I didn’t think it was possible for them to be any louder.
But I was wrong.
They scream his name at the top of their lungs. Beside us, a woman has tears streaming down her face, the word “Dex” written across her cleavage in permanent marker.
Seeing all these women losing their minds for him . . . It kind of turns me on.
And somehow, despite the lights and the smoke and the absolute chaos, Dex finds me in the front row.
And his smile gives me life.
He’s wearing a baggy tank, his tatted arms on beautiful display. Reaching up, he pulls the material aside and points to the fresh ink on his chest.
Little Monster.
Then he points to me, and even though I have no idea if he can see me clearly, I mouth, “I fucking love you.”
Maybe he does see me, because his smirk feels like it’s just for me.
Lucas comes in on the guitar, Dex grabs the mic, and I get lost in the energy of the crowd.
Dex commands the stage. He’s stage right, then stage left, jumping up on the speakers, headbanging so hard with Lucas that their sweat flies into the air, making the audience scream louder.
Watching Dex, I feel my blood pressure rising. The tendons in his hands strain as he shreds on the guitar, the chain around his neck—our chain—glinting in the strobe lights when they hit him.
He’s a hurricane. He’s my hurricane.
And I love this storm.
As “Crash Course” comes to an end, Ashton and I scream along with the crowd.
She was right: this is so much better than watching from backstage. Being out in the audience, with these crazy fans, is a completely different experience.
It’s pure, somehow. And with Dex standing over me in the lights, I’d go so far as to call it holy.
“Fuck,” Dex says into the mic. “You’re savage, Cali.” He laughs when the crowd loses it, flashing them that trademark sideways smirk.
He welcomes them to the show, then introduces the rest of the band. But all I can focus on is him—how he moves, how the lights illuminate him, how the chain hanging from his hip catches the strobes.
Jesus, he’s beautiful.
“Now, we have someone special here tonight,” Dex says, drifting across the stage. Behind him, Sebastian starts hitting the kick—slow, steady. It’s like a heartbeat pulsing through the stadium. “And she might kill me for this,” he continues, “but I’m a sick fuck, so I’d probably like it.” There’s that smirk again, his deep laugh.
Ashton glances at me, a sly little smile on her crimson lips.
And my heart squeezes.
“Tell me, have any of you heard ‘Ghost’?”
The crowd laughs and screams and cries.
Dex’s smile is sharp and white. “Good. You did your fuckin’ homework.”
He’s laughing again, drifting back toward our side of the stage, and I’m wondering where he’s going with this.
“Then you real fans out there know that before we can play ‘Ghost,’ we’ll need one more person up on this stage.”
Oh no. Oh my god.
Ashton smiles.
I think I might actually die.
He’s not going to. He wouldn’t.
“Nora Miller,” he whispers into the mic, making the hair on my arms stand on end. “We need you up here, Monster.”
He kneels at the edge of the stage. His eyes are on me now, and the crowd follows his gaze right to me. Then the cameras shift, and my surprised wide eyes are displayed on all the jumbo screens throughout the stadium.
Sebastian keeps up the kick. My eyes flash briefly to him, and he’s smiling like the accomplice he is. Turns out they all are.
Assholes.
“Well?” Dex says, looking right at me this time. “You gonna leave me up here all alone, Nora?”
He waits for me, for my response. A wave of suspense ripples through the crowd. The woman next to us, with Dex’s name written on her boobs, looks at me, her teary eyes going wide. Everyone in my vicinity is staring at me now.
And there’s that fucking kick drum, like a ticking clock. It’s beating through me. My heart synchs up with it, pumping hot blood through my veins.
