Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 5

started at the scheduled time. He was quickly informed by both Marshall and Eddie that Broken Evolution was only the first of two opening bands before the big guns took the stage.
    "Dammit, I should have brought earplugs," Scott said under his breath.
    Marshall must have had bionic hearing because he whipped out a pre-packaged pair on the spot. "I always carry extras."
    Scott thanked him before settling back in his seat. He was pleased to see the seats around him were empty, and therefore he wouldn't have to dodge any fist-pumping, pig-squealing fans jumping around near him. He was displeased to find out the fans he hoped hadn't shown up at all did show up after the two opening bands. And unfortunately, they seemed pumped and ready to go.
    The bass pumped out of the numerous huge speakers hard and strong before the main attraction took the stage, the sound vibrating through Scott's body and reminding him uncomfortably of a bad panic attack. He'd brought his anti-anxiety medication, but since it often made him sleepy, he hoped he wouldn't have to use it.
    Eddie stood at the back of the pit, only a few stray t-shirt-wearing fans standing nearby. His little fist shot up and down in the air, head bopping back and forth, knees bending as he lifted his body in time to the thumping. He looked happier than a pig in shit and Scott silently praised himself for going so far out of his comfort zone in order to make his nephew so happy.
    He switched his gaze to the stage, watching a curly-haired man seat himself behind the massive set of drums. Then two guitarists appeared, arms raised over their heads, fist pumping right along with the crowd. Had the music not been so atrocious, and well, noisy, and the crowd not so overbearing and dirty-looking, Scott might have actually enjoyed the outing. But all he wanted was for it to be over so he could go home and hermit himself away for the weekend.
    It was Friday, and Friday would be followed by Saturday, and then depressingly by Sunday—the worst day of the week. Scott had been so busy during the week he'd been able to clear Devon from his head, but the weekends were always a very different story. He'd started having smaller, shorter panic attacks—mini anxiety attacks according to his doctor—that came and went in a flash, but left him almost as wrung out and exhausted as the full-blown ones he'd suffered from since he was a teenager. He hadn't passed out since the incident with Devon, and for that he was thankful, but the greater number of smaller attacks left him listless and depressed. There was no winning, and Scott chastised himself over and over for the display he'd made that last day with Devon. He still had the clothes Devon had left there, and he had no intention of giving them back—if they even ever crossed paths again, which he was fairly certain would never happen.
    The crowd's increased roar brought him back from his thoughts, the lights dimming even more and the spotlights on the stage going out. Scott saw the vague outline of a man walk toward the front of the stage, both hands wrapping around the mic before he lowered his head. An eerie blue light began to glow at his feet, the illumination moving up the legs of his tight jeans, past a belt buckle that Scott thought resembled a skull and finally up the man's torso to land on his head. He was still looking down, his mass of wavy hair beginning to shake from side to side while his tattooed, muscled arms gripped the mic and held it up high in the air. One loud thump from the drums and the whole venue lit up, followed by a simultaneous scream from the singer and the crowd echoing through the building. Scott found himself inching closer and closer to the edge of his seat, the building adrenaline and excitement carrying him along for the ride. Whoever the guy on stage was, he knew how to make an entrance.
    "Bwahhhhh," the man screamed when he finally lifted his head, his face tense and hard as he bellowed again.
    Scott's whole body went rigid, tiny beads of sweat forming on his hairline, his hands fisting the denim covering his legs. It couldn't be. There was no way in hell it could be…
    It was Devon. All six goddamn feet of tattooed, muscled beauty caterwauling and howling from the stage. His shirt and jeans were skin-tight, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination: strong chest, defined nipple rings, outline of his half-hard cock dressed to the right—flaunting himself in front of thousands of people obviously