“That’s K. Taylor,” Mandy shouts. Apparently, she’s taken on the role of narrator tonight.
“Thanks. I figured that part out,” I say and go about opening my can and taking a long sip, hoping it’s not spiked.
My nerves are so frazzled from all the shouting and screaming, I can barely even hear Mandy. I peer around us. Almost everyone’s wearing fan merchandise. There are countless banners with things like ‘Taylor No 1 girl’ or ‘This girl has Taylor Fever.’
Some messages are quite rude and graphic. Apparently, plenty of people want K. Taylor’s baby. Or to take care of his sexual needs.
My attention flips back to the stage as the vocalist looks up from his microphone. A shiver runs down my spine.
He is frigging hot.
But there is no way I’d ever go for a guy in a mask. It’s just one of those creepy things you usually see in a movie adaptation of a Stephen King novel.
“Hey, guys,” the vocalist says into the microphone, his voice deep and sexy. “Thanks for being here tonight. It means a lot to us. You’ve probably been wondering why we’re playing such a small venue. Montana is where it all started. It’s a place that’ll always be in our hearts. It’s a place of new beginnings, which is why I’m dedicating our newest song, Behind This Shell, to a very special lady. Babe, come on up.”
Oh, God.
My body freezes, and not because of his words.
I know that voice.
I’ve heard it whispering into my ear. I’ve felt it across my skin.
But it can’t possibly be.
The singer’s gaze sweeps over the front row and settles on us.
“You.” He points a long index finger, beckoning me over. “Come on up.”
I’m so shocked I spill my drink over my top, not even feeling it.
I stare at him, speechless, feeling the blood draining from my body, every drop of it, and yet my heart continues to race to reach what I’d guess would be a new record in the Guinness Book of Records. I’ve never felt so faint in my life, so frozen and surreal, as if I’m in a dream.
Holy shit!
He’s looking at me.
He’s talking to me.
“Ava,” Mandy hisses.
“What?” I turn to her, confused.
“I think he means you.” Even Mandy sounds awestruck. I notice she’s awfully pale.
“She can’t believe her luck,” the guitarist says, which earns him laughter from the audience.
“Come on, people,” the vocalist says. “Give this city girl a cheer before she decides to run and misses this awesome new song.”
City girl.
Oh. My. God.
His name is K. Taylor.
The K can’t possibly stand for Kellan, can it?
It’s about time I visited my therapist and asked for a mental health check because there’s no way…no way…that’s Kellan up there.
I mean, I’ve bitched about this band. Not only to Mandy, but to him.
I must have it all wrong.
It’s probably the mask that’s having this effect on me. Some weird fantasy fetish to which no woman’s immune—not even me.
People are turning to stare at me…their eyes are countless daggers that pierce my back.
“Up you go, Ava,” Josh says, grinning, and pushes me forward toward one of the security guys, who takes it from there. With his hand clamped around my upper arm, I have no choice but to climb the few stairs up.
The crowd shrieks, intermingled with a few boos here and there.
“TAYLOR! TAYLOR!”
I barely register them though. All I hear is the pulse pounding in my ears. I’m so certain I’m going to die because no heart can pump so fast and not explode from the sheer effort.
The vocalist’s hand wraps around mine, his fingers like butterfly wings against my skin. I look down and then up into his eyes. Suddenly, the lights fall on us, illuminating his face, his beautiful green eyes.
And in that moment, I know.
It’s him.
Good heaven.
Those are the same green eyes.
The same devilish grin.
The same broad shoulders I grabbed onto while he pounded into me, taking me to pleasure heaven.
The same narrow hips, hard muscles, and delicious lips.
“Holy crap,” I whisper.
My mouth is dry, my heartbeat strangely elated. I don’t know what to make of this, and yet I know.
It’s Kellan.
K. Taylor is Kellan Boyd—the guy I’ve been getting down and dirty with.
The guy I told I hated Mile High.
The mask makes it impossible to recognize him, and yet I know.
My legs threaten to buckle beneath me.
“Hello, City Girl.” He smiles at me. And then he turns to the crowd, holding my hand, and I realize what he’s about to do. But it’s too late to run. I’ve never felt so exposed in my life. Everyone seems to be scrutinizing me, and there’s a stain on my shirt.