Zayne would have loved them, I think painfully. Maddeningly.

See? See what you’re missing out on? Do you regret it now?

I shove away the thought—the sickening anger—and focus solely on the Now. On the music. I won’t let him ruin this for me.

Mason is a freaking force of nature. Vocals, keyboard, guitar—you name it. The guy is an artist in every sense of the word, as evidenced by the next three songs they play. No matter what the song seems to call for—a slow acoustic, or an angry gut-puncher—he masters it, not once losing traction with his vocals. It’s as if the instruments are merely extensions of himself, and his voice the engine that powers it all.

But it’s more than that. More than just his talent that has me unable to tear my gaze away as they continue on with their set.

It’s his presence.

It’s passionate and overwhelming and it almost hurts to look at him. I can see why he fronts the band. This guy was born for the spotlight.

My eyes drift to the guitarist, just as a solo kicks off.

Whoever he is, he’s quieter. Broodier.

Magnetic in his own right, he smolders from his position on stage. I watch as his long, tanned fingers pluck and strum at his black and tan Fender. Occasionally, he will sing back-up, but even then, he’s a dark shadow to Mason’s fire. No doubt talented, but content to exist in the background—a stoic, unwavering presence.

And then, there’s the drummer.

Waylon.

My mouth inches up in a slow smile as I watch him slam the sticks down. His bottom lip is tucked firmly beneath his teeth in a way that emphasizes the tendons in his neck and the swell of his Adam’s apple.

I always found it odd how drummers often get disregarded. Forgotten under the limelight. Many think it’s the lead singer—the front man—who holds the band together. Keeping the pace. Fueling the fire.

But without a drummer, there’s no foundation. No heartbeat.

Mason might be the star of the show, but Waylon holds the goddamn center.

I tell myself that’s why I can’t tear my eyes off him. Why I feel entranced by the way his body rolls and waves as he pumps life into each and every song.

Eyes closed and body relaxed—it’s as if he’s not even here, on stage, with a crowd of people cheering them on. Pushing their way as close as they can.

I force myself to ignore the way sweat slickens his skin, darkening his t-shirt and molding to his chest. And when he licks his lip, giving me a flash of a silver barbell? I don’t imagine what it would feel like against my overheated skin.