Page 33 of Broken Instrument

“All right, what do you think would be a pro?”

“If I were the rockstar or the girlfriend?” she asks.

“Both.”

“All right. As for rockstar, I think being able to connect with so many people, to touch them with your talent, and to have them listen to what you’re trying to say is pretty incredible.”

“Says the author,” I point out.

She laughs and tucks her hair behind her ear, a soft blush creeping onto her cheeks. It’s adorable. My hands itch to reach out and run my finger against the light color to see if it’ll darken, but I restrain myself.

“Touché,” she concedes. “I love reading reviews and hearing what people think about my stories. The criticism, not so much, but the ones where they talk about how they couldn’t put the book down or why they named one of their children after my characters?” She shakes her head as if in disbelief. “It’s something else.”

“Yeah,” I admit. “It really is.”

“So there ya go. There’s a pro for being a rockstar and/or an author. The pro for being a rockstar's girlfriend, however…” She taps her finger against her chin without bothering to hide the fact she’s checking me out. Shamelessly. “Being able to take you home at night knowing every other female––and some males––would be going out of their minds with jealousy over you being mine.”

“That’s a turn-on, huh?”

“Definitely. We all want what we can't have, Fender Hayes. But knowing you have something or someone others covet?” She quirks her brow. “Yeah. It’s a turn-on.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“I’m sure you will.” She laughs. “Now, you tell me. What’s the pro of being a rockstar’s girlfriend?”

“You really wanna know?”

She grins, playing along. “Yes.”

I lean closer, unable to help myself as I whisper against her ear, “We’re great at keeping rhythm.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah.” I lean a little closer, her soft fruity scent tickling my nostrils and making me hard. “We also know how to find just the right note to make a girl sing.”

Her breathless laughter fans itself against my cheek as she turns her head and peeks up at me. “Is that right?”

“Mm-hmm,” I hum, though it comes out as more of a growl.

This is a bad idea.

And it’s not like this can go anywhere. Not if I want to stay sober.

The reminder hits harder than a sledgehammer, and I clear my throat, shoving aside the high from being on stage so I won’t do something I’ll regret.

I reach for the glass of water Sammie must’ve placed in front of me while I was busy flirting with Hadley. She watches me guzzle half the glass. The wheels are clearly turning in her pretty little head, and I’m aching to know what she’s thinking about or if it involves me finding just the right note to make her sing.

But I don’t ask her.

Even skirting around this subject is dangerous territory, but I can’t help myself. She’s too damn tantalizing.

“Interesting,” Hadley returns as I set the glass back onto the counter, though I don’t miss the way her baby blues zero in on my mouth.

Bad idea, Fen.

Flirting is one thing, but crossing that line? It’s a bad idea. An impossible idea. It’s a line I refuse to cross if I have any hope of staying clean.

And I need to stay clean.

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