Page 6 of Pretty Poisoned

That's me—VIP section with backstage after party pass. I quickly make my way over to the side doors, and the bouncer scans my ticket.

"You're over twenty-one?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Do you have your ID?"

I reach into my pocket and pull out Blakely's ID. We look enough alike that you can't reasonably say the picture isn't me—especially when she's wearing glasses large enough to obscure many of the features that set us apart, like my rounder face. I suck in my cheeks and stand a little taller, remembering I'm supposed to be 5'6". Fortunately, the guy in front of me is such a giant that there's no way he'd be able to discern a difference between 5'3" and 5'6". I'm probably pushing 5'5" in these boots anyway.

"Happy late birthday," he says.

I narrow my eyes. It's February, and Blakely's birthday is in May. Nice try, though.

"My birthday isn't until May," I tell him.

He looks a bit skeptical but still wraps the purple "21+" bracelet around my wrist and fastens it. "VIPs get open bar until we open the doors for general admission in…" He pauses, checking the time on his phone. "Approximately nineteen minutes. Enjoy the show, Blakely."

"Thank you," I say. Once inside, I waste no time finding the bar. I grab an empty stool, order a beer, and throw a tip down on the counter before taking a swig.

"Teagan Townsend," a voice says from the seat beside me. "No way. Is that you?"

I look to my left and find myself face-to-face with Kyle Thomas. It takes me a few seconds to recognize the former captain of my high school's football team. I look him up and down, less than impressed.

"It's Kyle," he says. "Kyle Thomas. We went to high school together."

"Yeah, I remember," I say.

How could I forget? Our lockers were next to each other, and his girlfriend was my worst fucking nightmare. If I didn't havebetter shit to do, maybe I'd fuck him just to prove a point. But I do, so he can go fuck himself.

"Well, you look fucking…amazing. Are you here alone?" he asks.

"I'm with the band, actually," I tell him. I don't think it's a lie. I will be with the band. Manifest the shit you want from life or whatever.

"Oh, no shit? How'd that happen? You think you could get me backstage? The after party passes sold out before I could grab one."

"Nope," I say simply, sipping my beer.

He laughs like he thinks I'm joking. My eyes let him know how serious I am. Still, he sits there, staring at me, waiting for something else—for me to be interested.

"I'm going to turn the other way now," I say.

"Well, hey," he says, placing a hand on my shoulder, "do you maybe want to—"

"I'm not going to fuck you, Kyle," I deadpan. "I'm out of your league. Move on."

"What—you're…" he scoffs, flustered. The bartender and the couple next to us laugh. Maybe it makes me an asshole, but it feels good to be on this side of it. "I don't want to fuck you," he says. "You're aloser. I was just being nice to you because I feel sorry for you, that's all."

"Pathetic," another voice says from behind me—right behind me, actually. I look down and see tattooed hands gripping the bar on either side of me, and my body flushes with heat. I recognize the Roman numerals on the knuckles.

The man behind me is Luca De Rossi.

"My girl told you to fuck off," he says to Kyle.

Red-faced and flustered, Kyle leaves the bar. I smile, relishing in my substantial victory. Kyle spent a significant amount ofmoney to see a band he loved tonight, only to be rejected by a loser like me and humiliated by someone he probably idolizes.

And now, I have Luca De Rossi wrapped around my body.

"My hero," I say, turning to face him. "Your timing is impeccable."

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