I tried to smother those feelings when we were together. I needed to cherish the moments we had while we had them rather than obsess about the fact that he was going to be gone.
God! How had I become this girl? I’d spent my whole life trying not to be a lovesick sap. Somehow, Grant McDermott, of all people, had forced it out of me.
As much as I wanted to revel in every little moment, I still had classes, not to mention tests in my Molecular Biology and Calc IV courses. It hadn’t been an easy semester, and it was even worse when I was trying to grab on to every minute with Grant.
But trying to hold onto time was like sand in a sieve, slipping away one grain at a time until there was nothing left.
Soon enough, it was the weekend, and after that, Grant would be long gone.
The guys decided to celebrate their upcoming tour with The Drift by playing at The Ivy League one last time for all their local fans. Hurst wasn’t too thrilled about the fact that they were leaving since they brought in so much business, but I knew he was secretly pleased with their success. Everyone was happy for them. We were cheering on the hometown heroes.
When I arrived at the League with Cheyenne, Gabi, and Shelby, it was already at full capacity. The bouncer at the door was having trouble with people slipping inside on his watch. The packed building was a fire hazard, but no one seemed to care. They all wanted to be there, in that moment, to witness the beginning of the band’s rise.
The crowd made me practically claustrophobic. Cheyenne needled people out of the way, but no one seemed to want to move. She was determined though. I almost told her that we should go through the backstage entrance and watch from there, but I liked the idea of being able to see the band front and center.
Eventually, we made our way through the crowd to a spot a short distance from the stage. Their instruments were already set up, even Grant’s cherry red Gibson.
The crowd chanted, “ContraBand. ContraBand. ContraBand.”
I held my breath and let the memories flood my mind. I’d first met Grant here. Listening to him sing and play guitar that first night, I’d actually seen him, and it had made me realize that he wasn’t some idiot. He was pure passion and talent. On Halloween, he’d pulled me up onstage to kiss me. He’d written music for me and sang to me and loved me.
My throat tightened as Grant walked out. There he was, in all his glory, wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and a new leather jacket. His dark hair was perfectly tousled. His eyes searched for me out in the massive crowd. The McDermott smirk made the girls all around me swoon.
My heart thudded in my chest in time with the beat McAvoy thumped against the drums.
Then, Grant found me.
His smile was one of pure devotion. It was my smile—the one that had won me over, the one I would never stop loving.
“Leaguers!” Grant cheered into the microphone.
The building shook with the enthusiasm of the crowd’s screams, claps, and stomps.
“Thank you so fucking much for being here tonight. We’re ContraBand! This is a special show for us. This kicks off our first ever tour with The Drift, who we’ll be meeting in New Orleans on Monday!”
I smiled and shook my head, imagining how much trouble the band could get into on Bourbon Street.
“You’ll always be our hometown, so we’re going to start tonight off with a song we wrote about getting the fuck out of here!”
I laughed as the crowd went wild.
“This is ‘Hemorrhage.’”
The girls were already dancing around like crazy to the music we’d listened to hundreds of times. I knew every word to every song, but nothing compared to when the guys performed live.
Grant took over, captivating the crowd and drawing them in with his sexy, seductive voice and flirtatious glances. I’d once said he owned the stage, and it had never been truer than tonight.
The other guys were drawing on his mood and the crowd’s fervor. Vin rocked back and forth across the stage, raising his guitar high in the air. He jumped up onto one of the speakers and then crashed down onto his knees before sliding across the floor. The theatrics were ridiculous, but even I couldn’t keep from smiling at how much fun he was having.
Miller met Vin halfway across the stage, and they rocked out together. Miller’s backbeat blared the shuddering bass through the speakers.
During the bridge of the next song, McAvoy was so into the music that he stood and slammed his sticks down with more vigor than I’d ever seen.
After nearly an hour, all the guys were breathing heavily. Grant pointed his finger out into the audience, directly at me, and I stood there, stunned, wondering what he was about to do.
“This next song is a new one. When I wrote it, I was going crazy over this girl, and that has never changed. Now, I get to drive her crazy.” He winked. “This is ‘White Hot.’”
Oh my God, he actually winked at the crowd. He was talking about the song about us having sex to the entire room, and he’d just winked. My face flamed.
“God, he loves you,” Cheyenne said into my ear as the intro picked up. “It’s disgusting.”
I laughed because there was nothing else to do. Cheyenne glanced over at me and laughed, too.
The sexual lyrics clung to me as if Grant and I were all alone, doing all the cleverly crafted innuendos he was portraying. Our eyes met across the room, and desire rushed into me. I knew he was going to be singing this song all over the country to thousands of other women, but the look on his face said the only person he was going to be thinking about was me.
The last lines of “Life Raft” echoed across the room.
In that brief moment of silence at the end of the show, I tasted life. Then, the room erupted, the crowd cheering our names and scrambling forward to try to touch us while we were still onstage. It was manic and incredible. I knew then that there was nothing else I wanted to do with my life. It was about more than the chicks and booze and notoriety.
Music was born in me, begging to be released.
It was the music.
Always the fucking music.
I placed my guitar on its stand and then followed the guys offstage.
“Damn, I’m going to miss that crowd,” McAvoy said. He retrieved a joint from his pocket and was lighting up. “Smoke?”
“Bro, yes,” I said, taking it from him.
“Can you believe we’re going to be in New Orleans in thirty-six hours?” Miller asked in disbelief. “I know we opened for The Drift on New Year’s, but this feels so much more…real.”
“Yeah, it fucking does!” Vin clapped Miller on the back.