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That champagne glass is drained of the pink bubbly in seconds, and then she’s marching over to the stage, the tulle skirt so wide the crowd parts for her as she makes her way toward me. She never takes her gaze from mine, and I can see a tiny flicker of irritation flaring in her eyes.
It’s kind of hot, how she might be a little mad. I can’t stop smiling, knowing I’m aggravating the shit out of her. I don’t normally get off on making a woman mad, but I gotta admit...
This is fun.
She daintily walks up the steps in sexy silver stilettos, the sides of the skirt and train clutched in her hands so she doesn’t step on it. I approach her, bringing the mic to my mouth as I murmur, “Let’s sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Scarlett, okay? Everyone, please join me.”
The small band hired to back me starts up the familiar tune, and I sing the simple lyrics, slowing the tune down, my gaze never straying from hers. Her cheeks turn as pink as the dress she’s wearing, apprehension shining in her dark gaze, but she doesn’t back down.
No, she takes it. I try to make the words sound suggestive, like Marilyn Monroe did so long ago when she sang “Happy Birthday” to the president, but I don’t think it’s working. I’m not a bombshell in a clingy, glittery dress trying to seduce the commander in chief.
Nah, I’m just an old boy band member having one night of glory at some rich girl’s birthday party.
When the song is over, the crowd cheering and the drummer tapping the cymbal over and over again, I whisper to her, “Happy birthday, Scarlett Lancaster.”
Her lush lips purse, looking like she’s ready to spit at me, but instead she murmurs, “Thank you.”
And then storms off the stage.
I watch her go, unable to take my eyes off her as she pushes through the crowd, never once turning back. The need to follow her is strong, so I say into the mic offhandedly, “Thank you. Good night,” before I flick the power off and replace it in its stand.
Without hesitation I give in to my urge and go after her, striding through the parting crowd, ignoring their requests.
“Tate! Oh my God, you were amazing! Can I get a hug?”
“Can I get your autograph, Tate?”
“Will you take a selfie with me, Tate?”
“Sign my tits, Tate! Please!”
Scarlett turns right, disappearing behind a giant floral heart that matches the one on the stage, and I go after her, increasing my pace, catching up with her easily. When I get close enough, I reach for her, grabbing her by the elbow and halting her progress.
She whirls on me, her eyes widening when she sees it’s me, and she yanks her arm out of my grip, rubbing the spot where I just touched her.
“You all right?” I ask with a frown.
Her gaze isn’t as hostile as it first was, the more she contemplates me. “Why did you follow me?”
“I don’t know.” That’s the honest-to-God truth. “You didn’t seem too happy with my performance.”
“It was great.” Her voice is flat, no inflection whatsoever. Meaning I don’t believe her.
“Did I... piss you off or something?” I rub the back of my neck, noting the way she watches me carefully, her gaze drifting.
Like she might be checking me out.
All those women screaming my name only a few minutes ago, and it was nothing compared to how I’m feeling in this moment, with the hot little rich girl contemplating me like I’m a delicious snack.
“Not at all. Though it did turn into the Tate Ramsey show tonight, don’t you think?” She lifts a brow.
I drop my hand from my neck, resting both of them on my hips. “Isn’t that what you wanted? For your birthday present?”
“Actually, your appearance was a complete surprise, sprung on me by my father right before you performed.” She hesitates only a moment. “And I was really hoping for Harry Styles.”
Ouch. Not the first time I’ve heard that.
“Your friends seemed into it.” That was a serious high, hearing them shout for me. Singing the lyrics along with me. They were fans—of Five Car Pileup, yeah, but also of me. And that felt good.
