The backstage area of the European music festival pulsed with a gritty kind of life—dimly lit, chaotic, and reeking of sweat, spilled beer, and electrical tape. Equipment cases were stacked haphazardly, flickering neon signs buzzed overhead with half-dead promises of “VIP Access,” and the distant thrum of bass from the main stage vibrated through the concrete floor. Tommy Cash, all grunge and raw edges, stood in the middle of the mess, his tattered leather jacket hanging off one shoulder as he loomed over a harried stage manager. His voice was a low growl, thick with irritation.
“Look, mate, I don’t care if you’ve got a bloody backlog of whiny divas to deal with. My amp’s fried, and I’m not going on stage to play acoustic like some hipster busker. Fix it. Now.”
The stage manager, a wiry man with a headset practically glued to his skull, threw up his hands. “Tommy, I’ve got five acts screaming at me, and only two techs on deck. You’ll have to wait your turn—”
“Wait my turn?” Tommy’s dark eyes flashed, his Estonian accent sharpening with every word. “I didn’t drag my sorry ass across three countries to wait my turn. Get it sorted, or I’ll rip the damn thing apart myself.”
Before the manager could sputter a response, a new presence cut through the tension like a neon blade. The door to the backstage area swung open with a dramatic flair, and in strutted Joost Klein, the Dutch wildcard of the festival circuit. His outfit was an assault on the senses—a glittering, oversized suit jacket in electric blue, paired with skin-tight leopard print pants and a pair of mirrored sunglasses perched on his nose despite the dim lighting. His blond hair was a chaotic mess, and a sly, unapologetic grin stretched across his face as he surveyed the scene like he owned it.
“Well, well, what’s this? A caveman throwing a tantrum over his little toys?” Joost’s voice was a teasing lilt, his Dutch accent curling around the words as he sauntered over, hands on his hips. He stopped just a little too close to Tommy, his gaze raking over the other man with unabashed curiosity. “Darling, if your tech is as prehistoric as your vibe, I’m not surprised it’s dead.”
Tommy turned slowly, his jaw tightening as he sized up the walking carnival in front of him. He crossed his arms, the tattoos on his forearms flexing under the dim light. “And who the hell are you supposed to be? The ringmaster of a circus that got lost on the way to the dumpster?”
Joost let out a sharp, delighted laugh, clapping his hands together with a theatrical flourish. “Oh, I like you already. I’m Joost Klein, sweetheart. And this—” he gestured to his outfit with a twirl, the jacket catching the neon glow, “—is what we call style. You might want to look it up sometime. I can loan you a dictionary if you’re struggling.”
Tommy’s smirk was slow and dangerous, his dark eyes narrowing as he leaned in just enough to match Joost’s invasion of personal space. “Style? Looks more like you raided a thrift store during a blackout. What’s next, juggling flaming batons to distract from the fact that you can’t carry a tune?”
Joost didn’t flinch. Instead, his grin widened, and he tilted his head, the mirrored sunglasses reflecting Tommy’s scowl back at him. “Oh, honey, I don’t just carry a tune—I drag it kicking and screaming into the spotlight. And trust me, I don’t need distractions when I’ve got this much charisma. But you? You’re out here growling over a broken amp like it’s the end of the world. Maybe if you smiled once in a while, the tech gods would bless you.”
Tommy snorted, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he straightened up, brushing a strand of dark hair out of his face. “Keep talking, clown. Maybe your hot air will power my rig.”
Joost’s laugh was infectious, cutting through the clamor of the backstage area as he turned to the stage manager, who looked like he was about to bolt. “Hey, you—yes, you with the deer-in-headlights stare. Get this man’s amp fixed in the next ten minutes, or I’ll personally make sure your headset ends up somewhere very uncomfortable. Chop chop!” He clapped his hands again, the sound sharp and commanding, and the manager scurried off with a muttered curse.
Tommy raised an eyebrow, grudgingly impressed despite himself. “Didn’t think you had it in you to play boss. Thought you were all glitter and no grit.”
Joost turned back to him, sliding the sunglasses down his nose just enough to reveal piercing blue eyes that locked onto Tommy with an intensity that made the air crackle. “Oh, I’ve got plenty of grit, caveman. Stick around, and I might just show you how I get dirty.” His voice dipped low on the last word, a deliberate tease, and Tommy felt a heat creep up the back of his neck that had nothing to do with the stuffy backstage air.
He covered it with a scoff, turning away to fiddle with a nearby guitar case, but not before Joost caught the faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Keep dreaming, sparkle boy. I don’t play nice with divas.”
“Divas?” Joost gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense as he followed Tommy, refusing to let the space between them grow. “I’m a visionary, darling. And you’re lucky I’m even giving you the time of day. But I’ll tell you what—I’m feeling generous. Let’s make this interesting.”
Tommy glanced over his shoulder, his curiosity piqued despite his better judgment. “Interesting how?”
Joost leaned against a stack of equipment cases, crossing one ankle over the other as he flashed a wicked smile. “A little bet. We’ve both got sets tonight, yeah? Whoever gets the bigger crowd reaction—screams, cheers, whatever—wins. And the loser…” He paused for effect, letting the tension build as his eyes glinted with mischief. “The loser owes the winner a personal favor. No limits. No backing out.”
Tommy turned fully to face him now, his expression unreadable for a moment as he processed the challenge. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face, all sharp edges and dark promise. “You’re on, clown. But don’t cry when I’ve got you fetching my beer backstage after I blow the roof off this place.”
Joost pushed off the cases, stepping closer until they were nearly chest to chest, the air between them charged with something electric and unspoken. “Oh, Tommy, when I win—and I will—you’ll be doing a lot more than fetching beer. I’ve got… creative ideas for my prize.” His voice was a purr now, and he let his gaze linger on Tommy’s lips just long enough to make his point before stepping back with a wink. “See you on stage, caveman. Don’t trip over your own ego.”
With that, Joost turned on his heel, his outrageous outfit shimmering under the neon as he strutted away, leaving Tommy standing there, heart pounding a little too hard and a smirk he couldn’t quite shake. The backstage chaos swirled around him, but all he could think about was the Dutch firecracker who’d just thrown down the gauntlet—and the dangerous, thrilling game they were about to play.
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