We drive for at least half an hour before I spy the huge tent adorned by hundreds of lights that sparkle like tiny fireflies in the evening sky. We seem to be in the middle of a field. There are countless cars parked to either side, and people are gathered in groups, chatting excitedly while they’re waiting.

“What’s everybody waiting for?” I ask and crane my neck to get a better look at what’s happening around us.

“The customary pat down.” Josh pulls the truck into an empty spot and points at a police officer, who’s standing near what I assume is the entrance. I don’t understand what he’s doing there, until he moves aside. That’s when I see the two huge, beefy guys looking into every purse and patting down everyone before they get a wristband and are ushered inside.

“There isn’t much to pat,” I say, eyeing the short skirts and snug tank tops that leave little to the imagination. Some have skipped the tank top part altogether and have gone straight for the underwear look.

“I’ve never seen so many women gathered in one place, unless there’s a sale,” Mandy says.

“That’s Mile High,” Josh says, as though that explains everything.

We exit the car, and Josh leads us around the tent toward a closed-off area with two security guys blocking the way. I suspect this is the private entrance for the artists. The guys’ expressions are so grim I wouldn’t be surprised to find them ready to break a few bones if we come too close.

“You can’t be here,” one of the guys says.

“Josh Boyd,” Josh says. “The ladies are with me.”

“Of course, Mr. Boyd,” the other one says and hands us three guest passes. I peer down, and to my surprise, find my name on it.

Without so much as a blink, the security guy opens the door. I peer at Josh, who just shrugs and ushers me inside.

“We’re backstage,” Mandy whispers. “I can’t believe it.”

Me neither.

And why are our names on the passes?

“Mandy,” I whisper. “How did they know our names?”

She shrugs. “You won tickets, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but as you probably noticed, they’re still in my handbag.” I point to Josh. “What did you tell him?”

“Let’s talk later, okay? Enjoy this.”

“Fine.” In spite of my repulsion for anything Mile High stands for, a tiny bit of excitement runs through me. From where we’re standing, we can see the entire stage. Roadies are rushing past us, setting up various pieces of music equipment, while a band is tuning up, completely oblivious to the commotion around them. To the far end, people are flooding in and the first squeals of excitement carry over.

“The soundcheck’s almost over. They’re opening for Mile High,” Mandy says, pointing to the guys on the stage.

Even though this is strangely exhilarating, I feel like an impostor. “I don’t think we should be here.”

“Relax,” Josh says. “We’re guests. Of course we’re supposed to be here. You guys want anything to drink?” He points at a table with various refreshments.

I shake my head as a sign that I don’t want anything. “How are we guests? We only won tickets.”

Josh helps himself to a chilled can of soda and hands one to Mandy. “I know someone who knows someone,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Told you.” Mandy shoots me a warning look. “And we’re not going to be ungrateful brats, are we, Ava?”

“Of course not,” I mumble.

The place begins to fill with people. Spotlights begin to go off, bathing the entire place in a dim glow. The first lights of cameras and smartphones flash all around us.

“Come on. I think they’re getting started,” Josh says.

We follow him down the stairs to a lower level, where several security guys are standing guard, all sporting the same intimidating expression. We take our place in front of the barriers just in time before the opening act starts the show.

The crowd goes wild as the lights go on. It’s all so bright I think I need sunglasses.

“TAYLOR! TAYLOR! TAYLOR!”

“Taylor, I’ll give you a BJ.”

“Take me, Taylor. Take me.”

“K. TAYLOR! I LOVE YOU!”

I’ve never heard so much shrieking in my life.

I’ve never seen so many cameras flashing.

And then Mile High hits the stage, and the crowd erupts in cheers. Even Mandy’s shrieking in my ears.

Damn. I wish I had thought of packing some earplugs before I go deaf.

I stare at the four guys in snug blue jeans and black T-shirts. Their faces are painted white; black traces their eyes; their features are hidden behind beautiful carnival masks that build a dramatic contrast to the simulated fire burning in huge baskets scattered across the stage. I have to admit that they look like living art, which I’m sure is the image they’ve been going for.

The guitarist strums the guitar in what I recognize as a slow, modern rock version of Mozart’s Magic Flute, while the vocalist stands rooted to the spot, head lowered over the mic, his dark hair swaying in a simulated breeze.

He’s hot.

Mandy got that part right.

He’s really hot. Even though the moving shadows cast by the fires make it hard to see much of him, I can tell by his muscular body.

With the mask, he’s like a fantasy.

No wonder women all over the world are going bat-shit crazy over him.

They probably think he lives up to their fantasies even without the mask.

“I wonder what would happen if he took it off, you know, the mask, the makeup, “ I say, amused, unable to keep back a snort. “He’s probably some old dude with a good body and nothing else going for him.”

A guy’s walking past, handing out drinks to the VIP guests, AKA us.

“He isn’t that old,” Josh shouts and passes me a Pepsi can.

“How can you tell?” I ask.

“I just know.”

“They always play some part of the Magic Flute at the beginning of each gig,” Mandy shouts. “It’s their anthem or something.”

I don’t want to point out that Mozart wrote it because, while I’m not a fan of classical music, the guitarist really rocks it.

A few moments later, the music fades in the background, and the vocalist looks up, and the shrieking starts again.

“That’s K. Taylor,” Mandy shouts. Apparently, she’s taken on the role of narrator tonight.

“Thanks. I figured that part out,” I say and go about opening my can and taking a long sip, hoping it’s not spiked.

My nerves are so frazzled from all the shouting and screaming, I can barely even hear Mandy. I peer around us. Almost everyone’s wearing fan merchandise. There are countless banners with things like ‘Taylor No 1 girl’ or ‘This girl has Taylor Fever.’

Some messages are quite rude and graphic. Apparently, plenty of people want K. Taylor’s baby. Or to take care of his sexual needs.

My attention flips back to the stage as the vocalist looks up from his microphone. A shiver runs down my spine.

He is frigging hot.

But there is no way I’d ever go for a guy in a mask. It’s just one of those creepy things you usually see in a movie adaptation of a Stephen King novel.

“Hey, guys,” the vocalist says into the microphone, his voice deep and sexy. “Thanks for being here tonight. It means a lot to us. You’ve probably been wondering why we’re playing such a small venue. Montana is where it all started. It’s a place that’ll always be in our hearts. It’s a place of new beginnings, which is why I’m dedicating our newest song, Behind This Shell, to a very special lady. Babe, come on up.”

Oh, God.

My body freezes, and not because of his words.

I know that voice.

I’ve heard it whispering into my ear. I’ve felt it across my skin.

But it can’t possibly be.

The singer’s gaze sweeps over the front row and settles on us.

“You.” He points a long index finger, beckoning me over. “Come on up.”

I’m so shocked I spill my drink over my top, not even feeling it.

I stare at him, speechless, feeling the blood draining from my body, every drop of it, and yet my heart continues to race to reach what I’d guess would be a new record in the Guinness Book of Records. I’ve never felt so faint in my life, so frozen and surreal, as if I’m in a dream.

Holy shit!

He’s looking at me.

He’s talking to me.

“Ava,” Mandy hisses.

“What?” I turn to her, confused.

“I think he means you.” Even Mandy sounds awestruck. I notice she’s awfully pale.

“She can’t believe her luck,” the guitarist says, which earns him laughter from the audience.

“Come on, people,” the vocalist says. “Give this city girl a cheer before she decides to run and misses this awesome new song.”

City girl.

Oh. My. God.

His name is K. Taylor.

The K can’t possibly stand for Kellan, can it?

It’s about time I visited my therapist and asked for a mental health check because there’s no way…no way…that’s Kellan up there.

I mean, I’ve bitched about this band. Not only to Mandy, but to him.

I must have it all wrong.

It’s probably the mask that’s having this effect on me. Some weird fantasy fetish to which no woman’s immune—not even me.

People are turning to stare at me…their eyes are countless daggers that pierce my back.

“Up you go, Ava,” Josh says, grinning, and pushes me forward toward one of the security guys, who takes it from there. With his hand clamped around my upper arm, I have no choice but to climb the few stairs up.

The crowd shrieks, intermingled with a few boos here and there.

“TAYLOR! TAYLOR!”

I barely register them though. All I hear is the pulse pounding in my ears. I’m so certain I’m going to die because no heart can pump so fast and not explode from the sheer effort.

The vocalist’s hand wraps around mine, his fingers like butterfly wings against my skin. I look down and then up into his eyes. Suddenly, the lights fall on us, illuminating his face, his beautiful green eyes.

And in that moment, I know.

It’s him.

Good heaven.

Those are the same green eyes.

The same devilish grin.

The same broad shoulders I grabbed onto while he pounded into me, taking me to pleasure heaven.

The same narrow hips, hard muscles, and delicious lips.

“Holy crap,” I whisper.

My mouth is dry, my heartbeat strangely elated. I don’t know what to make of this, and yet I know.

It’s Kellan.

K. Taylor is Kellan Boyd—the guy I’ve been getting down and dirty with.

The guy I told I hated Mile High.

The mask makes it impossible to recognize him, and yet I know.

My legs threaten to buckle beneath me.

“Hello, City Girl.” He smiles at me. And then he turns to the crowd, holding my hand, and I realize what he’s about to do. But it’s too late to run. I’ve never felt so exposed in my life. Everyone seems to be scrutinizing me, and there’s a stain on my shirt.

The spotlights above us go off and on, and the background behind us changes to one showing city lights.

The guitarist strums the guitar, and the percussion joins in.

I stare into Kellan’s eyes as he lifts the mic to his gorgeous lips and begins to sing, the voice beautiful, raw and sexy, each verse sending shivers down my spine as I just stand there, mesmerized—enthralled by the words and his beautiful voice.

 

You’re the reason I stay

You’re the reason I wait

Behind this shell, you set me free

In your smile, I come undone

You become a mystery

To me

 

You twist and tear this life apart

These walls that were there from the start

You cast a light into the night

You break it up, this breathless heart

Under the starry night, I didn’t mean to fall

Time passes by and now you’re gone

You become a mystery

To me

 

This man of yours is going down

This man of yours is rising up

Behind this shell, there’s only you

Life’s looking up, but I’m going down

In the webs of love, in the traps of life

One day I’ll get caught

There is no doubt

But if I fall, I want to fall

With you

 

I hold my breath as Kellan lets go off my hand and walks around me until he’s standing behind my back, his lips and the microphone so close, my skin begins to prickle.

 

I’m drowning in the ocean of your body

I’m lost in the beating of your heart

I’m falling as you laugh

And yet, you walk away from me

You walk away from me

Under the starry night

You walk away from me

 

Days have passed

Soon the weeks will turn into years

I’ll always remember you with silent tears

With a prayer on my lips that I’ll see you again

Kiss your lips, hold you tight

Coz you’re the one I want to know

You’re the one I don’t want gone

 

The percussion takes center stage, and the melody changes. My heart slams in my chest. The sudden change in rhythm is more truculent, and it’s throwing me off.

 

Yoooou said…

I’m not interested in you

Not now. Not ever

But I know you’re lying

A liar spots a liar….

Behind this shell, you set me free

 

Sheeeeee said…

I’m not interested in you

Not now. Not ever.

But I know she’s lying

A liar spots a liar….

Behind this shell, she sets me free

 

Yoooou said…

I’m not interested in you

Not now. Not ever

I know you’re lying

A liar spots a liar

Behind this shell, you set me free

 

Sheeeeee said…

I’m not interested in you

Not now. Not ever

But I know she’s lying

A liar spots a liar

A liar spots a liar

Behind this shell, she sets me free

 

As Kellan continues to sing the last line, the crowd chimes in. I don’t know when the song was released, but he must have sung it before because people know the lyrics; they’re familiar with the rhythm. He stops singing, but the guitarist continues to play.

The crowd starts to chant, “TAYLOR! TAYLOR! TAYLOR!”

But instead of turning to the crowd, he turns to me and cocks a sexy eyebrow.

A smile tugs at his lips. And then he leans forward and clasps my chin between his fingers as he kisses me on the lips in front of the audience.

My breath hitches.

My head’s swirling.

My heart’s pounding.

At some point, the song ends. Kellan lets go of me and says something into the microphone. But I can’t make out his words. It’s like the world around us has dissolved into nothingness. From the periphery of my mind, I know that a security guy is ushering me back to my spot, while all I can do is focus on making it down the stage without taking a tumble.

I feel Mandy’s shock a moment before she whispers in my ear, “What the hell, Ava? Why didn’t you tell me?”

I open my mouth to explain that I had no idea, but the words remain trapped on my tongue.

I need to get away.

Numb from the shock, I take off, squeezing through the crowd, until I’ve reached the back of the tent. I need the distance and for Mandy to stop her questions.

The band continues their set. I get an hour of watching him. Of listening to his magnificent voice while he sings one song after another. An hour during which my shock is slowly subsiding, making room for a throbbing sense of suspicion and anger.

Once or twice, I think I see his eyes roaming over the crowd, probably in search of me, but I can’t be sure. I hide in the shadows nonetheless, out of his view. I don’t want him to call me up there again.

A cowboy turned rock star!

I shake my head.

What. The. Hell.

And I was stupid enough to fall for him.

That was about the worst move I could have made in my life.