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The coming show tears us away from paradise to go get ready and by 10 o’clock (i.e. the time I usually go to bed) we’re riding in a limo to the event.
“This is a pretty big deal,” Evie says, scrolling on her phone. “Mickey’s sending me stuff from social media about it. Look.”
She gives it to me and I flick through the messages. They show a stream of tweets, all either professing excitement at going to the concert or, more commonly, devastation at missing out on it.
“‘I’d set myself on fire just to be able to hear her outside the venue’,” I read aloud. I look up at Evie. “Does she realize that being on fire would affect the sound quality?”
“Don’t look for rationality on Twitter,” Evie replies.
“You’re very wise,” I say. “Makes me feel a little bad for not wanting to go. Sounds like some of these people would sell a kidney to get in.”
Evie raises an eyebrow. “Do you really feel bad?”
“Not really.” I grin. “I suppose I’m spoiled but I can’t imagine that Kara’s music is going to blow my mind any more than you did this morning.”
Evie looks away quickly, smiling almost sheepishly. I don’t push the point, but damn. This girl knows how to fuck. I can’t believe Brent felt the need to look elsewhere, or that he let her slip away. But then maybe some part of him was aware he couldn’t measure up.
Speaking of Brent and Cheryl, I do feel the need to broach the subject. We’ve avoided all controversial topics over the day but now it’s game time and I’d like to agree on a plan. Namely one that doesn’t involve physical assault. As much as I’d like to tear Brent a new one, I won’t. Evie, on the other hand, had a rage in her eye earlier that made the ski pole story suddenly utterly believable.
“So how are we going to handle those-who-must-not-be-named?” I ask.
The smile instantly drops off Evie’s face. She looks out the window at the Parisian streets rolling slowly by. Then she shakes her head.
“We’re going to treat them like anyone else in Kara’s entourage,” she says firmly. “But if they try to sling shit our way, we have to throw it right back.”
“Can’t look like they can kick us around,” I agree. “Think you’ll be okay? It might get messy.”
Evie looks somewhat unsure but then resolve hardens behind her eyes. She looks straight at me and says, “Absolutely.”
“And I’ll never be too far away,” I remind her.
She smiles. “I know. That’s why I’m so confident.”
Evie scooches over so that she’s resting against me, her head just beneath my chin. She smells like hair products and body spray. They’re nice smells, but they mask her natural flowery scent that always sends a jolt straight down to my cock. Later I’ll have to scrub it all off her in the shower.
For now I put a finger under her chin to lift it and kiss her lightly on her full lips. It was just supposed to be a peck but once I feel them I need more. I slip my tongue into her mouth and she does likewise, moaning low in her throat before tearing herself away.
“Stop it,” she says, raising an accusing finger. “We can’t come out of this limo looking like we just fucked.”
“Why not?” I ask. “What’s more punk rock than sex in the limo on the way to the show?”
Her mouth quirks. “You have a point,” she admits.
My hand snakes toward her dress. “A good point?” I ask devilishly. She doesn’t move away and my hand works deeper. She gasps when my fingers find her clit.
“Nick,” she hisses but still makes no move to end it. I press harder, working the sensitive button. She’s like jelly against me, wanting and willing…
Then the divider between us and the driver slides down an inch. Evie leaps away from me with a yelp.
The driver, oblivious (or maybe just professional), says, “Five minutes until arrival.”
Terrible timing.
“Can you loop around the block?” I ask.
“That’d be a little difficult, sir,” the man says.
I look out the window and realize that we’re actually already here, just stuck in a line of cars and limos leading up to a mob of people. There are too many of them to see the red carpet but I’ve been to enough press events to recognize the scene.
