I barely made out what he was saying through the incessant hum in my ears, the sense of conversing underwater. But we followed him to the gate, where he presented each of us with wristbands and all-access lanyards.
No words were spoken on the long walk backstage. I suspected the girls did not want to ruin the moment, to be woken from the dream. Their expressions were expectant, serious. They could barely look at one another for the excitement. Our lives begin tonight.
I got the impression that the security guard was used to this, plucking young girls from the audience to hand-deliver to the band. For a moment I feared what we might be getting ourselves into. Where was he taking us exactly? And at what point might I be liable for child endangerment? Because certainly handing over a trio of twelve-year-olds for consumption would constitute some sort of misdemeanor, if not felony. No, I would not let them out of my sight. This was Vegas, after all.
But as we entered the after-party it became apparent that my worries were unnecessary. Girls for consumption seemed few and far between: a couple of unrecognizable models, the Dane from the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, a reality star, and an actress from the new Netflix series. Other than that, it appeared to be family and close friends: a bunch of Brits and industry types and a handful of well-behaved, lucky young fans. It felt decidedly safe.
Eventually the band emerged, freshly showered, hair damp and void of product. There was applause and whistles and the pop-popping of champagne. And I had to wonder if this happened every night. This sort of self-congratulatory celebration. Isabelle and her friends wasted no time flocking to Simon and Liam at the party’s core. Composure regained, they were once again on a mission. I wasn’t certain what that mission was exactly: “Make said member of August Moon fall in love with me” sounded about right, and yet surely they must have realized that was highly unlikely. As it was, Rory was chatting up the swimsuit model in a corner. Beanie pulled low on his brow, hands jammed deep into his pockets, forcing the waist of his black jeans lower than their already ridiculous latitude. The incline of his head and his body language conveyed all: he had claimed her.
Oliver was deep in conversation with what I took to be a record exec—some guy in a gray shiny suit who might or might not have been hitting on him. He was the most elegant of the group. Willowy and thoughtful with hazel eyes and golden hair. The type I would have fallen in love with in college only to discover he was gay. Or far too profound to be interested in an art history major. Either way, he would have broken my heart.
And then there was Hayes. Holding court like Simon and Liam, but in a manner that seemed more deliberate, intense. From my vantage point on the far side of the room, where a writer from Vanity Fair was chatting me up, I could see Simon goofing off and Liam being young, both captivating their fans. But Hayes was harder to read. Hayes’s attention appeared sincere. Even from a distance, his conversation with his sycophants seemed earnest.
It wasn’t until thirty minutes or so later, when I’d almost polished off a glass of Perrier-Jou?t and extricated myself from the writer, that Hayes approached me in the corner.
“Well, hello, Isabelle’s mum…”
“It’s Solène.”
“So-lène…” He took his time with it. “Like, ‘So, lend me some money and I’ll pay you back’?”
I laughed. “Exactly.”
“So-lène,” he repeated. “I like that. It’s French? Are you French?”
“My parents are. Very.”
“So-lène.” He nodded. “I’m Hayes.”
“I know who you are.”
“Yes. Fancy that.” He smiled this half smile, the left side of his mouth turning up at the corner, putting precious dimples into relief. His mouth was too big for his face—wide and unapologetic. But he had dimples, and what might have been arrogance came across as endearing. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“I am, thank you.”
“Good.” He stood there, grinning, arms folded across his broad chest. He was doing that thing that tall guys sometimes do, copping a very wide stance to bring him closer to my eye level. “Did you like the show?”
“It was … entertaining.”
His smile widened. “You didn’t like it.”
“It was surprisingly loud,” I laughed.
“No one warned you? I’m sorry, Solène.”
There was something about the way he kept saying my name: raspy voice, unwavering gaze, the roll of his tongue. It felt … intimate.
“I was warned, just not enough, clearly. Your fans are—”
“Excitable.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
He laughed, tossing back his head. He had a beautiful jawline. “They’re a wild bunch. Next time we’ll get you headphones.”
“Next time?”
“There’s always a next time.” He said it with a straight face, but there was something there that gave me pause.
“How old are you, Hayes?”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty,” I repeated, and then downed the rest of my champagne. One gulp. Well, at least that was better than nineteen.
“Twenty.” He bit down on his bottom lip and smiled.
Right then would have been a good time to excuse myself. Collect the girls and call it a night. But I could see the expressions on their faces from across the room. Simon was patting Georgia’s hair again, and Liam was showing off his breakdancing moves, and the euphoria was palpable. We’d been there less than an hour. Pulling them now would be cruel.
“You’re thinking about leaving, aren’t you?” Hayes’s voice drew me back in. “Please don’t. I’m going to get you another drink.”
“No, I’m good, thank you.”
“Rubbish. It’s Vegas.” He winked before taking the empty flute from my hand and heading over to the makeshift bar.
There hadn’t been many since Daniel: a series of dates with one of the dads from Isabelle’s fencing team and a two-month dalliance with the TV writer from my spin class. Neither had been consummated. Once they’d threatened to go beyond casual flirtation, I’d closed up. I’d shut down. And while three years of accidental celibacy had been oftentimes miserable, I was not going to jump into bed with a rock star barely half my age because he’d winked at me at an after-party. I was not going to be a cliché.
Before I could fully plot my exit, Hayes returned with another glass of bubbly and a bottle of water for himself. His hair had dried into an enviable mop of silken curls. There were blogs dedicated to Hayes’s hair—this I would learn later—but there in the belly of the Mandalay Bay, I resisted the urge to touch it.
“So, Solène, what is it that you do when you’re not attending August Moon concerts?”
“You are amusing, Hayes Campbell.”
“Ha. You know my last name…”
“Yes, because I live with a twelve-year-old girl.”
“But not your ex-husband?”
“Not my ex-husband, no,” I laughed. “I could be your mother, you know.”
“But you’re not.”
“But I could be.”
“But you’re not.” He held my gaze, smiling his half smile.
I felt it then, that little flip-flop in the pit of my stomach that told me that whatever this twenty-year-old was doing, it was working.