Page 6 of A Little Broken

“Yeah. We’ve actually been knocking for a solid fifteen minutes. I came out for a smoke, and the door locked behind us, and…” I paste on a syrupy sweet smile and hook my thumb toward the propped open door. “Do you mind?”

His eyes roll over my body again. “Which band?”

“Doomsday,” I answer. “Obviously.”

“Obviously.” His mouth twitches, though I’m not sure why he’s so amused by our conversation.

“Tate,” Rory repeats from behind me.

Ignoring her, I say, “Are you security or something? Because we left our backstage passes inside, so…”

Now or never, Tatum, I silently remind myself.Ask for forgiveness, not permission.

“You’ll have to excuse us,” I continue. “We need to at least catch the second half of the set.” Stepping forward, I start to scoot past him in an attempt to act like I own the place. Like I belong. Like I most definitely am not trespassing in hopes of easing my friend’s guilt over not reading the fine print when she’s the queen of following the rules.

The guy doesn’t budge. His big, rock-hard body blocks the entrance, barely leaving any space for me to move past him. The problem is, I’m in too far to turn back now, so where does this leave me?

Keep going.

I continue my quest to enter, but the stranger grips the edge of the door, blocking my entry while somehow keeping us chest-to-chest.

All right, so he’s not so easy to bulldoze. Good to know.

My gaze flicks up to him. “Is there a problem, Mr. Security?”

“You under eighteen?”

“Do I look under eighteen?”

He checks me out again and scratches his jaw with his free hand. When his gaze reaches my face, he shrugs. “Looks can be…deceiving.”

I roll my eyes. “No, I’m not under eighteen.”

His brow quirks. “Under twenty-one?”

“As of today, not anymore,” Rory chimes in from behind me. “It’s her birthday.”

Keeping his focus on me, he murmurs, “Your birthday, huh?”

“Twenty-one years young,” I answer.

“Happy birthday.”

His coffee eyes swallow me whole, and my stomach flips. “Why, thank you.”

“How long have you been with Doomsday?”

Doomsday. Right.

Sucking my lips between my teeth, I hold his gaze and mentally play out my options. Clearly, he’s onto us. But I think he might have a thing for me—or at the very least, he’s curious. Which swings the situation in our favor. However, I’d prefer it if he didn’t escort us to Doomsday’s dressing room, since I most definitely have never met anyone from the band. But getting inside the building is key if we want to actually watch Doomsday play tonight, so…

“Cat got your tongue, Birthday Girl?” he challenges.

“You know, usually, the security team isn’t quite this chatty,” I point out. “But if you don’t let us in, Cooper will be sorelydisappointed by our absence, especially when he’s already on stage. I’m sure you don’t want that, do you?”

“Cooper does love his toys,” he agrees, repeating Doomsday’s lead singer’s name. His attention falls to my mouth as he lets the edge of the door go and pushes it open a little more, giving me space to slip beneath his toned bicep and forearm. As I move past him, my nipples brush against his chest. My lips part on instinct.

Well, shit. It’s like my body registers the friction before my brain has a chance to catch up and shut down. Or at the very least, hide my response. But nope. This stranger gets to witness it first-freaking-hand.

---