Page 48 of One Last Encore

Her breath caught the second she spotted him, already fixed on her. He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t lift that maddening brow. He just sat there, calm and infuriatingly composed, drumsticks slipping effortlessly between his fingers.

Meanwhile, Sparkly Dress Girl was having a full-blown religious experience.

She let out an ear-splitting squeal, latched onto her friend’s arm like she’d just been personally invited to join Beyoncé’s inner circle, and then, in a flurry of sheer enthusiasm and even sheerer fabric, bulldozed her way through the crowd. Ingrid swore she saw someone get elbowed in the ribs. This girl was determined.

Eden, ever the agent of chaos, leaned in. "You’re not seriously gonna let Glitter Bomb Barbie go up there, are you?"

"I don’t–" Ingrid started, but then she saw Beck. Still watching.

And maybe it was the dim stage lighting, maybe it was the fact that the air felt like it had been vacuum-sealed, but she swore she saw it. That barely-there twitch of his lips. The challenge. Oh,hellno.

Her spine snapped straight on instinct. Ingrid didn’t think, she just moved. She shoved her flimsy plastic pitchfork into Eden’s hands and surged forward with the kind of urgency usually reserved for fire drills and last-call margaritas.

Ingrid stepped directly in front of Sparkly Dress Girl, flashing her sweetest, most innocent smile as she grabbed the bassist’s offered hand and climbed onto the stage.

"Thanks," Ingrid said lightly. "This is gonna be fun."

Sparkly Dress Girl made a strangled noisebut it was too late. Ingrid was already turning toward Beck. And now, he was definitely smirking. That look sent something hot and reckless careening through her. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with unwavering confidence.

The lead singer barely hid his boredom, adjusting the mic stand like he had better places to be. Meanwhile, the guitarist was eating this up, grinning like he had front-row seats to the best drama of the night.

He flicked a guitar pick between his fingers, eyes bouncing between Ingrid, Beck, and the fuming girl at the edge of the stage. "Damn, this is getting good."

The bassist let out a low chuckle into the mic before turning back to the crowd.

"Alright, let’s make this interesting." He nodded toward Ingrid, then Beck.

"Since our drummer here is stuck in his seat, I think you should make yourself comfortable." A beat. A slow, loaded pause before his smirk sharpened. "What do you say, sweetheart? Think you can handle sitting on his lap while he plays?"

The room detonated. Cheers. Laughter. A few drunken "Do it!" chants from the back.

And Ingrid barely had time to register the challenge before Sparkly Dress Girl shrieked. Clutching her friend’s arm like she was about to collapse from the injustice.

Beck’s head snapped toward the bassist. "What the fuck, Finn?" he muttered.

If they thought Ingrid was the type to back down, they were deeply, comically, tragically mistaken.

Because when Ingrid wanted something, she didn’t hesitate. She decided at five years old she wanted to be a ballerina, and by six, she was pirouetting through grocery store aisles like she had a full-ride scholarship to the Bolshoi.

Ingrid wanted what she wanted. And right now, with her heart pounding, adrenaline spiking, and an entire bar’s worth of people chanting like this was some kind of rock ‘n’ roll gladiator match, She wanted him.

So before she could second-guess herself, she pivoted on her heel and strode straight toward him, her steps unflinching. The smirk on his face faltered. Just for a second. Just long enough for her to know she had caught him off guard.

Without breaking eye contact, she swung her leg over his and sank down onto him. Her thighs bracketed his, her body sliding into place like it was made for him. She looped her arms around his shoulders, fingertips brushing the back of his neck.

The second she settled, she felt the sharp inhale he dragged through clenched teeth, the twitch of his fingers like he was fighting the instinct to grab her. His muscles tensed beneath her, restraint thrumming against her skin.

The guitarist let out a wild whoop, smacking his strings in approval. "Now that’s what I’m talking about!"

Somewhere in the audience, a voice bellowed, "Marry her, bro!"

Eden was losing her goddamn mind in the crowd, waving her plastic pitchfork like the leader of an angry mob.

Beck stayed silent, but the heat pouring off him was scorching. She let her fingers glide slowly along the nape of his neck and he shivered at the soft touch. God, was that satisfying.

Just as the lead singer started to count them in, Beck’s gaze dropped. Low, slow, starving.

His eyes dragged over her bare thighs, lingering shamelessly. Her dress had ridden high with every shallow breath, the hem bunched indecently at the tops of her thighs. Her legs were spread wide over his, stilettos tucked against his calves

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