I allow the hot scalding water to dance along my dirty scalp. I clean out the pieces of garbage, blades of grass, a few crumbling old leaves, and whatever else lay on the grounds of what was once the AOL Music Festival, now known as the TiKToK Music Fest.

Day one had started out like every other year. Ticket holders began arriving at sunrise, anxious and raring to go. Before the gates opened the sour smell of pot permeated in the air blending in with the early morning fog. The stench burned my nose, but it wasn't a summer at the festival without it.

The gates opened an hour before the first band was set to take the stage. I stood still against the hardwood of stage one. There are three of them, two for the lesser known bands and one enormous stage for the headliners. People started crowding around them well before any of the headliners were set to perform.

The moment the music vibrated through me I knew I was home. It has been my home for one weekend every summer for the last twenty years, give or take the few I'd missed. Dad was head of security up until five years ago when he jumped into the pit to save a young girl who was getting hammered by a stampede of people. He was able to get her out, but as he left the pit his heart gave out. I saw the whole thing play out in front of me. The worst feeling in the world was not being able to do a damn thing about it.

It took me four years to overcome the tragedy that occurred. The first year I tried to come back I had a panic attack in the parking lot and left. The second try, it didn't hit me until I stood in front of a stage. They offered to have me just float around the festival, but understood when I decided to go home instead. This was my third try and I've gotten much further than the last. The only reason I ended up back in my cozy hotel room was because I ended up jumping into the mosh pit. I tried to help one of the other security guards save a young man who went down in the center during the wall of death.

I booked a room at the hotel as dad had done almost every year. I wanted the soft cushioned bed and the reliable shower, rather than a tent on the ground. The tent was fun for a short time, but I decided that if I wanted an escape, having the hotel room was the way to go.

I shut the shower off, climb out, and release the steam from the room. Stepping into the main room I can hear and feel the beat from across the street. The loud music shakes the entire building with a force that I can't explain. I'd grown up with the booming bass pumping through my veins. It was comforting and frightening all at the same time.

I slip into a new pair of black shorts, a collared top, and work shoes. Clipping the walkie to my belt I turn it up to listen for any new security info I might need before I head down. I lift a half eaten sandwich to my mouth off the cherry stained desk and peek out the silk sheer curtains.

The first two stages are roaring with music, positioned at opposite ends of the grounds. From my room I can see it all. I always book a room at the very top. The view from here is spectacular, as if I were looking in on a story told in third person. I like it that way to keep myself from creating my own story here. Two stories have already ended and I don't think I can handle a third.

"Peters, come in Peters." A static voice comes in over the walkie.

"This is Peters." I reply.

I let the curtain fall and start prepping for my return to the festival.

"The main stage is starting to come to life, you think you're up for it?"

It's Russell, he was my dad's best friend. They were partners in crime, besties to the end of time. He's taken over dad's job and treats me as if I were his own daughter. He convinced me to come back this year for one last try. So far I'm managing okay, even though my heart is somewhere else.

"I'll be down in ten. I'll take it."

Static crackles in my ear. I grab my wallet beside the sandwich and stuff it into the front pocket of my jean shorts. Heading for the door, he responds, "just say the word, Peters. I got your back."

"Thank you."

The other line goes out as I make my way into the elevator.

"Yo! Can you hold that?" Two male voices shout from the other end of the hallway.

I stick my hand out stopping the elevator door from closing. Heavy footsteps and clanging chains, echo down the hallway. A warm calloused tattooed hand rests over mine. Heart pounding, ready to smash his face in, I stare up. Warm hazel eyes briefly graze mine, something strikingly familiar about them catches me off guard.

"Thanks."

A taller guy behind him pushes his way in. His long wavy hair bouncing as he enters the elevator, eventually stopping beside me. The first guy who reached out for my hand falls in line in front of me and I tuck myself back into the corner.

"Hey, thanks again for holding the door." He turns, running a hand through his messy emo side bang, and stares down at me. Both are tall, but the second guy lingers about an inch or two above hazel eyes.

"No problem," I say, nodding my chin.

Around his neck, flat against his chest, is an official backstage pass for bands. I squint as the badge shakes while his knee quakes, like he's anxious. He turns back to the tall thin guy, both start humming a familiar song I've heard on the radio. The other guy has the same pass around his neck. It's crooked against his white tank, uncovering an array of tats all over his arm and chest.

Hazel eyes turns, and glances at me again. I note a few tattoos peeking from the sleeve of his black tee, and some on his other arm, there's also a tiny one at the nape of his neck that I can't quite make out.

"Everyone behaving down there?" he asks, a coy smile filling out his round face.

"That depends on your definition of behaving. I got taken down in the pit saving someone from the wall of death."

I wait for him to make a smart ass remark. My eyes flicker down to the pass around his neck as I attempt to read the name.

The tall one chuckles, "did he make it out?"

"Minor scratches."

"You look unharmed." Hazel eyes notes.

"I can take care of myself."

He takes in my small muscular frame, and nods. I'm not much for lifting weights, but I run and take a ton of kick boxing and dance classes in my spare time. Getting here was no easy feat, but I managed and not just because dad was the head of security.

"You look familiar," he says, checking out more of me. I'm starting to feel like I'm being investigated under a microscope. Leave it to me to pick the top floor. This has to be the longest elevator ride I've ever taken.

I look up to check the numbers and we're on floor number five, almost there. The elevator dings signaling that we've stopped. Floor four. I throw my head back as hazel eyes turn to see who's coming on. Three girls step in and screech so loud I have to cover my ears. They don't look a day over fifteen.

"Oh-my-god. Landry Styles and Harry Huntington."

My mouth forms an "O" and now I know why he looked familiar. They are two of the five members of Thirty seconds to midnight, one of our headliners. For a moment the way he stood there reminded me of someone from twenty summers ago, from my first festival. I was only twelve, and ever since then everyone with hazel eyes reminds me of him.

All of us step off the elevator. The girls who came on are still chatting with the band, while I make an attempt to slip away. When I get to the revolving doors of the hotel lobby I glance back over my shoulder. The moment I do, he's already watching me.

Sunlight beams in through the wide windows, like it's somehow making a spotlight only on him. Little flutters swim around in my stomach. I won't deny my love for Thirty seconds to midnight's music, but it doesn't feel like the reason my stomach is in knots over our interaction.

A larger group of girls see the commotion and make their way over. I stop for a second, shifting my whole body to face them as the swarm of girls take over. He towers over everyone, and even as they call his name his attention on me never falters, not once. I give a short wave and spin, making my way back out into the heat of summer.

I take a breath and even in the humid air I feel like I can breathe much better out here, better than being trapped in there with him.

I make my way across to the giant campground on the other side of the road. I walk through tent city. Many who come to this festival chose to camp out in the tents. The hotel books up pretty fast as well. The festival doesn't force people to stay on the grounds if they have full weekend passes.

I head over to the main stage and squeeze my way through plumes of smoke and people standing around. Once I'm up front I take the spot next to Lars, he's one of our regulars. He's been with the festival for about eighteen years. He's the one security guard everyone fears. He's got a The Rock meets Vin Diesel vibe going on. No one tries to mess with him.

"Peters," he says, with a nod.

"Sup, Lars. You ready?"

He licks his lips, crosses his arms, and grunts. Laughter fills my lungs.

"I take that as a yes."

"You know it. How are you feeling? I heard about your wall of death." His hearty chuckle takes up the small space between the fans and the stage.

"Not a scratch," I tell him.

"Did you hear Mac's son is playing next," he tells me.

"Oh. Wait. What?" I blink several times.

Something crazy dawns on me. My heart hammers in my chest. Mac's son? Wait - there's no way.

Mac and dad never saw eye to eye. Dad would give him an order and he would do his own thing, but he was one of the best guys dad had on his team. He never got rid of him, because although he didn't follow what dad told him, he kept everyone safe - even if he did it his own way.

Mac's son was the one I'd spent my first summer here with. He's the hazel eyed boy that I haven't been able to get out of my head. I never saw him again after that first summer. Mac and his wife divorced shortly after and he never spoke about his son again, it was like he didn't even exist.

"Oh, yeah?" I ask, swallowing hard. "What band?"

"Please welcome to the stage, Thirty seconds to midnight!" A loud booming voice rages over the speakers.

Eyes wide I stand completely still.

"Hello TikTok Festival!!!" The voice from the elevator shouts.

My heart races causing the pulse in my neck to throb.

"This is the band," Lars yells.

I spin around to find hazel eyes, Mac's son, Landry Styles, previously Landry Ryan, staring back down at me with an expression mirroring mine. I'm in absolute shock that the hazel eyes I've been searching twenty years for are finally standing right above me.