Launi

Sweat rolls down his face, highlighting his perfect cheekbones and masculine jaw. His hair is swept back from the moisture but will fall forward when he leans over. At this point I could write an entire dissertation on every movement of his muscles as they flex and bulge. There has to be one thing wrong with him and I'm determined to find it. I start over, letting my gaze begin at his hair and trail down to his face—

Big mistake.

Rye's tongue wets his lips, as he concentrates on the music. I've read passages in romance novels about women doing that intentionally and have always thought it to be cheesy, but watching his mouth part and his tongue move with purpose gives me all kinds of ideas. I feel hot and drunk, but I only had the one glass of whiskey. Fidgeting in my chair, I adjust my position again, feeling little relief from the ache and tension in my body. I took my hoodie off an hour ago, but my skin still feels heated. My hand rubs at the back of my neck.

As the song winds down, Rye looks up to the booth. His attention makes everything worse. It's as if his stare alone can remove the oxygen from the room. He lifts the bottom of his shirt to wipe his face and the crowd goes wild. The piercing sound of women screaming hurts my ears, but if I'm being honest, I couldn't join them if I wanted to. My throat is dry; my tongue pressed against my bottom lip which I've had trapped since the middle of this song. My chest expands exaggeratedly as his abs play peaky boo with the audience.

Rye grabs a water bottle and tips his head back, letting the cold liquid pour into his mouth. The perspiration on the plastic races to spill on him. I swear it's all in slow motion. Every move a cinematic masterpiece designed to make women forget every bit of logic they might have and throw themselves at him instead. I find myself squirming in my chair again and have to wrap my feet around the legs to make it stop.

It's not until the last song that Rye gives up on his shirt altogether. He pulls the material over his head and used it to wipe his face and neck. I could easily sell that item drenched in his sweat for a pretty penny. He tosses it off stage and I wonder if he'll ever get it back or if some smart roadie will make it disappear to put a little extra cash in his pocket.

My plan for tonight is to get backstage in time for the encore. I want to film from the side of the stage as they walk off. I slip from my chair and make my way to the green room in the back. They won't be there long between the end of this song and Baby Girl. The room is cold from the heavily blowing AC. My body is alive with anticipation as the last verse is being played. I need something to help me relax so my hand isn't shaking when I film. I don't like being on stage or even close to the stage. Too many memories as a kid of the loud noise and the push of the crowd trying to get as close as they can. There's a bottle of vodka on the table from before the show and I rush to unscrew the lid and take two big gulps. Wincing, I quickly exhale to clear the taste from my mouth. With he back of my hand, I wipe the remaining liquid from my lips. No one will even suspect it.

With a loud burst of noise and energy, the band piles into the room. I discreetly check my hand to see if it's still shaking. It's steadier now as the heat of the alcohol hits my blood stream.

"Pass that to me," my dad says pointing to the vodka. The bottle goes around the circle, each band member taking a swig before passing it along. Rye tips the bottle to his lips. He seems distracted and on edge. The bottle leaves his lips and he's about to set it back on the table, but our eyes find each other again and he stills. The noise of the room fades out in my head as he glares at me. There's something about his raw energy after a performance that is both intoxicating and terrifying. He brings the bottle back up to his mouth and takes another long drink until there's nothing left.

As Rye sets the empty bottle down on the table Jack laughs and says, "None for Launi then," and shakes his head. Jack looks to me as if to share in the joke but must see the way Rye and I are locked in a stare, our faces intense and the space between us filled with tension. "I'm sure there's more around here somewhere," he says to no one.

"Time," a man announces at the door. The band files out of the room and for the first time since they entered it, I can take a deep breath.

I follow them out and find a spot to hide just off stage. I might be having an out-of-body experience. The adrenaline and anxiety are revved up inside me and I can hear my pulse in my ears. I twist my hair and hold it off my neck in hopes of cooling down my internal temperature, but it isn't helping. I can feel the flush in my cheeks and down my neck.

The band kills it as always. I have my phone ready and film them leaving the stage. Rye is the last to leave, taking a moment to grab his set list and toss it into the audience. It's clear the fans love him already. Will it be enough to keep Free Pony relevant? It's too early to say, but he is doing everything right. I tuck my phone in my pocket and head to the bus while the guys are in the green room. I'll grab shower fast before there's any argument against it or line for it.