Jersey Six(72)
“Ian! Ian! Ian! Ian!” It didn’t matter where they were in the world, the chant was always the same.
“They want you,” Jersey said, buttoning her jeans as Ian pieced himself back together following their preconcert ritual which involved something quick and dirty that Max insisted they finish in under fifteen minutes.
Three minutes, forty-two seconds was their record.
“More than you?” he asked with his signature smirk firmly in place. Ian excelled in cocky. Really, he excelled in all things.
“Probably.” Jersey shrugged, hiding her grin.
He charged toward her, picking her up while continuing his forward movement until her back slammed into the door. His mouth took hers, and she kissed him just as eagerly without having to think.
They were always explosive.
Always ready to attack each other.
Always insatiable.
And always in trouble with Max.
“Tomorrow is the day, right?” he mumbled over her skin as he kissed his way down her neck, his hand sliding up her shirt, yanking the cup of her bra down. “Tomorrow is the day I stop needing you so fucking much. Right?”
“Tomorrow …” Jersey echoed with little conviction as her head fell back against the door.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Showtime! Let’s go.” Max maintained a flawless record of perfectly timed announcements.
Ian let Jersey slide down the door until her feet found the ground. He grinned, fixing her bra as she made a few adjustments to his hair and straightened his shirt.
On a begrudging sigh, he opened the door, taking her hand and following Max toward the stage with Shane bringing up the rear.
Max handed him his in-ear monitor and headed up the stairs to the side of the stage.
“Wish me luck, Jersey,” he yelled in her ear over the roar of the crowd exploding as the rest of the band took the stage.
“Luck, Coop.” She grinned.
He kept ahold of her hand and made his way up the stairs, stealing one last kiss at the top before grabbing his guitar and strutting into the spotlight.
Jersey watched on with adoration, even if she refused to acknowledge it. Max draped her arms over Jersey’s shoulders from behind her. “You’ve stolen their dreams, Jersey.” She laughed. “Look at them. You’ve taken their rock star, all of him. And they know it.”
“You came to me
Cracked and worn
Strong and fierce
Needing something
With nothing to give”
Ian sang a new song, closing his eyes, gripping the microphone, face wrought with pain.
Jersey glanced around to see if any of the crew looked at her, but they didn’t. They watched their guy make love with his voice—his lyrics—to thousands of fans. A single spotlight shone on him, making it feel incredibly intimate as he sang an acoustic song with just the raw notes of Bryson on the piano.
“Are you the beginning
Or are we the end
Who will love the unlovable
Who will make something of nothing
Who will cry for you when you’re gone
Let it be me
Let me be the one
The one who cries for you
Let my hand guide you
Let my heart love you
Everyday I’d miss you
Let it be me
Let me be the one”
Jersey sucked in a shaky breath, shoving her hands into her pockets as she blinked back an onslaught of emotions. Anger being the strongest emotion. Why did he sing those words?
“When there’s nothing left to say
And surrender finds its way
When trust is all that remains
And you give in to your fear”
Ian turned his head, gripping the mic close to his lips while ensnaring Jersey’s gaze. He held it hostage, along with her breath and next heartbeat.
“Let it be me
Let me be the one
The one who cries for you
Let my hand guide you
Let my heart love you
Everyday I’d miss you
Let it be me
Let me be the one”
He repeated the chorus again. The venue fell silent before the last line. Eerily silent. Then he sang the last five words alone, bringing everyone to their feet, hands in the air clapping, screaming, shaking the entire venue.
Ian grinned. “Thank you, Liverpool! I hope you liked my new song, ‘Unloved.’”
Just as Jersey swiped at an errant tear, Ian glanced her way again. She hated that he saw it.
Unloved.
“I’m nothing…” she whispered “…insignificant … forgettable … no one would miss me if I died. No one would look for me if I were lost. No human has ever cried for me.”
“I am unloved.”
After his final song, he took the bottled water from Max in one hand and laced the fingers of his other hand with Jersey’s, leading her down the stairs to the green room.
“You hungry?” He released her hand and shrugged off his sweaty shirt, slipping on a dry one.
“Coop …” she whispered.
He glanced up, zipping his bag.
“It’s me. You wrote that song for me. I am unloved.” It hurt to say those words. In front of thousands of people, he exposed every single one of her insecurities. Could she kill her greatest weakness?
He hiked his bag over his shoulder and closed the distance between them with calculated steps. On a long inhale, he bit his lips together and nodded. “Yes. I wrote that song for you.” Leaning down, he pushed her hair away from her ear and brushed his lips across it. “But no, you’re not unloved.”