Oh shit!” I said, reading the name on the marquee as we walked up. “Your friend is opening for Love Like Winter? I just bought their new album! It’s fucking amazing!”

“Right? I think I’ve listened to it eighty times, and every time I hear something different. They’re fucking geniuses. And super nice, too. We tried out to be their opener a few weeks ago, but they wanted somebody more alternative. That’s the direction I’m trying to take us in, but Trip wants to go more industrial, if that’s even possible.”

“Who’s Trip?” I asked, veering left to go join the back of the line.

“Our lead singer,” Hans said, grabbing me by the hand and pulling me to the right, toward the front of the line.

I squealed and stumbled to get back in step with him, acutely aware of the fact that Hans was now holding my hand.

He’s holding my hand.

He’s holding my hand.

He’s still holding my hand!

My lungs seized, and the gears in my mind came to a grinding halt as I struggled to decide what to do. I knew I should pull away. I couldn’t pull away. I wanted to lace our fingers together and rub his thumb with my thumb—if my thumb was the one that ended up on top, of course—but I couldn’t do that either. Instead, my hand remained a limp fish in Hans’s grasp, my legs, a couple of wet noodles, as I shuffled along beside him to the front doors of the venue.

One of the guys checking IDs at the door, a little fella with a black bowl cut, saw us approaching and puffed up his chest. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, pointing to the other side of the building. “I’m gonna need you to step to the back of the line.”

Hans cocked his head to one side. “I’m gonna need you to blow me.”

My mouth fell open as the door guy dropped to his knees right there and reached for Hans’s belt buckle.

Hans laughed and swatted him away. “Not here, damn it!” He pulled his buddy up off the ground, and they did that same hug/back-slap thing I’d seen him do with his drummer.

Stepping to the side, Hans turned toward me and asked, “BB, did you get to meet Trip last night?”

I knew he looked familiar! I hadn’t recognized him without his black lipstick and goth gear on, but that cheekbone-length butt-cut gave him away.

I shook my head and was about to extend my hand when Trip came over and wrapped his arm around me instead. “Fuck no, she didn’t! Your ass went all caveman and claimed her before we even finished breakin’ down our equipment.” Turning toward me, Trip lowered his voice and asked, “So, BB, have you seen this guy’s schlong yet? We don’t call him LDH for nothin’, you know.”

A Cheshire Cat grin overtook Trip’s face just before Hans covered it with his massive hand and pulled him away from me. Trip came back swinging, but Hans just held his face at arm’s length so none of his punches could connect.

“Trip! Get your ass over here and help us!” a female voice shouted.

Hans released his head, and Trip looked over his shoulder at an angry-looking lady with a red Mohawk checking tickets behind him. He covertly slipped two wristbands into Hans’s palm, then sucker-punched him in the stomach before skipping back to his post.

Hans let out a guttural noise and gave Trip a middle-finger salute. Half-laughing, half-coughing, Hans took me by the hand, again, and led me into the building.

I felt like someone had replaced my blood with Pop Rocks and Coke. I was a floating cloud of fizzy pheromones. And I was also freaking the fuck out.

I knew it was wrong. I knew I was basically just a hop, skip, and a fuck away from becoming Angel Alvarez—that man-stealing whore—but I rationalized. I told myself that I wouldn’t let it go any further. I told myself that siblings slept in the same bed and held hands too. I told myself that it meant nothing. Hans was just flirty, like Goth Girl had said.

But when he slid his thumb over mine, a sense of déjà vu scrambled my senses. I could have sworn I’d felt that particular touch before. Not with my skin, but with my soul.

There you are, it whispered. I’ve been looking for you.

“Sorry about him.” Hans chuckled as we reached the top of the stairs. “He’s…well, he’s Trip.”

“He’s a trip.” I laughed, picturing him on his knees in the middle of the sidewalk. “Is that his real name? I like it.”

Hans snorted as we joined a long line of people waiting to buy drinks at a cash bar. “Nah. His real name is Cody. We gave him the stage name Triple X because of all the fucked-up porn he watches. Now he just goes by Trip for short.”

Hans lifted my hand and adorned it with one of the wristbands, leaning in close to me to keep anyone from seeing what he was doing. It felt intimate, like we were sharing a secret.

When he was done, I took the other wristband out of his hand and returned the favor. With my eyes cast down and my hands busy accessorizing Hans’s thick wrist, I asked, “So, what does LDH stand for?”

When Hans didn’t answer right away, I looked up at him, and I swear to God, I think he was blushing.

“I’ll tell you another time,” he said.

“No! You have to tell me now!” I cried. “Pleeeeease?”

Hans stuck his thumbnail between his teeth, like he was thinking about it. Then, he smiled and shook his head.

“Are you fucking serious? You’re not gonna tell me?”

Hans shook his head again. “It’s embarrassing. Well, not really embarrassing, just…awkward.”

“Well now I have to know.” I pouted, stomping one well-worn combat boot on the well-worn hardwood floor. I crossed my arms and turned my head away from Hans in a huff, my eyes landing on the entrance below.

Trip!

I flashed Hans a wicked grin. Then, I bolted back down the staircase and poked my head through one of the six massive, wooden front doors.

“Trip! Hey, Trip!” I yelled.

Trip turned around from where he was checking IDs just a few feet away and spread his arms like he was waiting for me to leap into them. “I knew you’d come running back to me, girl.”

I giggled. “Hey, what does LDH stand for? Hans won’t tell me.”

Trip’s face contorted into an evil grin. “So you haven’t seen it yet.”

“Seen what?”

“LDH stands for Long Dong Hans, sweetheart. Your boy in there is packin’ some serious sausage.”

I burst out laughing, along with everybody else on the front steps of the Tabernacle, except, of course, for Trip’s female coworker, who smacked him on the back of the head and pointed at his steadily growing line.

Trip ignored her, focusing on something over my shoulder. “There’s the big fella now. Why’re you holding out on my girl, bro? BB wants to see the beast!”

I turned and found Hans standing right behind me, a beer in each hand and a one-dimpled smirk on his otherwise hard face.

“Happy now?” he asked, handing me one of the clear plastic cups.

“Mmhmm.” I nodded, biting my smile and resisting the urge to look down at the size of his feet.

Hans and Trip yelled some obscenities at each other, then we walked back up the stairs, through a set of double doors on the other side of the lobby, and into the concert hall. It still looked very much like a cathedral on the inside—aside from the black paint and graffiti on every visible surface. The pulpit had been replaced with a raised stage, but the twenty-foot-tall stained-glass windows along the left and right sides of the room remained. The pews had long been removed, but the second- and third-floor balconies were still intact. No one passed collection plates anymore. They let you bring the money to them—at the bar and the merch tables. And, although the statue of Christ on the cross had been taken down years ago, there was no doubt that what went on inside was a form of worship.

Hans selected a spot close to the stage but on the far-right side of the crowd. As the lights went down and the crowd started to rush to the front, he leaned over and whisper-yelled in my ear, “You can go up closer if you want.”

I looked up at him with my eyebrows pulled together. “You don’t want to come with me?”

Hans shook his head. “I can’t. I’ll block everybody’s view. I just feel bad, making you stand back here with me when there’s room up front.”

It was so fucking sweet. I wanted to wrap myself around his long, lean body and press my ear to his heart and just listen to the sound of it for the rest of the night instead of the music. But I smiled and smacked him on the arm instead. “Don’t be stupid.”

The opening band was called Miss Murder, and they spotted Hans in the crowd right away. The drummer pointed his sticks in our direction before launching into their set. I could tell they were nervous, their movements stiff and rehearsed, but their sound was pretty cool. Hans had been right; they were heavy, but not Phantom Limb heavy.

As soon as their set was over and the guys started breaking down their equipment, the drummer motioned for us to come over. He and Hans chatted for a minute before Hans hopped onstage to help them clear out.

Evidently, only headliners got roadies.

I had no idea what to do to help, so I did what I always did whenever I felt awkward. I smoked a cigarette and tried to look cool.

It was kind of fun, watching Hans in his element. He looked so comfortable up onstage. He knew exactly what to do and joked with the guys as they worked.

When they were done, Hans came over to the edge of the stage and reached both hands down to me. “C’mon. We’re gonna go meet the band.”

“The band? Like, the band?”

Hans beamed with pride. “Yeah. Like, the band. Come on.”

I set my almost-empty plastic cup with two cigarette butts floating in it on the edge of the stage and let Hans hoist me up. As he led me across the platform and through a curtain, I became acutely aware that I was wearing the same clothes I’d worn the day before, had re-spiked my hair in a sink that morning, and had been drinking steadily since noon. If I had known I was going to meet Love Like Winter that day, I would have at least showered.

I covertly ducked my head and sniffed my armpit.

Ugh.

While I was busy rummaging through my purse, looking for breath mints and lipstick, we managed to make our way to a doorway where Hans’s drummer friend was standing. He was a sweaty, stocky guy wearing a muscle shirt and a huge smile—the smile of a guy who’d just opened for Love Like Winter.

I don’t even really remember what happened; it was so surreal.

There was a room. With famous rock stars inside. Whom I’d seen on MTV. Whose CD was in my car stereo. Who smiled at me and said they liked my pixie cut. Who shook Hans’s hand and said they remembered him from the audition. Who laughed about the Grave Digger autograph on my arm because, How can a truck hold a pen? And who then put their autographs on my arm to add to my collection. Rock stars who said, “Thanks for coming,” as they breezed past us and out the door. Who left us alone in a green room, backstage at the Tabernacle.

Hans and I just stood in their wake, blinking at each other.

“Oh my fucking God,” I whispered.

Hans’s dimples deepened. “You’re totally fangirling right now.”

“Fuck you! That was Love Like Winter!” I huffed and gestured at the open door. Then I looked down at my arm in amazement, flipping it over to admire both sides. “And they touched me.”

Hans chuckled at my dramatics. “They’re just people.”

I held up a hand. “No, they’re not. They’re Love Like Winter. Hush your mouth.”

Hans raised an eyebrow at me and smirked, effectively hushed.

I looked down at my arm again and smiled. Picking up the Sharpie they’d used, I pulled the cap off and handed it to Hans. “Will you sign it too?”

Hans rolled his eyes. “Put that thing away.”

“I’m serious. You’re gonna be just as famous as them one day. I can tell. I want to be able to say that I got your very first autograph.”

After some stammering and hesitation, Hans finally accepted the marker. I turned my left arm over to expose a blank spot and held my breath as he wrapped his hand around my wrist. I wondered if I would ever get used to the feeling of his skin on my skin. To the violent knocking of memories from a lifetime forgotten on the basement door of my subconscious.

Knock, knock, knock. I heard with my ears.

Knock, knock, knock. I felt in my bones.

When Hans released my arm, I looked down to admire his work. Only, where a signature should have been, a ten-digit number had been written instead.

A phone number.

I lifted my eyes to meet his. Hans’s chest rose, and he bit the inside of his lip. He reminded me of a child awaiting a punishment. A sweet, generous, painfully sexy, six-foot-three-inch-tall child with a five-o’clock shadow and a full sleeve of tattoos.

Who had just done something he shouldn’t have.

“Honey, I think somebody needs to teach you how autographs work. Gimme that thing,” I joked, trying to defuse the situation. I flicked my fingers at the marker in his hand.

Hans handed it over without a word, worrying his lip as I took his wrist and flipped it over.

Five seconds later, Hans burst out laughing when I lifted my hand and let him see my masterpiece. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Oh, wait, hang on,” I said, quickly adding the letters LDH inside the shaft of the two-inch-tall penis I’d just drawn. “There.”

“You think that’s a better autograph?” Hans asked, gently slipping the marker from my hand.

I grinned and nodded.

“Okay then.” He shrugged. “Guess I’d better start practicing.” Hans reached out and snatched my arm before I could pull away.

“No!” I yelled, tugging against his grip, but it was too late. I was caught.

When Hans came at me with the Sharpie, I switched tactics and tried to bat it out of his hand.

He chuckled and moved the marker from side to side, taunting me with an, “Uh-uh-uh,” before finally holding the damn thing so high over his head that I couldn’t reach it, even when I jumped.

I grunted in frustration. Back when Knight used to restrain me or pin me down, albeit under very different circumstances, I’d learned how to wriggle and twist my way to freedom.

I grunted in frustration and spun around backward, trying to twist my arm out of Hans’s grasp, like I’d done with Knight years before. But the instant my back collided with his front, my muscles softened and gave up the fight. I sagged backward against Hans’s chest, and he pulled me closer, wrapping his Sharpie-holding arm around my middle and resting his chin on the top of my head.

Hans was, once again, holding me.

Dopamine exploded through my bloodstream.

My eyes rolled up into my head.

Ever since that morning, I’d been jonesing for another fix. I’d wanted to feel the weight of Hans’s arms around me again even more than I wanted to see that famous dong of his. And that was a lot.

I closed my eyes and held my breath, thinking maybe I could stop time. Maybe I could live in that space between my breaths forever.

I didn’t breathe as Hans loosened his grip on my forearm and gently massaged the freckled flesh beneath his palm. I didn’t breathe as I lifted my right arm and gingerly slid the marker from Hans’s right hand. And I only opened one eye as I scrawled my phone number down the length of Leatherface’s chainsaw, my lungs burning like twin bonfires in my chest.

In fact, I didn’t take a breath until the first chords of Love Like Winter’s opening song rattled through the walls, proving me a failure.

I hadn’t stopped time. All I’d done was deprive myself of oxygen while handing my heart to an unavailable man.

Silly, stupid girl.

With a sigh, I wriggled out of Hans’s embrace and placed the black marker back on the green-room coffee table. I took a beat to pull on my most-excited grin. Then, I spun around and asked, “Can we go watch the show now?”

Hans led me back through the narrow hallways until we reached a heavy gray door. I could practically see it rattling from the reverb assaulting it on the other side. With a backward glance and his small, dimpled smile, Hans pushed it open, bathing us in a riot of joyous noise.

We entered the belly of the cathedral to the left of the stage just as Love Like Winter finished their first song. The crowd deafened me with their enthusiasm as I made my way to the bar. If I was going to have to stand next to Hans Oppenheimer in this den of gyrating bodies and sweat and abandon for the next hour, I was gonna need a fucking drink.

A stiff one.

I ordered two Jack and Cokes, holding up my wristband in annoyance, like I wasn’t obviously seventeen. Just as I was about to hand over my debit card to pay for them, Hans swooped in and slapped a twenty on the bar. I should have protested a little more or at least offered to pay him back. After all, he’d paid for literally everything that day, but I was flat broke. I hadn’t been able to work since the accident and was living off of what I’d managed to save from my race winnings.

Thank you, I mouthed as I joined Hans at the edge of the crowd. It was too loud for any real communication.

The old hardwood shook and bounced beneath our feet as hundreds of bodies jumped up and down all around us. Hans smiled and handed over one of the fizzy brown beverages.

You’re welcome, he mouthed back.

What? I mouthed, just to fuck with him. I can’t hear you.

Hans smirked at my silliness and cupped his hands around his mouth. Yooooou’re wellllcooooome, he pretended to shout, exaggerating every syllable.

I furrowed my brow and shrugged. Then, I waved my hand back and forth between the band and my ear. It’s too loud. Say it one more time. I took a sip of my drink to hide my stupid schoolgirl grin as I batted my eyelashes at Hans.

But Hans didn’t mouth You’re welcome again. He looked at me and looked at me, and then he said, “You’re beautiful,” instead.

Out loud.

In his normal voice.

I froze. Clear plastic cup to my lips. Sugary bubbles bursting on my tongue. Sugary bubbles stinging my eyes.

Sugary bubbles tingling between my legs.

I swallowed. I blinked. I blinked again.

Hans swallowed. He blinked. His eyebrows pulled together.

Shit. I made it weird.

With flaming cheeks, I mumbled something that sounded like thank you. Then, I turned toward the stage and took a sip from my drink to mask my mortification.

Tell him he’s beautiful too!

No way! Guys don’t want to be called beautiful!

Tell him he looks like Jared Leto from My So-Called Life!

Nobody with a penis watched that show, dummy!

Tell him—

My internal freak-out was interrupted by a callused knuckle against the underside of my chin. Hans gently rotated my face up and to the left, forcing me to look at him. I tried to turn my anxious cringe into a smile as Hans searched my face with soulful eyes. The expression he wore was so sincere, it made my chest ache.

He bent down to my ear, the fingers under my jaw splaying to cup the side of my neck, and said, above the roar of the bodies and speakers and the hormones swirling around us, “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

I blinked back stunned tears as my blushing cheek brushed against his prickly one. I inhaled his scent, caressed his earlobe with my nose, then said, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you. Will you say that again?”

Hans laughed and pulled me into his side where I stood for the next hour, swooning and singing and sloshing my drinks in pure glee.

When the last song had been played and the house lights came up, Hans and I stumbled out onto the fire escape, arm in arm, and made our way down to the street. The night air was hot and sweaty, just like us. We cut across Centennial Park, which I’d never seen at night, and Hans gave his last Newport to a homeless man asking to bum a smoke.

By the time we found the BMW in the Georgia Dome parking lot, I had already begun to mourn what had quite possibly been the best day of my life. I drove back to Steven’s house with the sunroof open and the AC on full blast, going exactly the speed limit and not one mile per hour faster. I wasn’t going to let anything ruin my perfect day.

At least, that’s what I thought until Hans’s phone started ringing.

And ringing.

And ringing.

Every time it went off, he’d silence it immediately and shove it back into his pocket. After the third ring, Hans turned the car stereo on. A haunting, heavy bass line filled the car.

“Do you like the Deftones?”

He was trying to distract me. Well, unlike him, I had a one-track mind. I ate distractions for breakfast.

“Do you need to get that?” I asked, watching him out of the corner of my eye.

Hans opened his glove box and pulled out a new pack of Newports. Tapping the lid of the box on the heel of his palm a few times, he said, “No.”

No. That was it. No explanation. No chuckle about Trip drunk-dialing him or annoyance about his mom being a worrywart. Hans, an emotional open book, was hiding something from me.

“What if it’s an emergency?” I asked.

“It’s not.” Hans peeled the plastic wrap off the box and let it flutter to the floorboard, joining the rest of the trash accumulated there.

“But what if it is?”

Hans stuck a cigarette between his teeth and shrugged. “Then they can call somebody else.”

They. Gender-neutral. Hans didn’t want me to know that it was a girl.

I hadn’t asked him about his girlfriend because, honestly, I wanted to pretend like she didn’t exist. But there she was anyway, riding shotgun in Hans’s pocket.

I felt like the lowest of the fucking low. I’d been that girl, searching for my boyfriend. Waiting by the phone. Crying myself to sleep while he was off, drinking and partying and fucking someone else. I glanced down at Hans’s phone number on my arm and felt another stab of guilt. Had he pulled that move on her, too? Written his number on her skin? Made her feel special?

I took Hans’s fresh pack of Newports from the center console without asking and lit one, savoring one last menthol before I cut him loose. I might have been needy. I might have been recently broken. But I was healing. I didn’t need to steal another girl’s boyfriend to make myself whole. I wasn’t Angel fucking Alvarez.

I was, however, way drunker than I’d realized. The menthol had taken my buzz and cranked it up to eleven. By the time I pulled into Steven’s neighborhood, I could barely see straight. My head spun, and my stomach lurched. I clenched my teeth and fought back the bile until I pulled up onto the curb behind my Mustang. Then, I threw the Beemer in park, pushed open the door, and retched all over the sidewalk.

I guess matching a dude who was almost a foot taller than me and twice my body weight drink for drink hadn’t been such a good idea after all.