Page 17 of Counterfeit Boyfriend
The first song was decent, but a few notes into the second, I casted her a sideways glance. “Are you serious with this auto-tuned crap?”
Her mouth dropped open and she made a circle in our little car bubble with her finger. “This is supposed to be a safe place.”
“I know. That’s why there shouldn’t be…” I frowned as the tempo kicked up and divulged into electronica, nails-on-a-chalkboard screeching madness. “Techno dance music that tries to beat my eardrums to death.”
“You’re one to talk. You like horrible metal music that screams at you.”
“I don’t”—Shit, Evan did like that crap—“like only metal.”
“Fine.” She skipped the song and a thumping bassline filled the air. It was less electronica and more pop with an obligatory rap solo thrown in, but equally horrible.
I shot her another you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look, but she bounced in her seat and bobbed her head, and suddenly I could see the allure. Don’t get me wrong, I’d rather turn down the music and watch her dance without the ear-assault, but if it was between cringing while I watched her dance or silence?
She sang along, and she had a hell of a voice. There was swinging of hair and other hypnotizing things were bouncing and then I was shifting in my seat.
No contest, the dancing won.
