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Juliet
I scan the room, hoping to engage in some good old-fashioned people-watching while Alyssa lives out her fantasy of meeting the band. All of the guys seem to be here except for the frontman. I haven’t seen him once since he left the stage.
A man wearing a T-shirt from the venue offers me a drink, and despite my best judgment, I take it. I can almost hear my mother’s lecture about accepting alcohol from strangers in the back of my mind.
I’ve learned Gareth is the guitarist. He seems to pull in women like a magnet, and the girl from earlier is no exception. His hands lie firmly on her ass while she whispers God knows what in his ear. Then, there is Anthony, who prefers to be called ‘Ant.’ His long, dirty blonde hair has been tied into a bun, and he’s currently playing tonsil hockey with a busty redhead. Neil is the bassist. He strikes me as the tamest of the group. His attention isn’t on getting laid but on tuning his instrument and periodically hitting a bowl.
I dip my fingers into my drink and swirl the ice cubes around the glass. If I wore a watch, I’d check the time every few minutes. I’m counting down the seconds until we get the hell out of here before I catch some unspeakable disease just from being in the general vicinity.
“Unimpressed?” a deep voice asks from behind me, and I stumble forward.
When I turn to find the source of the question, I’m surprised to see the lead singer standing much too close for comfort. His breath is hot against my skin and the smell of whatever delicious cologne he’s wearing makes me take a gulp. I step back.
“Quite, actually.”
“I can tell,” he retorts flatly.
We stand in awkward silence for a few moments.
“Should I be?” I finally ask.
He shrugs. “Most girls are.”
I laugh. “I’m sure.” He seems surprised by my remark.
“You seem unfazed by all of this. Not your first rodeo backstage, I’m assuming.”
I raise an eyebrow. His insinuation gets a rise out of me, but I have a feeling that was his goal.
“Not used to meeting women that aren’t star-struck groupies, I’m assuming.”
I know I have landed a shot to his ego when he clenches his jaw.
My mouth curves into a smile. “I know plenty of celebrities, and they’re just people.”
I gesture towards the harem of women fluttering around his bandmates. “If they want to treat you like gods, that’s fine. But at the end of the day, you’re just a guy with a record deal and a tour bus.”
He looks me up and down. The look in his eyes is hard to decipher. I can’t tell if it’s disdain or hunger, or maybe just amusement at my boldness. Either way, I’m not interested.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
“You know plenty of celebrities, huh?” he asks, challenging me.
“I’m a publicist,” I lie. It’s not like I’ll ever see him again, so what’s the harm in stretching the truth a bit? I mean, I will be a publicist. “So I see right through all this shit.”
“Interesting.” He leans into me, and his deep voice sends a wave of need through my body. I find myself clenching my thighs together in an attempt to soothe the ache. How is he having this effect on me? “Do you specialize in musicians?”
Well, Mr. Rock Star, at this very moment, I wish very much that I specialized in musicians... in more ways than one.
I shake my head. “Not particularly. At the moment, I’m revamping the image of a socialite gone wild.”
“So, in your professional opinion, how’s my image?” His tone is low, and I can feel a shiver crawling up my spine. I have never been one to lose myself because of a guy, but Jesus, this man, in particular, is an Adonis.
Confidence, Juliet. Just fake confidence.
“You’re obviously going for the unattainable and mysterious vibe, and judging by what’s happening in this room, it seems to work for you. I’m not a fan of the unattainable rock god thing, but that all comes down to personal preference. You have a specific target audience, and you cater to it. If I had to guess, pulling back women from the crowd for a more intimate fan experience is just another ploy by your management to keep in line with the rock star persona. However, I doubt you mind. The tight leather pants, the groupies, the oiled-up skin, and the rebel without a cause attitude? It’s all rather predictable if you ask me.”
I can’t tell if he is intrigued or offended by my assessment, and I wonder if I laid it on a little too thick.
