Page 8 of Little Monster
And there he is, hundreds of photos of him looking ridiculously sexy, whether he’s performing onstage, drinking a beer, or doing a kickflip on a skateboard. I click on a recent one, and it expands to fit my screen.
He’s looking directly at the camera, tousled blond hair hanging around his face, his blue eyes narrowed in focus. And as I look into them, I feel a tingle in my belly, a butterfly that most certainlyshouldn’tbe there.
Dex is a celebrity. A rock star. Asexicon.
And I’m just Nora. A second-chair violinist. A gamer who’d rather talk to her cat than another human being.
If the photos and music videos and news articles are to be trusted, Dex likes wild, rich, promiscuous women who’ll drink Jack and chain-smoke cigarettes and dress in skimpy outfits for nights out at the club.
And that’s not me. Not by a long shot.
A twinge of self-consciousness crushes that stupid butterfly fluttering aimlessly in my stomach, and I shut my laptop screen with a snap.
I’m not Dex’s type, and besides, I don’t even know him. I’ll play on the track, and then I’ll go back to my second-chair spot in the orchestra and dream about the day I’ll get promoted to concertmistress. And that’s all there is to it.
I’m determined not to think of him again.
chapter 5
BY THE TIME THURSDAY ROLLS around, I’ve not looked Dex up once. I told myself I wouldn’t think about him again, and I’ve stuck to it.
Today’s my first rehearsal with the band, and to say I’m nervous is an understatement. I could barely sleep last night, and evenLegend of Volthorndidn’t calm me down. When gaming can’t take my mind off something, I know it’s serious.
And playing with Loaded God Complex issuperserious.
To prepare, I looked up the other members of the band—while steering clear of anything Dex related.
There are three other band members: Lucas Moore, guitarist; Michael Sanchez, bassist; and Sebastian Harris, drummer and part-time pianist. From what I’ve found online, Michael is married, but I don’t know about the other two. I just hope they’ll be friendly; rock stars aren’t exactly known for theiramiability.
Driving through LA, I focus on the insane drivers and blaring horns, and it’s enough to distract me from the panic curling in my stomach. But as soon as I pull into the parking lot at the recording studio, my nervousness comes racing back in.
I park in the corner of the lot, away from all the other cars, and take a moment to close my eyes and take a few deep breaths.
In. One, two, three.
Out. One, two, three.
Whenever I get really nervous about something, I try to remind myself to take a few deep breaths and—
“Hey!”
The sudden loud voice makes me jump, and I whip my head toward the window. Standing on the other side of the glass is Sebastian Harris, the drummer. He’s got short dark hair and the type of pretty face you’d expect a quarterback to have. His smile is wide as I pull the key from the ignition and step out.
“You’re Nora, right? I’m Sebastian.” He holds out a hand, and thanks to his baggy tank, it’s impossible not to notice his bulging biceps. Did he get those from playing the drums? No, that’s gotta be from the gym. They’rehuge.
“Um, yeah. Hi.” I put my hand in his, and his grip is firm.
“This is gonna be so sweet. We’ve wanted to get a violin on a track forforever.” He waits while I fetch my violin case from the back seat, then heads toward the studio with me. “Dex said you’re wicked good.”
A jolt goes through me, and those nervous butterflies in my stomach start swarming like crazy.
Not good.
“H-he did?”
“Yeah, dude. Said you totally shred.” Sebastian shoves me playfully, but he’s so big that it nearly knocks me over. “Shit, sorry.” He runs a hand over his cropped hair and smiles bashfully.
It makes me smile back—for real.
