Page 24 of Until the Last Star Fades

Ben obliged, each step off the stage pushing his heart higher and higher into his throat. He swallowed heavily, watching Hunter for guidance. His new roommate threw his arms triumphantly around Leia’s waist, yanking her willingly against his jeans into a dirty dance that drew lustful screeches from the crowd. Here goes nothing. Avoiding Riley’s eyes, Ben tentatively reached for her waist, his fingers sliding around her soft curves, the silkiness of her blue wrap dress conspiring to quicken his already rapid pulse. He fought the rush, inhaling slowly, closing his eyes as he released the breath with a shudder. Sassy, sexy Riley—but she leaned away, her wild stare tracing his bare chest. Shit, is that pity? Disgust? He glanced at Hunter, who was completely lost in Leia and their flirtatious bump and grind, and then caught the lascivious leers of several women mere inches away. You can’t hide. Everyone’s watching. Get it over with—just do it. A tortured half-grin floundered on Ben’s face as he pulled Riley in, the kind, gorgeous girl he had hoped to bump into again. Careful what you wish for…

Ben swayed to the beat. Riley stiffly followed his lead, keeping a safe distance from his sweaty chest and the belt buckle protruding over his jeans. Her hands skirted his shoulders, barely touching him, like a shy preteen at a junior high dance. He briefly looked at her face, expecting disappointment but…a warmth rose in her green eyes and a soft smile grew across her cheeks. Her fingers traveled along his skin, her hands meeting behind his neck, pulling him closer. Don’t read anything into this. She’s just being kind.

They stayed locked together for the final minute of the song, each roll of his hips into hers, each sway as one unleashing shivers up his spine. Eyes closed, Riley didn’t push him away or tell him to back off. I bet she can feel my heart pounding like I can feel hers. Is she enjoying this? Or is she wishing it would end soon? Oh God, what I wouldn’t give to kiss her…

The rising catcalls and heavy bass flooded his ears, derailing his longing, forcing him back to reality with a heavy blink. Fagan, stop! These feelings—you’re wasting your time! She’s taken. And anyway, commitment isn’t your thing, mate. He cleared his throat, his gaze drifting over her shoulder, avoiding the blur of female faces beyond.

Maroon 5’s big hit began to mix into the next song, signalling that Ben’s only performance was over. Riley opened her eyes and he loosened his hold, his hands falling from her waist as he stepped back. Self-preservation…save some face. Ben’s shoulders lifted in a casual shrug. “Cheers.”

Riley fumbled with her clutch, her lips opening to say something, but Ben fled into the shadows where excuses and explanations weren’t necessary.

Thirteen

Ben’s unexpected appearance and abrupt disappearance left Riley’s complexion flushed, her heart racing, and her mind flooded with questions: Why didn’t he text me? Holy crap, he’s hot! Has he been dancing long? Riley giggled. Actually, his ‘moves’ answered that question!

Squeezing through the rowdy throng of women during the intermission, she crossed paths with a few shirtless dancers serving drinks, but Ben wasn’t one of them. She craned her neck, looking over heads bobbing to the music and around arms waving colorful cocktails, but after a second loop of the club, there was still no sign of him. She gave up her search, slipping into the ladies’ room. After a lipstick re-application and a fluff of her hair, “Pony” began to throb through the club’s sound system. The midnight show—the dancers were on stage again.

Heading back, Riley’s eyes shot over the sea of women in front of the stage, landing on the muscled hunk who had been dancing with Leia earlier, slick with body oil, thrusting away, his jaw-aching bulge barely contained in a tiny purple G-string. A woman to her right held up a sign with a huge purple emoji—the eggplant. Of course. Riley chuckled, veered to the left, and spotted a green baseball cap by the bar. Ben? She took a detour and a chance, weaving past several drunk women punching the air with large inflatable penises. Claiming a spot just shy of the guy’s left elbow and his coat, which were piled up on the wooden bar like a barrier, she leaned in: Boston Bruins hat—check, dark hair flicking out underneath—check, cheekbones to die for—check. He turned his head and quickly turned away again. Vibrant blue eyes—fleeting, but check. He hung his head and slouched over three empty shot glasses. His left hand was entertaining itself in a bowl of bar nuts.

Is he okay? “Ben?”

He stared at the bar, plunging a finger of his now healed right hand into an empty glass, spinning it round and round. The bartender returned with two full shots of a clear liquid. Ben mouthed, “Thanks.”

Vodka? Riley leaned in. The sleeve of his purple hoodie was torn, hinting at a tattoo of some sort lurking on the inside of his right forearm. She ducked slightly, trying to see under the peak of his cap. “Hey…again…”

He focused intently on the peanut bowl, not responding.

“I almost didn’t recognize you up there without your hat. Is this research?”

“Research?” Avoiding her eyes, his chin retreated into his hoodie.

“Yeah, for a role. Going all Channing Tatum?”

He snorted, his posture stiffening as his hand abandoned the empty glass for a full shot. “Like anyone would want to cast me.”

“What? Oh, jeez. The Netflix thing…you…?”

“Didn’t get it.” Ben tossed back the vodka and winced, promptly exchanging that glass for another.

“Oh, I'm sorry.” Riley set her jacket down on top of his. “Did you find out today?”

He laughed joylessly, the full glass teasing his wet lips. “I found out mid-audition.”

“Weeks ago?”

“Yep.” He downed the shot and slammed the empty glass on the bar.

“But you were celebrating in LA. You said—”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still refusing to look at her. “Yeah, celebrating the end of my dream of being an actor. Why just celebrate our successes? I reckon we should celebrate our failures, too, send ’em on their way with a bottle of whiskey and a cheeky middle finger.”

“So, why did you tell m—”

“I lied, all right? Because no bloke tells a pretty girl he’s just met that he’s a fucking failure.”

Pretty? A slight smile raised her lips but quickly dissolved.

He shoved the empty glass away. “The audition was a disaster. They handed me a script I hadn’t seen before, not the one my agent gave me to rehearse. I got nervous, couldn’t even read the lines…”