Page 162 of Rock Me All Night
Strum Your Heart Out
1
Abuxom fansaunters in my direction. But she's not interested in me. I am invisible to her.
Her eyes are on Drew. She smiles. She shoves her hand in his face like I'm not here. "Oh my gosh. You must be Drew Denton. I'm such a big fan."
He shakes her hand, no signs of interest on his face. "I am."
She drags her fake red fingernails over Drew's forearm and thrusts her chest at him. "I love Sinful Serenade," she slurs. "You're soooooo good with your hands."
The worst thing about having a rock star guitarist for a best friend is hearing that line over and over and over.
Drew's lips curl into a smile. A smug expression creeps onto his face. "That's what I'm told."
And there's the second worst thing—hearing him give that same flirty response to every fan who is too rude to acknowledge the girl sitting next to him. Is it that obvious we're just friends or is she too desperate to care?
"Do you think... oh, gosh. Could you sign my, um..." She giggles. "My chest?"
His eyes dart to said chest. It's hard to blame him when her top is cut down to her belly button. No judgment. I've worn far sluttier things. Hell, my current getup could go toe to toe with this girl's in awho is showing the most boobcompetition.
A girl has to do what she can to get what she wants.
Apparently, this girl wants Drew's attention on her cans.
It's working. His eyes are wide. His mouth is open. He's staring like he's thinking about burying his face between her boobs.
Not that it bothers me or anything. Not like I want him to look at me that way. Not anything like that.
I adjust my bustier top for maximum cleavage potential and push myself up from my seat. Drew looks at me for a second, then his attention goes right back to the fangirl.
She drags those red fingernails up his biceps. "How do you stay so... fit on tour?"
He smiles. "On the floor."
She gasps like she's not at all familiar with the concept of push-ups. He smiles, all cocky and smug and totally cool.
He never flirts like this.
Never.
It shouldn't bother me. He's my friend and he can flirt with anyone he wants.
Doesn't mean I have to watch it.
I make my way to the dance floor, through the horde of twenty-something beautiful people here for the scene and not the music.
It's a pulsating, throbbing, electronic thing. Perfect. I step onto the vinyl. Eyes closed. Arms over my head. I shift my hips back and forth. No fancy moves. Just instinct.
The fangirl's hyena laugh cuts through the room. I must be imagining things. There's no way she's louder than the music.
Drew is still talking to her. Not so much flirting but certainly staring at her cans.
This tension builds in between my shoulder blades. It's all wrong. My body is loose and free when I dance. Tension is not part of the equation. And Drew is my friend. He's flirting with a floozy. So what? He's a rock star. He probably flirts with lots of floozies.
He probably fucks them too.
My nostrils flare. I shake my head and press my eyelids together. No. I refuse to feel this right now. I refuse to feel anything except the music.
