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Not that it bothers me or anything. Not like I want him to look at me that way. Not anything like that.
I adjust my bustier top for maximum cleavage potential and push myself up from my seat. Drew looks at me for a second, then his attention goes right back to the fangirl.
She drags those red fingernails up his biceps. "How do you stay so... fit on tour?"
He smiles. "On the floor."
She gasps like she's not at all familiar with the concept of push-ups. He smiles, all cocky and smug and totally cool.
He never flirts like this.
Never.
It shouldn't bother me. He's my friend and he can flirt with anyone he wants.
Doesn't mean I have to watch it.
I make my way to the dance floor, through the horde of twenty-something beautiful people here for the scene and not the music.
It's a pulsating, throbbing, electronic thing. Perfect. I step onto the vinyl. Eyes closed. Arms over my head. I shift my hips back and forth. No fancy moves. Just instinct.
The fangirl's hyena laugh cuts through the room. I must be imagining things. There's no way she's louder than the music.
Drew is still talking to her. Not so much flirting but certainly staring at her cans.
This tension builds in between my shoulder blades. It's all wrong. My body is loose and free when I dance. Tension is not part of the equation. And Drew is my friend. He's flirting with a floozy. So what? He's a rock star. He probably flirts with lots of floozies.
He probably fucks them too.
My nostrils flare. I shake my head and press my eyelids together. No. I refuse to feel this right now. I refuse to feel anything except the music.
I throw myself into dancing. The world melts away, one piece at a time. The rest of the club. The hyena laugh. Drew's wide-eyed, lust-filled smile as the fangirl mauls him.
It's not even on my mind.
I move closer to the speakers. They drown out every other thought inside my brain. I'm only a vessel for the music. My hips move of their own accord. My chest shifts. My arms sway.
I'm free.
And then there are hands on my hips. Strong hands. A guy's hands. It's a normal part of clubbing. Usually one I enjoy.
But this feels off. I take a step forward to break free of the hands, so it's nothing but me and the music. Better. That tension between my shoulder blades relaxes. I drift into bliss...
The damn hands are back! I turn to face this guy. He's tall. Broad. He looks like a TV actor—handsome but not out-of-this-world hot. Any other night, I'd welcome him as a dance partner.
I throw my arms above my head and match his movements. He's a good dancer—perfectly in time with the rhythm. It's not all together awful.
He takes a step toward me, so he's pressed up against me. Those hands go to my hips again. No more bliss. I'm utterly on edge, tense and strained in all the wrong places.
"Excuse me." I make my way to the bar, some area free of guys with too few manners to ask permission.
The guy follows me. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"No thank you."
; "Come on. It will be fun." He grabs my wrist. The left. Right above my silver watch.
