Page 73 of Forbidden Lyrics

“You’re new,” the stranger mentions, distracting me from my search.

“New?”

“To the scene. How’d you get here?”

“H-here?” I stutter, suddenly feeling guilty, though I have no idea why.

His smile widens. “Yeah. Here. This is my place. At least it will be. I’m buying it.”

“Oh. It’s…” Once more, I look around the giant mansion littered with gyrating bodies and booze. “Nice.”

He chuckles. “Thanks. You want me to freshen up your drink?”

I look down at the dark liquid and swirl it in my cup. The ice clinks against the plastic but isn’t enough to snap me out of my daze.

“Here.” He reaches for the cup, but I hug it to my chest.

“I think I’m okay for now. Thank you, though.”

He steps closer.

My butt hits the cabinets behind me.

“You a musician?” he prods.

“A-a musician?” I repeat, feeling like an idiot the longer this conversation continues.

“Yeah. Is that a difficult question?”

“I, uh, I guess not. How could you tell?”

He lifts his arms and motions to the giant space that is his kingdom. Or will be. I don’t know. The guy’s just as aloof as he was when we first met.

“Most of the people here are in the music industry in one way or another. They’re either producers, musicians, aspiring musicians, or someone who wants to sleep with a musician. So tell me, babe, which one are you?”

I gulp. “I guess that would make me an…aspiring musician?”

Satisfied, his smile turns sinister as he brushes his hand along the hem of my skirt. The simple touch causes acid to creep up my throat before I swallow it back and shy away from him.

“Figured,” he grunts, not the least bit bothered that I subtly turned him down. Like the last time. “Tell me, what would you do to be given an opportunity to make it big?”

“W-what kind of opportunity?” I stutter, hating the way my skin feels like spiders are crawling along it.

I need to get out of here.

“The kind of opportunity that any of these assholes would kill for,” he murmurs, crowding me against the cabinet even more. My back arches slightly as the counter digs into my spine. He smells expensive. I turn my head away from him as his hands grip the granite on either side of me, caging me in and making me feel trapped. Like we’re the only ones in the room, and there’s no escape.

“You see, my dad is a very famous rock star,” he explains. “He listens to me. Why don’t we go somewhere, and you can give me a private show?”

“A-a private show?”

“Yeah. Only you and me. Come on. It’ll be fun––”

“Uh, I don’t––”

The stranger is wrenched back by the collar of his two-hundred-dollar T-shirt, and I cover my mouth as my pulse skyrockets.

“Stay the hell away from her,” Gibson growls, his chest puffed up and his fists tight at his sides.

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