Page 180 of Graves

“Aran Graves,” he says in that warm voice of his. “It’s an honor.”

“An honor! Ha!” I wipe my sweaty hand on my pants and shake his. “The honor is mine! Fuck, I’m completely drenched!”

“That was an amazing show,” he says while the long-haired guitarist beside him nods.

“You actually watched?” I ask, stunned.

Tristan flashes a charming smile. “We wouldn’t have missed Grave Sinner’s last show for the world. Man, I had all your albums! I knew every song by heart!”

“He’s a fan,” the guitarist adds with a smirk, shaking my hand. “Hi, I’m Leaf.”

“Nice to meet you.”

On the outside, I stay cool, but inside I’m losing my mind. I’m standing in front of Tristan James—of all people. The man whose poetry got me through some of the darkest times in my life.

“Nightstalker in the house!” Liam shouts, throwing his arms wide as he greets the band.

Only then do I recognize the drummer and bassist. While my bandmates are thrilled about the high-profile guests—they’re all huge Nightstalker fans—I feel a bit out of place.

To my surprise, Tristan is the one who notices I’m overwhelmed.

“Everything okay?” he asks when Sam hands him a glass of champagne.

I nod, damp strands falling into my face. “Yeah, everything’s perfect. I’m standing here with the great Tristan M. James.” I force a stiff smile, which doesn’t help.

“You know our songs?”

His question actually calms my racing pulse—which surprises me. He knows damn well I spent the last five years in prison, but it only seems to increase his interest in me.

“To be honest, I only listened to them for the first time two weeks ago,” I admit. “But I know all your poems by heart.”

“How?”

“Prison library.”

Tristan laughs. “That’s nice to hear—that my poems made it all the way to a Polish prison.”

“Yeah, pretty surreal.”

“Let’s take a picture,” he suggests, taking out his phone. “I want to remember this moment.”

“Sure.” I slip on my leather jacket.

Before I know it, I’m in the middle of a photo session, taking a few pictures myself.

Nightstalker isn’t in a hurry and seems to enjoy hanging out with us just as much. I learn that Leslie and their manager know each other well—same label, after all.

“Really a shame,” Tristan says as they get ready to leave. “It was great finally meeting you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” I say with an embarrassed laugh.

“It means a lot that you know my poems better than our songs. I hope we see each other again.”

“That would be great.”

Still stunned, I watch Nightstalker leave the dressing room when my phone vibrates in my hand. I sink onto the couch and open the chat. Koh has sent me a message.

“We’re still on the side. Are you coming out, or should I come backstage for a bit?”