Page 66 of Forbidden Lyrics

“H-how do you know what is or isn’t my scene?”

Brow arched, an arrogant Gibson drops his gaze to my feet and drags his attention up my dark jeans and black T-shirt before meeting my cold stare with his own.

But he doesn’t say a word.

And that almost makes it hurt worse.

I’ve never felt more uncomfortable in my own skin before. Like I’m the ugly step-child in the perfect family. The unmatched sock in a pile of laundry. The lone Tupperware top that you want to throw away but hold onto just in case.

Yeah. His message is loud and clear.

A party isn’t my scene because I’m not pretty enough. Not curvy enough. Not dolled-up enough. I’m average. And average girls don’t go to killer parties with bands. They don’t attract sexy bartenders. They don’t do anything but blend into the background, which is exactly what I want to do right now.

Numb, I fold my arms and drop my gaze to the ground, but the moment triggers Fender in a way I never would’ve expected. “Seems my brother doesn’t know you quite as well as I do, huh, babe? Come on.” He kisses my temple. “Let’s get you home.”

I can feel Gibson’s gaze on me as we walk past him, Fender’s arm still tightly wrapped around me in protection, but I can’t figure out why he’d put his head on the proverbial guillotine. Or what this could mean for the band, the tour, heck, even my current job at SeaBird.

When we reach my car, I glance at SeaBird’s exit, turn to Fen, and whisper, “Why did you do that?”

Shameless, he grins and squeezes the back of his neck. “Well, at first, it was because I wasn’t in the mood to be stalked by those clingy girls at the back table who were watching us. I figured if they thought I was interested in you, they’d leave me alone for the night. When Sonny entered the scene, I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone. No offense, but my brother’s a stubborn ass who likes to put people in boxes.”

“Boxes?” I tilt my head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that once he’s made a decision about something or someone, he puts them in a box with a shiny red label and moves on with life. Like our dad. Me. You. Hell, everyone. And getting him to change his mind about those labels or to change the actual labels themselves for that matter, is almost impossible.”

“And what has he labeled us?”

“Well.” Leaning against the front door of my car, he raises his hand and ticks them off the list one by one. “My dad’s label is selfish asshole who can’t be trusted. Mine is unreliable, self-absorbed broken baby brother who needs protecting. And yours is innocent, untouchable angel who can’t be soiled.” His mouth quirks. “Some are more fitting than others.”

“So what did kissing me prove?”

“That maybe he should consider relabeling a few of us.” Leaning closer, he adds, “And when I say us, I mean you. I’m still unreliable, self-absorbed, and very broken.” He winks. “But you… Well, let’s just say that you won’t stay innocent forever. If he doesn’t get the balls to touch you, someone else will. A friend of mine is going to be at your place at five tomorrow. That’ll be enough time to get you ready for the party.”

“What friend? And you don’t know where I live.”

His forehead wrinkles. “Shit. I forgot you don’t live with Sonny. I’m staying at my friend’s place, so we can’t really do your fairy godmother makeover there. Hmm…” Clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he asks, “What’s your address? I’ll have Trish meet you there.”

“M-my address?” I point to my chest.

“Is that a problem?”

My face scrunches.

Crap.

If Fender’s friend comes to my apartment, I won’t be able to hide the party from Maddie. Then again, if I actually go through with the tour, it’s only a matter of time before she finds out that I’m definitely branching out and going to parties, making friends, and apparently, having makeovers too.

With a deep breath, I lift my chin and answer, “Nope. No problem. My number is 555-843-4094.”

He pulls out his phone and punches in the numbers. “Perfect. Just sent you a text. Send me your address, and I’ll pass it along to Trish. She does hair and shit and will get you ready to blend into the scene.” He rolls his eyes.

“Are you…?” I gulp, not nearly as amused by the situation as he is. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

He bounces his eyebrows up and down. “Trust me. By the time she’s done with you, Gibson will either have an aneurysm or an orgasm when he finally snaps. The choice is up to him. See you tomorrow.” The front door of my car squeals in protest, desperate for some freaking oil as Fen pulls it open and allows me to slip behind the steering wheel.

With a solid thud, he closes the door and waves at me until I start the engine and pull out of the parking lot while trying to figure out what it is, exactly, that I’ve agreed to.

A party? Me? The mousy little girl who sang in her church choir?

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