I grunt as I hoist up yet another heavy black case with ‘Sherbrooke Station’ stenciled in spray paint on its side. We just started unloading at the Salle J. Antonio-Thompson, a huge Art Deco theatre that’s one of the main concert venues in Trois-Rivières.

I drop the box down on the stage and can’t help thinking that the two tiers of empty, red-padded seats might not be enough. Even before all our chart-topping success, we’d sell out every venue we booked in Trois-Rivières, mainly due to JP seeming to know almost every single person in the city. He’s always been vocal about his roots, and the people here take a lot of pride in him.

So much pride, in fact, there was an actual riot outside the high school auditorium we played last summer. About fifty people without tickets tried to force their way in. It was the first time the cops were called to any of our shows, and I have to admit it felt pretty fucking rock and roll.

“Matt, wrong side of the stage, man. I need that shit over here.”

I look over to where Nico’s flagging me down with his tablet.

“Right, right.” I stoop to pick up the box again.

I’ve been doing shit like that all day: putting stuff in the wrong spot, dropping things, staring off into space when someone’s trying to have a direct conversation with me. I’m not naive enough to pretend it has nothing to do with the anticipation of seeing Kay in about four hours.

It’s been almost two weeks since I took her to the rooftop, and I can still taste her lips on my tongue, still feel the curve of her hips under my hands. I know that if it weren’t for the sub-zero temperatures, that night probably would have ended with us naked and sweaty, pressed up against the stairwell wall. The thought of all the lines we were so close to crossing, and the memory of the ones we did, haven’t left my mind ever since.

She may have stopped things as soon as the kiss ended, but I know that whatever we’ve started isn’t going to let either of us go that easily. We’ve turned a spotlight onto something that’s just been waiting in the wings until now. I can’t shake the feeling that tonight this pull between us is finally going to take centre stage.

“Matt, seriously. This is the third time I’ve asked you to pass me that tape.”

I shake my head. “Yeah, right. Tape. Got it.”

We’ve got a smaller crew with us than we usually do, so me and the guys offered to step in as roadies for the day, just like we used to back before our shows got bigger and we became more annoying than helpful when it came to all the complicated setup. We’re at the hall all day, breaking only when so many boxes of pizza show up it takes three delivery guys to get them in the building.

The hours fly by in a blur of running around and heavy lifting. Soon we’re up doing our sound check before we’re due to meet Kay. In contrast to the Ottawa disaster, this one is smooth sailing; we only have to make a handful of adjustments before we all feel ready for the show. Something about working with the crew all day and being back in Trois-Rivières has even Ace in a good mood. For the first time in awhile, I’m hit with an electrical surge of hope, a glowing moment of optimism for the future of this band.

That’s quickly followed by an extra dose of guilt for the lie I told them. I knew they wouldn’t risk getting in trouble with Atlas just for Kay’s sake, and I seem to be the only one who’s not onboard with the label’s media scheme, so I said Kay had the green light to go ahead and keep interviewing us. No one asked any more questions after that, and I tried telling myself I wasn’t even stretching the truth that far. The interviews with Kay were already scheduled before Atlas decided to take control. We’re not getting in contact with any new journalists without their approval. Technically nothing about this is wrong.

Still, I feel a twisting in my gut as we haul our instrument’s off the stage so our opener, JP’s cousin—half of Trois-Rivières seems to be populated by JP’s cousins—and his band can do their own sound check.

“Ready to see Kay?” Ace asks me. “Sure you’re gonna be able to hide your boner?”

“Sacrement. I don’t have a boner.”

JP claps me on the shoulder. “But you do want to bone her.”

“I thought they already boned?” Cole joins in.

“How many fucking times are we going to say the word ‘bone’?” I demand.

Ace grins. “Just until you bone her with your boner.”

I pull him into a headlock and he tries to throw me off, the two of us lurching around until we almost knock over a lighting rig.

“Watch the gear, children!” Nico calls from a few feet away.

I let Ace go and the four of us head to the meeting room I scouted out and texted Kay about. She’s not there when we arrive, so we take seats around the glass coffee table that fills up most of the floor space.

“The snake is late,” Cole observes.

They’ve all taken to calling her the snake, mostly because they know it pisses me off. I don’t bother giving them the satisfaction of getting annoyed. A few seconds later, Kay bursts through the door, wearing the same oversized army jacket as she did on the roof. Her face is flushed from either running, the cold, or both.

“Sorry I’m late, guys,” she pants. “My French is so terrible it’s making everything here take longer.”

JP smiles at her. “Let me know if you need a translator, Mademoiselle Fischer.”

JP has also taken to flirting with her every chance he gets, again because he knows it pisses me off. I’ve always been the one everyone enjoys pissing off the most. JP said it’s something about my face. I try to stay as neutral as possible as he gives me a shit-eating grin.

Kay, on the other hand, hasn’t looked at me since she walked in the room. She gets out her now-familiar recording device and sets it up on the table before pulling up a document on her phone. Even without her looking at me, I feel like we’re aware of each other’s every move. If there was tension between us before, it’s now increased to the point where every muscle in my body is braced against the feeling that I’m about to snap.

I don’t know exactly what ‘snapping’ would mean in this context, but I’m sure I don’t want the rest of the band in the room when it happens.

Kay flicks her gaze to me for the first time, and I grip the underside of my chair.

Get it together, Pearson. All she did was look at you.

She barely pays me any attention for the rest of the interview, but my eyes stay focused on her mouth like it’s their job, watching the flick of her tongue against her teeth as she speaks. Most of her questions are about our connection to Trois-Rivières and get directed at JP. When she lets out a laugh at something he says, I swear I feel the sound go straight to my cock.

I start drumming a beat against my thighs, trying and failing to keep myself from getting even more strung out. It’s like now that I’ve tasted her, I can’t sit here in the same room without focusing on anything else but wanting more.

“How important of a role do you think Quebec culture plays in your work?” I hear her ask.

“It’s very important to me,” JP answers. “I’m the only French Canadian in the band, and I don’t want people to forget that. I don’t want us to just be a band from Montreal; I want us to be a band from Quebec too. It’s my culture. It’s part of me and it’s part my music.”

“How do you think that shows in your songs?” Kay prompts.

“It’s part of our style. I play the harmonica. We have some Québécois sounding violin parts on the album. Ace uses joual slang in his lyrics, which is more Montreal than Trois-Rivières, but still, that’s the shit I grew up with. I like that we can work it in with the rest of our sound.”

I do a double-take, surprised every time JP says something that’s not a joke. Kay’s watching him like she’s caught off guard, too. Not many people can bring out that side of him, and I’m glad for the assurance that this was the right thing to do. This is the kind of stuff people need to hear from us, not just another story of an after party gone wrong.

Kay wraps things up soon after that so we can keep getting ready for the show. I hang back as the rest of the guys leave, ignoring the looks they give me as I wait for Kay to gather up her stuff.

“You coming to the show?” I ask.

She jumps like she didn’t know I was still in the room.

“Yeah,” she answers, recovering herself. “It’s my job.”

“You should come out with us after. Things always get interesting when we’re in Trois-Rivières.”

She gives me a cautious smile. “That is definitely not my job.”

“I don’t want you to come for work. I want you to come for me.”

I blurt it out without thinking, both of us going silent as we take in the words. The double entendre wasn’t intentional, but I’m pretty sure it’s not lost on either of us. I swallow hard.

She looks at the floor. “Matt...”

“Kay,” I say evenly. I’m not going to let my nerve fail me now. “I don’t know if you’re trying to convince yourself last week was a mistake, but I know what I felt, and I don’t regret any of it. You shouldn’t either.”

“It’s not that I regret it. I just don’t think—”

“Don’t think. It’s a night out. With me. And the band. And our crew. And probably half the city. No one’s going to think twice about you being there. Just spend some time with me.”

She shifts her backpack up onto her shoulder. “I guess I do owe you. I don’t know how you managed to get me this interview, but thanks.”

Her tone is light, an attempt to break the intensity of the moment, but I can’t ignore what she’s saying.

“You don’t owe me,” I insist. “We have a deal. This isn’t part of that.”

She stares me down with that all-knowing expression of hers, the one that makes me feel transparent.

“So what exactly is this?”

I decide that it’s my turn to lighten the mood. I tap my chin as I consider her for a moment longer.

“The interview’s over. You can ask me the rest of your questions tonight.”

* * *

My prediction was right. Literally half the city has tried to pack itself into the two storey bar tonight. For probably the sixth time since I walked in, someone taps me on the shoulder and points at the bar, miming out buying me a drink. It’s impossible to hear anyone over the noise, which is all well and good, because even if I could make out what people were saying the Magoua dialect and heavy accents would be lost on me.

I just smile and point to some distant corner that I turn and head towards. If I’d accepted every drink offer so far I’d be beyond pissed by now. I lost track of the rest of the band awhile ago, and I don’t really want to know what state they’re in.

I find a spot for myself and pull my phone out, checking for any messages from Kay. She wasn’t in the press section at the show, but I know she likes to be a part of the crowd. Something jumps to life inside me when I spot a new notification next to her name.

Help. I’m outside the bar, but there’s no way I’m getting in there.

I make my way over to the front door, dodging pint glasses and more drink offers as I go. Poking my head out past the bouncers, I spot her loitering on the sidewalk with about twenty other people the place is too full to let inside.

“Kay!” I shout.

She turns towards me and walks over, giving the bouncers a wary glance.

“I’m, uh, in Sherbrooke Station,” I offer, as they size me up.

One of them shrugs and waves Kay through. He’s probably a childhood friend of JP’s.

Kay steps through the door, and I notice she’s gotten dressed up. Her brown eyes spark behind her glasses, lined with makeup that makes them look darker than usual. A pair of tight black pants made of something that shimmers in the bar lights come all the way up to her waist and show off more of her shape than I can handle. I’m thankful all she’s got tucked into them is a plain grey t-shirt under her jacket. If I had any more of her body to contend with, I’d be suggesting we head for the nearest back alley right now.

I lean in towards her ear. “You wear those pants for me?”

She makes a face. “You wish.”

I lead her towards the bar and catch the look she gives me when people move out of the way for us. I shrug like I’m helpless to stop it—which I pretty much am— and order us two beers in French so bad the bartender doesn’t bother to hide the fact that he’s laughing at me.

Kay slaps a bill onto the bar before I can even get my wallet out.

“It’s on me,” she asserts. “You got me in here.”

I have a feeling she’s not the kind of girl you argue with about stuff like this and just thank her.

We try and fail to find somewhere empty to stand, ending up pretty much in the middle of the floor, with people pressed so close against us we can barely lift up our beers. That doesn’t seem to stop me from feeling like we’re the only ones in the room. It might be forced proximity, but the fact that her chest is just inches from colliding with mine is making it hard to think straight.

She shouts something over the noise and I shake my head, unable to make the words out. She rocks forwards onto her toes, bringing us even closer together as she repeats herself.

“Where’s everyone else?”

I shrug. “Somewhere!”

She asks another question that I once again can’t make out. We both just end up laughing. Someone knocks against my back and I stumble forwards into her, just as she raises her pint to take a sip. Half the beer sloshes down my shirt and her hand flies to her mouth, eyes opening wide. I watch as she goes from shocked to amused, and when I see the smile stretching behind her hand I can’t take it anymore.

I have to kiss her.

In a matter of seconds, I’ve tapped on the shoulder of the guy next to me, passed him me and Kay’s drinks as he stares in complete confusion, and reached out to grab hold of her hips and pull them between mine.

Everything else fades as I hover a breath away from her mouth, waiting to see if she wants this as much as I do. All I’m aware of is the space between us. Then she closes it, and every thread of restraint I’ve been holding onto snaps. I dig my hands into the small of her back, parting her lips with my tongue as the gasp she makes threatens to bring me to my knees.

Someone lurches into me again before stumbling away and I’m reminded that there are way too many people here. Now that this is finally happening, I’m not going to risk letting her go again. I pull away and grab her hand, spinning us around and pushing through the crowd until we get to the back of the room.

Bathrooms. There have to be bathrooms.

I spot them, along with the long lines stretching out of both.

Damn. New plan.

The swinging doors to the kitchen are tucked away in an alcove to our left. I pull her through them.

“Matt!” she shouts, audible now that we’re away from the main sources of all the noise. “Matt, what the hell? We’re in the kitchen!”

“Shh!” I caution, starting to laugh in spite of myself.

They stopped serving food a long time ago, and so far the room stuffed with prep tables and appliances seems empty, all the lights shut off except for a single fluorescent tube over one of the windows. I drop her hand and step forwards to scout things out.

“Matt!” She’s whisper-yelling now, sounding like she’s in a state between enraged and amused. “What are you doing?”

I turn back to face her. “This.”

In the next moment, I have her in my arms. Her squeal of surprise quickly turns into a moan as I palm the slippery fabric stretched over her ass. I squeeze harder when she lifts her arms to wrap them around my neck.

“God,” I pant, as I back her up against what I think is a fridge. I’ve stopped paying attention to our surroundings. “I want you so fucking bad, Kay.”