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That was her test. The guy who didn’t run at a simple fact of life? That was the one worth having around. So far, she was batting zero. It didn’t help that she was exceptionally picky, wanting to meet someone who rang her bells inside and outside of bed.
Guess it made sense she’d found some kind of solace in a place like this. One where she could be anyone she wanted to be, including herself.
The house lights dimmed and Lauren grabbed Ethan’s arm. He grinned at her, reluctantly getting into it as he always did. She’d brought him along to every Warning Sign concert so far but the first one she’d stumbled upon, mainly so she didn’t get herself in real trouble. Her idea of being street smart didn’t really match this reality. She so was out of her depth in this environment.
Never been drunk—check.
Never done drugs—check.
Hymenally intact—check squared.
Hell, she’d stayed pure this long. At this point, it was almost a game to see how long she could hold out.
Rock concerts, however, were dangerous.
These men were not your garden variety college boys. Not the ones in the audience. The ones onstage, who all the girls went crazy for.
Something she hadn’t believed was a reasonable reaction. The groupie phenomenon had to be a form of mass hysteria, encouraged by their peers. These men weren’t any different than any other.
Except they were, and as the members of Warning Sign—male and female alike—bounded onstage amidst smoke and streams of pink and blue lights, power thrummed in her veins. The growing energy around her pounded under her skin. The excitement and anticipation of the crowd was as palpable as the slightly sweet smell that Ethan had informed her was weed.
She didn’t want to know how he knew. He knew way too much as far as she was concerned.
This had to be what she imagined sex must be like, if thousands of people engaged in one giant fuck. In public. With all their clothes on, if barely.
She dug her fingers into Ethan’s biceps and he laughed at her, shaking his head. He’d finally tucked away his phone and covered her hand on his arm with his own. She’d never asked him to play the role of her boyfriend at these shindigs. That was the last thing she wanted. How was she supposed to get the full groupie experience if she had a watchdog?
Not that she intended to go crazy and just screw a random rockstar. Something she had swiftly learned she had pretty much a zero chance of doing, despite all the fanfiction she’d read online. Sleeping with your favorite rockstar was the number one topic of most of them, and it always started with an innocent girl who “just loved the music” showing up at the concert and meeting her dream guy, who instantly swept her into a hall and pulled her pants down.
The romance was epic.
“Which is the one you like again?” Ethan asked, tipping his head closer as the crowd stomped and cheered.
“The bald one,” she said thoughtfully, not that she really had a preference. He just seemed surly enough to be interesting. Probably an affectation. Definitely not what she wanted in real life. He had the looks, but he didn’t smile—ever.
Life was too short to grouse through it, even if he did look hot while he was mid-snarl.
“You?” she asked Ethan.
“I’d take a Neapolitan sandwich of all three of those chicks. Blond, blondest, and dark. No bad there.”
Lauren poked his side and let him go to bounce to her feet as Warning Sign rolled into their first song, “Exile.” It had a beachy feel for a campfire and a night with friends, and the audience was ready to party.
Her too. She might have been a late adopter when it came to the whole show vibe—
actually, she’d never been to a concert until she had no choice—but man, she loved the atmosphere now.
Could be the contact high from what was going on at the end of her row. Whatever.
She screamed with the fans around her as Ryan, the dark-haired, serious one, slapped out the beat. Michael and Elle, the guitarists, were jamming away, playfully trying to outdo each other with little licks and flourishes. Lauren didn’t know all the tricks, but she knew what she liked. Mal, the bald dude, whaled away on the drums, and Molly, the lead singer, sashayed around and belted out the smoky lyrics that spoke of escape. Willful escape.
That sounded damn nice.
Lauren circled her hips, snapping her fingers as she got into the song. She knew every word. Hell, a girl went to seven or so of these shows in the past six months, and she got familiar with the setlist. Enough that she was reasonably sure they’d go from the end of “Exile” straight into their ballad, “All Night Long.” It was a serious baby-making song, and Juliet, the brunette bassist, and Michael tended to flirt heavily onstage to go along with it. Lauren had believed they were a couple, but nope. From online scuttlebutt, they never had been. Michael was happily married and Juliet was rumored to be in a poly relationship with two dudes.
Hey, different strokes. Though chafing must be a problem with that much stroking, Lauren had to assume. But good for her. That was what lube was for.
Or so she’d read.
