Right before the final shot, the bandmates huddle together. The three of them form their own little world, foreheads pressed together and hands on each other’s napes.

Then they go simultaneously devastate and enamor tens of thousands.

I check in with Glory and Nate to make sure they have everything they need. The tour has audio recording taken care of, so we can cover more ground with cameras. Glory will have one on the platform in the crowd, and Nate is at the front of the stage for closer shots. Christian has a pair of spy glasses ready for Felix. He won’t get them until he goes onstage to avoid any “unnecessary” footage being caught beforehand.

Felix had grinned at that one, then grabbed his junk. “Everything about my cock’s necessary. Vital, some might say.”

With them all set, I grab my handheld from my bag and set off for a shot I’ve been desperate for since the first show. Several people flood through the hallway, but the closer I get to the stage, the quieter it becomes. Soon, though, a different sound begins to build. One that carries such an addictive quality, which makes even my blood pump a little harder.

By the time I stop at the steps leading to the stage, the noise of the crowd has taken over. Just like the previous nights, a slow chant starts somewhere deep in the arena, weak at first but growing until the words beat through the entire world.

Adams.

Adams.

Adams.

My heartbeat syncs to it.

A few renditions will continue until they roar for the opening band.

Wanting to be ready for the next one, I search for an angle. I move to the side of the stairs where a couple tall speaker stacks tower high. There’s space behind them and a gap in the heavy curtains that otherwise block any view of the crowd. It creates a little hideaway, tucked right up beside the stage.

Dark, secluded, and the perfect place for my shot.

I turn sideways to wedge through a crack and hold my camera as high as I can to barely clear the top of the music equipment. Once I grunt my way in, the world below stage level vanishes. The overheads from the front barely reach through the gap, and the speakers block the dim backstage lighting. It bathes all of me in shadow except for eyes up, so I go slow and feel my way toward the stage. I step on a coil of cords, but mostly my path is clear.

Famous last words.

My shin slams into something hard and unmovable. I curse at the sharp pain that radiates and stumble. My hand flattens on top of whatever assaulted me and catches me. The addiction to obtaining the best shot immediately numbs everything when I push down. The coarse fuzz beneath my palm has no give.

I smile in the dark. “Perfect.”