Page 150 of Fame & Rhythm

“Ready for that second drink?” he asks.

I look back at him, something in my gut flickering—warning or instinct, I’m not sure, but I push it aside. I don’t care tonight.

“Go on then,” I say, tapping the bar.

He chuckles. “Yes, ma’am.”

“So, what’s your name?” I ask.

“Trent.”

Short, sharp, no follow-up.

Works for me.

The bartender sets down another round, and I down mine without hesitation. Trent takes his time, watching me over the rim of his glass like I’m something he’s trying to figure out.

I grin back.

“So, Trent… you come here often?” I ask.

He laughs. “Is that a pick-up line?”

I shrug. “Depends how it lands.”

“Well,” he says, leaning in slightly. “I’m just glad I ended up here with the hottest girl in the place.”

Heat creeps up my neck despite myself. “Debatable.”

He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Not to me.”

Then he kisses me.

It’s soft, easy, and completely empty.

No spark.

No pull.

No electricity.

Just the dull haze of alcohol and the need to feel something, anything, that isn’t Aston.

So I kiss him back. He tastes like cigarette smoke and alcohol. Not exactly appealing, but I don’t pull away. That’s not the point tonight.

Tonight is about forgetting.

We spend the next couple of hours drifting between the bar and the dance floor, his hands on my hips, mine around his neck, moving together in a rhythm that feels more like distraction than connection.

When he pulls back, he smiles. “You’re a better kisser than I expected.”

I huff a small laugh. “Thanks.”

I don’t return the compliment.

Because the truth is… no one kisses like Aston.

“Another round?” he asks.