Page 4 of Oops Baby for the Rockstar
“A vodka tonic, please.”
Jett steps close and speaks past me to order, one hand resting casually on my shoulder. There’s nothing intimate about the touch, nothing that crosses any lines, and yet all of my focus zeroes in on that big hand on my body. Desperate to clear my head, I suck in a lungful of air—and catch the scent of spice and leather.
My knees tremble.
Jett Santana smells freaking delicious. So good that my mouth waters, and now I want nothing more than to lick him all over.
“Here.” Jett hands me a glass of clear, bubbly fluid, then clinks the rim against his beer bottle. “Cheers.”
“Um, cheers. And thank you.”
The rock star grins wolfishly, and I fully expect him to turn and shoulder his way back into the crowd, off to bask in the adoration of all his admirers. The other band members are certainly enjoying themselves already, all splayed on the sofas in the center of the room with a groupie or two perched on their laps. That’s what rock stars do after a show, right? That’s inevitable.
But Jett glances around the green room with an air of boredom, then leans down to speak in my ear. His lips brush my earlobe and a shiver rolls down my spine.
“Want to get out of here? No funny business, I swear. But maybe we can talk outside in the fresh air? Honestly, I’ve gone to hundreds of these after parties and I’m kinda over it.”
Me too. I’ve been to exactly one after party,thisone, and this room is claustrophobic as hell, with its crush of sweaty bodies and thumping music. Not to mention the snobby bartenders who shame a girl for trying her luck. If Jett Santana weren’t here beside me, I’d have bailed long ago.
“Sure.” My heart leaps as Jett takes my hand for the second time, tugging me gently through the crowd. Ice clinks against the side of my glass, and I clutch my vodka tonic to my chest. All around, jealous glares scorch me from head to toe, and I don’t know whether to duck my head or say fuck it and preen.
Because it’smyhand Jett Santana is holding. It’s me he’s pulling outside to chat in the fresh air. There are so many beautiful people in this room, lots of them visibly desperate for the rock star’s attention, but instead it’s me he wants. For now, for the next few minutes at least, he’s chosen me.
No one ever chose me before.
It’s a heady feeling.
Outside, spots of rain are gusting sideways, and clouds still block out the stars. I wrinkle my nose, but Jett leads me awayfrom the doorway and draws me into the shelter of the stadium wall, then blocks the worst of the bad weather with his body.
“You aren’t cold?” I watch as raindrops trickle down one inked bicep.
Jett laughs softly, and it’s so different out here, so much quieter. I can hear our breaths. Can practically hear my heart thumping in my chest.
“I’m good.” He’s blocking me from the weather, but he’s not caging me. Nottrappingme, and once again I marvel at the fact that I feel so safe with this wild rock star. “Now, Tamsin. Tell me about yourself, baby. You’re a goddamn enigma.”
I bite my lip.
What Iamis a liar. A thief. Or at least, the sort of person who picks up a dropped VIP pass and uses it to blag her way into a gig and meet a band that she’s been crewing for months.
At the time, it felt exciting. Like an adventure. Only now, with Jett Santana looking at me like someone interesting, like a real VIP, I feel so embarrassed that my ears burn.
How can I tell this man—this famous rock star—that I’m a nobody who lives on the Wishbone crew bus? How can I tell him that actually, uh, Iworkfor him?
“I’m a photographer,” I blurt, my mind going straight to the coolest person I’ve met lately. Patty. “I’ve been traveling around the country taking photos for magazines and stuff.”
The lie tastes bad on my tongue, but it’s out there now. I’ve said it.
“Huh,” Jett says, nodding along. “That’s cool. Have you been taking photos for us? Photos of our shows?”
“N-no.” I shake my head quickly, because that’s way too easy to prove wrong. “I don’t do that kind of photography. It’s more like—photojournalism. And artsy stuff.”
Jett shifts to block the wind better where it’s dragging at my dress. “Awesome. You’ll have to show me your website, Tamsin. I’d love to see your work.”
I smile weakly. “Sure.”
Honestly, I’ve never even touched one of those expensive cameras in real life. The closest I’ve ever come was a battered old Polaroid my mom had when I was a kid, one that was broken and wouldn’t print out the pictures properly. She gave it to me and I used to wander around the woods near our trailer, lining up the photos Iwouldtake and pretending to press the shutter.
My stomach feels all hollow thinking about that now. And shit, why would I lie about something I have literally zero knowledge of?
