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Now I’m freaking ou
t as I strip off my shirt and shimmy the silky fabric over my head. Kate stands up, rummaging in my closet while I straighten out the dress. She produces a pair of strappy silver heels, thrusting them at me. “Wear these. You’ll be the most stunning girl there.”
As I pull on the shoes and fasten the buckles, I wonder if this is just another step down a very long path of unbelievable stupidity.
* * *
The venue the guys are playing is packed. Maybe it’s because this place is bigger than their usual club or bar appearance. Eye Candy is a concert venue of sorts. The stage is enormous and as well equipped as any major concert I’ve ever been to. They have rigging with all kinds of lights hanging off it, massive speakers flanking either side of the stage, and a closed-circuit video feed that shows the performance on televisions throughout the club, including the twenty-foot screen above the stage.
“Wow.” I glance around, taking in the excited men and women crowded around. Everyone is drinking and laughing and having a good time.
“I know,” Kate replies. “It’s bloody overwhelming, isn’t it?”
I nod, not knowing what else to say. I’m still so thankful Kate didn’t make me go backstage before the show. Any reason to put off a conversation with Hawke is fine by me. I’d probably make a complete fool of myself, either by stammering incoherently because I become tongue-tied whenever he’s nearby, or by my pathetic attempts at flirting, which would undoubtedly end up embarrassing me instead of being sexy.
The club lights dim and the stage glows bright. The guys took their places in the dark, because when the spotlights turn on they’re already on stage, looking like the famous rock stars they’re hoping to become. My eyes immediately zero in on Hawke and I gasp. He’s wearing only a tight white T-shirt and jeans. The blank slate highlights the colorful sleeves of tattoos on both of his arms. When he raises them above his head and taps his sticks together to start the first song, I nearly drool at the sight of the lean muscles flexing.
Adam sings the first note and the women in the club go insane. Insane to the point Kate and I exchange stunned looks.
“Bloody hell,” she exclaims. “That,” Kate says, pointing at the women screaming, desperately reaching over the edge of the stage to get a handful of any of the three men playing guitar up front. “Is why I can’t watch from backstage. You should see the lust on their faces.” Kate shudders in disgust. “Nothing but slags.”
I shudder along with Kate, but not in disgust. No, I shudder because I may as well be one of the “slags” Kate is sneering at. Hawke may not be standing at the front of the stage, swaying his hips and making eye contact with the hysterical women, but watching him play is like watching him have sex on stage. Every movement he makes is so fluid, so sensual, and the expressions on his face only heighten the eroticism.
Who knew drumming could be foreplay?
Fire licks across my skin in a fiery caress, leaving a scorching trail in its wake. A pulsating ache begins between my legs, the sensation increasing with each beat of the drum. Every move Hawke makes ratchets up the magnitude tenfold until I’m practically quivering with need, ready to fling myself at him and rub my body all over his.
These sexual feelings are so new to me, and so much more intense than I ever imagined I could feel. I’m torn as to what to do. On one hand, I want him. Badly. I could probably convince Hawke to have sex with me, but that’s all it would be. Sex. Nothing more, nothing less. On the other hand, I want to find out more about the man. Find out what else is behind the confident, gorgeous facade.
Is it possible to have both? Or would I be destined to follow Hawke around like a beggar on my knees, grateful to accept whatever attention he deigns to throw my way? Would I be able to watch him be with countless other women while I linger in the background, praying he’ll notice me someday and we’ll live happily ever after?
I focus back in on the sexy drummer, hoping to find some sort of answer. The fact that Hawke isn’t hanging over the crowd of desperate groupies doesn’t hurt. Adam plays the women like they’re an extension of his guitar. He reaches out to give small touches here and there, throws a wink at someone in the crowd, makes everyone feel as though he’s singing for them and them alone. If Hawke did that, I couldn’t stand to watch it.
A sharp poke in my ribs tears me from my Hawke-induced trance. “Abby.” I turn to find Kate giving me a look, one blonde eyebrow raised in question.
Busted.
“What?” I ask, bristling in defense.
“Hmmmm, nothing.” The expression on her face makes it clear she knows exactly what I was doing. “We have to meet up with the guys backstage. None of them wanted to drive, so we’re getting a couple of taxis to take us to the party.”
Ugh. Here we go. Time to either go for what I want, or miss out on what has the potential to be something incredible.
Question is, which would be worse? Having what I want and losing it, or never having it at all?
Hawke
“Here.” Gavin tosses me a towel to wipe the sweat off my chest and neck.
“Thanks, man.” I catch it and duck into the tiny bath attached to our dressing room. Gavin knows why I always change in private, but Dax and Adam don’t. I’ve never seen the reason to discuss that shit with them or anyone else. It doesn’t change a damn thing and it’s none of their business.
I tug the sweaty shirt over my head and toss it onto the vanity. Quick and efficient, I splash water on my face and dry off before pulling a new T-shirt on without sparing a glance at my damaged torso. My hair is a disaster, so I rewet my hands, running them through the dark waves in a sad attempt to tame the mess.
Satisfied my hair is as good as it’ll get, I grip the edge of the sink and lean closer to the mirror. With the thin layer of near-black stubble I keep on my face, it’s nearly impossible to see the fine white scar that crosses one cheek from ear to mid-jaw. I glance down at my arms, turning them over to check for any visible marks. The really bad scars are hidden by strategically placed tattoos and most of the others are nearly invisible. Someone would have to get pretty damn close to spot the spiderweb pattern of scars up and down my arms.
I blow air out of my lungs in a long exhale. “Showtime.” You would think when I’m onstage is when I act for the audience, but it’s not. Every minute I spend drumming brings me as close to feeling normal as I ever get. It’s times like this, going to a party, mingling with LA hotshots, that has me faking my way through the motions, hiding the darkness that surrounds me, turning me hollow by eating at me from the inside. I left all this bullshit behind years ago. Returning to mingle with rich, entitled assholes is the last thing I want to do.
When I open the bathroom door, I pause. Is that Abby? I step out to see that yes, yes it is.
