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As Halo began talking to Imelda, I saw Killian smiling in my direction like a damn moron, and I reached up to scratch my temple with my middle finger. So I liked Halo—a lot. Was that a fucking crime? No. Was it totally freaking me out? Yes. I had no idea how to deal with this…this…whatever this was. And I had a feeling that Killian, Jagger, and Slade all knew that, which was exactly why they were taking such delight in torturing me.
The timing couldn’t be worse for me to develop an obsession with the angel. He was about to explode on the music scene in ways he didn’t even know, and have so many opportunities thrown his way. Opportunities that could be greatly hindered if it got out he was sleeping in my bed each night, and I was sleeping in him.
As Halo continued to talk with Imelda, the thought that I should put an end to this thing between us now, before we left Miami, crossed my mind. But as I ran my eyes over his profile, down his neck, to the red T-shirt that hugged his biceps and showed off his tanned arms, I knew I wasn’t going to be the one to call a halt to whatever this was between us. I was a selfish bastard, and I wanted Halo, and until he told me to get the fuck out of his bed, I planned to take that angel over and over again.
But until then, I had to pull my shit together and get my mind back in the game, because the game was about to get a whole lot more complicated.
“Right, guys,” Imelda said, putting her pen down on her pad. “I think I have all that I need here for now. If you want to go with Drew over there, he’s going to take you inside and get you ready for the photoshoot. You ready for your close-ups?”
Twenty-Three
Halo
CLICK CLICK CLICK.
“Halo, could you lower your chin a bit? Yeah, right there.” The photographer moved around in front of the five of us, snapping away at different angles. “All right now, Viper, bring your left foot forward a couple inches and turn in… Perfect.”
I held the position, front and center, between Viper and Killian, with Slade and Jagger on the ends beside them. The rest of the band had been outfitted in a shit-ton of black—all except for me. I was the lone man in head-to-toe white, playing off our name. Like I didn’t already stick out like a sore thumb, but as long as they didn’t put an actual halo on my head, I was fine with whatever the magazine wanted.
“Eyes on me but don’t move an inch. Set those jaws.” The photographer climbed up on a ladder to shoot us from above, and as I looked up, the light was blinding. I tried not to squint, but Jesus, it was like “move, but don’t move, look at me, but don’t look at me, keep your eyes open and try not to blink, look badass but not like an asshole,” and shit, how did models do this for a living? It was exhausting. I would’ve rather been answering invasive questions than have to do this. Then again, it was Rolling Stone, as in a cover and feature story, so if I had to stand here all day and pretend to scowl at the camera, then I’d do it. It just went to show how unglamorous things felt behind the scenes, even if the end result was kickass.
“All right, I wanna try something. A various stages of undress photo,” the photographer said.
“You want us to get naked, Jacques?” Jagger grinned, like he was totally down for it. Hell, he was already stripping his jacket off when the photographer—apparently named Jacques—held up his hand.
“Uh, not quite,” he said, waving his assistant over to fuss over our clothes. Jackets were stripped off, my pants were unbuttoned and slightly unzipped, and beside me, Viper lost his shirt. Great, like he wasn’t enough to look at fully clothed—now I had to stand here with Viper half-naked and positioned so all that warm skin brushed against me. They’d lifted my shirt up over my head but kept the sleeves on so that all of me was on display except for my arms. I had them crossed over my chest, which was a good damn thing, because it meant I couldn’t reach out to touch Viper, but skin on skin in front of everyone? Fucking torture. How the hell was I supposed to focus now?
“Can’t wait to get an eyeful of this when the magazine hits,” Viper murmured in my ear as the assistant adjusted the lighting. Taking advantage of the brief break, I looked back at him, but quickly caught my own eyeful. Viper’s hand was shoved down his pants. Down. His. Pants.
