Page 27 of Never Your Girl

Maybe she was onto me the entire time and slipped out the back door.

I wouldn’t put it past her.

She’s definitely wily that way.

Just when I consider leaving, the music shifts. It’s more of a low, sultry beat that fills the room as the stage lights dim. The female announcer’s voice rolls through the speakers, smooth and slick.

“Please welcome... Lavender Smoke.”

My gaze snaps to the stage as a figure emerges from the shadows, her hair a sleek lavender bob that frames her face, casting her features in a surreal, dreamlike glow. It takes a second for my mind to play mental catch up and the realization to sink in.

I’m barely able to breathe.

Heavy makeup transforms her into someone almost unrecognizable.

Someone confident and unattainable.

She’s wearing an outfit that’s practically painted on, strappy and shimmering with each calculated step. The sight is like a punch to the gut.

Holy shit.

Holland moves with assurance as her hips sway in a rhythm that matches the pulse of the bass. Every step is controlled and measured, as if she not only owns the stage but every eye in the room.

And it’s true because I can’t fucking look away.

More than that, I don’t want to look away.

My focus is locked on her.

On the way she moves.

On the calm, unbothered expression that’s so different from the guarded, sharp-tongued girl I’ve come to know.

Holland’s gaze skims over the crowd, cool and detached, but she doesn’t make eye contact with anyone. She’s untouchable, commanding every inch of the stage with an ease I’ve never seen before. Almost as if this version of her was always there, hiding beneath the surface, waiting for the perfect moment to step into the light.

I’m struck by the sheer contradiction of it.

The girl who once told me with a laugh that she couldn’t dance to save her life is here, moving like she’s born for the spotlight.

It’s not just the shock that hits me.

Possessiveness rushes through me as I realize every guy in this place is watching her the same way I am.

My jaw clenches as she reaches up and slowly slips her top off with a practiced movement. Her gaze remains distant, almost detached, like she’s somewhere else. Jealousy coils tight in my gut as the audience starts whistling, tossing out crumpled bills, their eyes glued to every sway of her hips.

The simmering anger inside me blazes, but I can’t ignore the other part that’s darker and feels a lot like fascination. As much as I hate to admit it, she’s fucking incredible. The way she moves, the way she owns that stage.

I’ve never seen Holland look more powerful.

More in her element.

I down the rest of my drink. My grip on the glass is so tight, it’s a surprise when it doesn’t shatter.

The lights shift again as her set ends and she saunters off the stage, slipping into the shadows as the music fades. I release a shaky breath, the fury and twisted thrill of finding out one of her secrets burns through my veins.

When my phone buzzes in my pocket, I ignore it.

I have to find her.

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