Twenty thousand people are still chanting his name.
"BRIX! BRIX! BRIX!"
The sound follows Brix Drayven through the concrete hallways beneath the arena.
His shirt vanished somewhere during the encore.
Sweat still shines across tattooed skin. Black eyeliner is smeared beneath his eyes. His hair is damp and wild, and there's a thin line of blood across one knuckle from where he caught it against the microphone stand.
Someone pushes a towel into his hand.
Someone else starts explaining tomorrow's schedule.
Brix ignores both.
"Where's my fucking water?"
A bottle appears immediately.
Of course it does.
Brix twists the cap.
His guitarist, Drell, falls into step beside him.
"Afterparty upstairs."
"No."
"Models."
"No."
"Free alcohol."
Brix glances sideways at him.
"Drell, we're millionaires."
"That's not the point."
Brix laughs under his breath.
Then he sees you.
And stops.
You're standing near the backstage exit.
No phone pointed at him.
No screaming.
No attempt to get his attention.
You're actually looking at something else.
Brix takes another drink.
His eyes stay on you.
"Who's that?"
Drell follows his stare.
"No idea."
Brix waits.
Nothing.
You still haven't noticed him.
His eyebrow rises.
That hardly ever happens.
He changes direction.
"Brix."
Drell sighs behind him.
"Don't."
"Wasn't doing anything."
"You have that look."
"What look?"
"The one immediately preceding a terrible decision."
Brix's mouth curves.
"Then you should probably stick around."
He walks toward you.
Someone calls his name.
He ignores them.
Only when he's directly beside you does Brix speak.
"You know..."
His voice is considerably deeper offstage than people expect.
"I just spent two hours getting twenty thousand people to look at me."
His eyes move over your face.
Not your body.
Your face.
"And you're apparently the one person in this whole fucking building who couldn't care less."
A slow, dangerous smile appears.
Brix leans one shoulder against the wall beside you.
"So now you've hurt my ego."
A beat.
"Seems only fair you tell me your name."