Arlene's POV
This marks my first return to American soil since landing my dream position. I have a few precious days to reconnect with friends and unwind before returning to Paris. The first thing I did was secure a front-row seat to witness Lia Skye Lucia live, the band that owns my soul completely.
This isn't my virgin experience with their music. I caught several shows during college before they exploded into stardom. However, this represents my closest encounter yet, and anticipation courses through my veins. These tickets vanished within hours of release, but my ruthlessly efficient boss worked her magic to obtain this golden opportunity. Likely the final ticket of its caliber, and here I stand.
Mere inches from the stage, practically vibrating with excitement while this mediocre opening act drags on endlessly.
Actually, that's unfair. They possess genuine talent.
Scanning the arena behind me reveals complete capacity. The ocean of bodies sways, dances, and thrashes to the second band's screaming melodies. I capture several photos, ensuring the banner appears clearly so I can explore their music later without this beautiful chaos.
My first solo concert experience, yet isolation feels impossible. The pit pulses with collective energy.
We exist as temporary family, united in anticipation of our metalcore gods gracing us with their presence.
"Your outfit is incredible!" A girl pressed against the barriers captures my attention. "Where did you find it?"
"I created it myself," I laugh. "Your shirt is amazing. I own one from their debut House of Blues performance."
"No way!" She embraces me fiercely. "You attended that show?"
"My twenty-first birthday celebration," I confirm.
"Incredible. I was there with my ex." She rolls her eyes dramatically. "He introduced me to this addiction."
"Same story here," I laugh. "My ex was my gateway drug."
"Please tell me his name wasn't Martin."
"Anson, actually," I shake my head.
"Ugh," we dissolve into laughter. "I'm Allen, this is Joan."
"Arlene," I offer handshakes.
"I've never encountered a Arlene before," Joan screams over the music.
"Picture time is mandatory."
"Absolutely," I agree.
"LSL on three," Allen shouts, raising her phone.
"One. Two. Three!"
Our unified LSL chant echoes as she captures multiple shots rapidly.
"What's your Yasmin Howl?" Allen inquires.
"Lyra," I provide. She types furiously, then stares at her screen with confusion.
"This profile belongs to you?" She displays her phone.
"Yes."
"You're verified. Four million followers."
"Royal Keller employs me as a designer," I explain.
Both girls erupt in screams.
"Their pink Academia collection is perfection! Holy hell," Joan shouts. "I work for Rumor Mill as a reporter."
"Music industry here," Allen adds. My phone buzzes with notifications. Both girls now follow me and tagged me in our photo.
Warner's guitar suddenly explodes through the speakers, obliterating our conversation. The crowd detonates as curtains rise, revealing black lights and purple laser displays.
My heart stutters when he positions himself at the stage edge, clutching his signature baby blue guitar directly before us. My scream lodges in my throat as he leans toward his microphone. The entire performance blurs past in a symphony of screaming and singing. It concludes far too quickly, leaving my body humming with desire for more.
Reaching my rental car, I remember those girls and laugh at forgetting to exchange numbers. I wait patiently for the parking lot chaos to subside.
I stop for tacos and drinks before heading to my bed and breakfast, my home until month's end. Fortunately, it sits close to the venue. I might have walked if darkness didn't terrify my cowardly soul. The journey exceeded expectations. I gather my food and fresh LSL merchandise, heading upstairs.
Rounding the lobby corner toward elevators, someone crashes directly into me. I drop several items but protect my precious food.
"Victory! My tacos survived," I laugh, reaching for my fallen sweater.
"Sincere apologies," the guy says, collecting my belongings. "Phone distraction."
"No worries. Life happens," I respond.
We look up simultaneously and I freeze completely. My jaw drops embarrassingly when gorgeous jade-green eyes meet mine. He examines the sweater and vinyl.
"Unbelievable," he laughs. "Fresh from my show?"
My mouth opens, producing only a pathetic squeak.
Warner fucking Lorenzo kneels before me, handling my possessions. I practically kissed his boots earlier tonight. That proximity. Now he's here.
"Are you breathing?" He waves his hand before my face.
"Holy fuck. You're Warner Lorenzo," explodes from my mouth, echoing through the lobby's high ceilings.
"Lucky nobody else is here," he laughs. "You okay?"
"Perfect. My tacos survived," I repeat, accepting his help standing.
"Crucial priority," he says, organizing my things.
"Sorry for screaming in your face," I apologize.
"Occupational hazard," he grins, studying me. "Where did you acquire my suit from last year's tour?"
"I made it. My favorite costume since the suspenders era. Though I doubt venue security would have approved that outfit choice." Why did I say that? What's wrong with me?
"Unfortunate. You'd look stunning in it," he shrugs casually. I burst into laughter.
"That was genuinely cringe," I admit.
"Why are you blushing so intensely?" he laughs.
"Warner Lorenzo just hit on me," I shake my head in disbelief. "Would a picture be weird?"
"Not remotely," he presses his lips together.
Is he blushing? Impossible. I quickly set everything down, retrieving my phone.
"I look ridiculous," I laugh, raising my phone. "I'll edit later. Ready?"
"Waiting on you," he grins. I capture our photo, showing him. "Excellent shot. Tag me definitely."
"Absolutely," I agree, looking up. He towers over me by at least six inches without my usual stilettos.
He makes me feel deliciously small, and I'm not petite.
"You and your friends held front positions tonight. I nearly stepped on your hand," he observes my belongings.
"You noticed? I would have been honored by your boot," I say. What the hell?
"Really now?" he laughs as my face burns hotter.
"Now we've both said ridiculous things," I attempt hiding my embarrassment. We both laugh.
"You're not stalking us, right?" he asks.
"I'm staying here," I shake my head, bending for my things. He assists, returning everything. The elevator pings open, revealing an elderly couple with their hideous little dog.
We enter together. We simultaneously reach for buttons, both pressing four. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Exactly my thoughts," he laughs, turning slightly. We're half an inch apart. "You won't hit me if I kiss you?"
"My hands are full," I remind him.
"Right. Can't drop the tacos," he says. I step backward until the mirrored wall stops me, and suddenly his lips claim mine.
My instinct screams run. Always does. But when he steps closer, fingers tangling in my hair, surrender becomes inevitable. He feels my submission because his tongue sweeps across my lips and I don't hesitate granting him complete control. My skin ignites under his touch. The elevator pings and he pulls away without releasing me.
"Oh my god," I squeak, making him grin.
"I'm sharing a room with two others."
"My place is empty," I say without hesitation.
"Lead the way," he steps back.
My ears ring as I exit the elevator. I glance back confirming reality. Am I really doing this? Several reasons against this decision exist, most ending with me dead or kidnapped. I stop at my door.
"My card is in my back pocket," I say.
His sly grin says fuck it. If this kills me, so be it.
His fingertips trail up my thigh before sliding into my pocket, extracting the key card. His eyes meet mine as he swipes it through the reader.
"There you go," he says lowly. I lick my lips, tasting his minty sweetness.
"Thank you," I fight laughter because why did I thank him? We enter and I immediately set everything on the dining table. "Sorry for the mess. I'm here working."
"You're an artist?" he asks, examining my sketches and portfolios.
"Clothing designer," I say, reaching for the Redd's Apple Ale. "Want a drink?"
"Sure," he approaches me.
I slide the box over. He takes one without looking. We open bottles simultaneously. This feels like a dream. His was barely a sip. He sets it down, reaching for my waist.
Positioning himself before me, he takes my bottle away.
"I've never done this," I admit.
"You're a virgin?" he searches my face.
"No, no. The one-night stand thing," I laugh nervously.
"I'll guide you through it."
I gasp when his fingers dig into my thighs, lifting me onto the table. His mouth claims me again and this time, nothing prevents me from touching him. Holy shit! This is happening.
My hands explore everywhere and he doesn't complain. His body is firm but not excessively muscular. My shirt disappears first, then my bra. His teeth graze my neck as he gently pushes me back, accessing my bare breasts. The sound escaping me makes him grin as he bites the outside of my breast. The sting only awakens me further. I pull his shirt over his head, tossing it aside.
Ink covers him everywhere. I recognize some from my younger obsessive years studying him and his bandmates. I can't believe I'm seeing them intimately. I touch them, tracing up his arm onto his neck as he continues palming my breasts and biting them.
"Fuck, you're beautiful," he says, unbuttoning my jeans. He lifts me slightly, pulling them down my thighs. Setting me down, he removes them with my boots. "You wore this watching me perform tonight?" I can only nod. "These aren't good girl panties."
"You don't decide that," I laugh. "But you can remove them."
"I prefer leaving them exactly where they are," he grins. "Lay back on the table."
His hand presses my belly and I obey. He smiles, tugging my thong fabric aside. His fingers gently caress me. I squeak again when he rubs me in circles. I lay back as he slips his middle finger inside me.
"Perfect," he praises. "Relax for me."
"My name is Arlene," I inform him.
"Pleasure meeting you, Arlene," he grins, looking up. "Call me Warner."
"Okay," I lay back. "Warner."
He withdraws his finger, hands sliding under me to lift me off the table. He buries his face between my legs and I hold on desperately. Like the show, everything blurs together.
It happens on the table with my legs wrapped around him as our tongues become intimately acquainted. He starts slowly and I'm grateful because like everything else about him, Warner is blessed by every fucking god imaginable. It's honestly unfair to every man on Earth.
Next, I'm bent over the table with his hand striking my ass, creating loud slaps while he praises me, calling me his good girl. We stumble into the living room where he curls me on the couch, successfully trapping me beneath him in every conceivable position. I didn't know I could bend in some positions he discovered.
We end up in the shower and finally spend the remaining night in bed until I fall asleep. I wake deliciously sore everywhere. He's vanished and honestly, it's probably best.
Rising, I find last night's vinyl on the kitchen counter. It's signed by every band member and at the bottom where his signature appears in silver marker: Don't worry Arlene. To me, you'll always be my good girl. Our little secret. Warner.
Reflecting on that night, despite everything that followed, I'll never regret my choice. Before then, my life felt empty and he gave me the greatest gifts imaginable. Two of them with matching jade-green eyes. Rockford and Nicholson. The little surprises I discovered growing inside me in Paris, weeks later.
Gone was the reckless girl who escaped my father's control. Everything crystallized. The goal wasn't proving to dad I could succeed independently. Everything was for them. They provided perspective and it all began that night. I never imagined he'd become who he did when discovering his fatherhood and that I never intended revealing it.
Fate somehow favored me and I'll forever remain grateful for Warner.