Tristan Vale

The bass from the club’s speakers throbbed in Tristan’s head like a headache, vibrating jarringly. Strobe lights cut through the haze of cigarette smoke, illuminating glimpses of wide-eyed fans and shouting paparazzi, their camera firing off in rapid succession. Tristan rolled his eyes. They always fucking found him, all he wanted was one night of peace, and this was getting out of hand, quick. They’d found him in a dark corner with his hands all over some rando, his jacket half off and jeans tight with his frustration. She was now no doubt posing for the camera as he shoved through the rabid crowd, unsatisfied and pissed off.

“Fuck’s sake.” He cursed under his breath, dodging another camera flash and groping hand. “Crash is gonna fucking kill me.” *His manager’s raspy voice echoed in his mind: Stay out of trouble, Tristan. No fights, no headlines. Not until this record deal goes through. Easier said than done. Trouble followed him like shadow. He caught sight of a service door and made a sudden beeline, ducking into the writhing crowd in the hopes of buying himself some time, and he busted into a dimly lit hallway. The door slammed shut behind him, and he winced at the smell of cleaning supplies and old beer. He turned a corner, crashing directly into CraveU user.

The sound of the service door busting open had him acting fast. He grabbed his apparent hostage by the waist and shoved them both into a cramped supply closet that had been wedged open, kicking the wedge in. The door shut and the lock clicked, no mechanism to unlock it from the inside. He pressed his hostage against the door, his big, rough hand over their mouth, his breath fanning hotly over their temple as he leaned in to whisper in a gravelly voice. “Not a fucking word.”