Page 83 of Second Sets Omnibus
I roll my eyes as they jump up and down, jiggling their tits in an effort to get Kieran’s attention and call his name with a girly shriek. Thank God they’re keeping those puppies under wraps. They could poke someone’s eyes out.
A weird pinch of jealousy roars through me when he looks at them. Fucking looks at them and grins when he reads the poster, giving them the thumbs up. That’s my thumb. Keep it to yourself, assface. Narrowing my eyes, I glue my gaze to his and thankfully; the assface doesn’t drop his eyes to their pointy tits, still freeballing in the night air.
“Put away your goddamn titties!” I shout, cupping my hands over my lips to amplify my voice.
Ignoring my demand, they continue to swoon and scream more, inciting weird feelings brewing in the depths of my green monster. I want to rip their hair out and knock their perfect teethin with one punch and laugh as they scatter on the ground. My fists curl, envisioning tying them to a pole deep in the woods, slathering them in honey, and watching as bears rip them to shreds as they beg for their lives. Try clutching your pearls with no fingers, toes, or body. Fuck.
Jesus. Deep breaths, River. You damn psycho. Stop plotting their deaths and focus on the music, for shit’s sake. Music is what you live and breathe. Not violence against two stuck-up Lakeview girls who don’t have a chance with the boys rocking out on stage.
My mouth pops open, watching Kieran work the tiny stage with grace and familiarity. Walking back and forth with a goofy grin, he lays down the first note, inciting the crowd more. They yell and scream, the louder the music gets until all the boys join in and open with their first song. I watch them with matched possession. The thought of other girls touching them makes me stabby. I grip my knife, toying with the handle in my shorts pocket, running my thumb over the words printed across it—River Blue. Touch them and die might be my new mantra.
I rub my temple. What the hell am I thinking?
Peeking down at the shirt stretching over my tits, I scoff. Fuck. I’m in this constant war with myself, my mind going to battle with itself repeatedly. Letting go of my reservations is more complicated than I ever thought. Visions of Van and what his stupid ass did to me burn bright. A constant reminder of what could happen if this goes to shit. But taking a deep breath, I shake it off. This is now. I’m having fun. I’m falling hard. And in the end, if I get fucked over. It’ll be my fault. For now, I’m along for the ride. I have to keep telling myself that the further they drag me into their wicked web.
The music blares through the speakers again, garnering more attention from the late-night crowd enjoying the festival. Person after person loiters with beers in their hands and smileson their faces, momentarily stopping to catch the free show. Their heads bob, and their swaying bodies move with the tune echoing through the night air. Every hand shoots in the air for what seems like miles, waving around with pure joy. For one singular moment, we live in musical harmony.
Kieran’s raspy voice blasts through the microphone again and straight through my damn soul, lifting me to a higher plane. Music always calms the storm brewing in my mind and eases my pain. Music erases everything on my plate and sets me free. It sounds silly. But music has always been my escape from the life I’ve lived.
“Ahem, bitch,” a very unpleasant voice says, knocking me out of my reprieve.
Fuck my life. Is this how Tessa greets everyone, or is this just reserved for me? Probably just for me. Seeing as she looks down her nose at me for the millionth time.
I plaster on a fake smile and shove my tits out. Let’s see how much she likes my personalized Whispered Words shirt.
“How can I help you?” My sugary sweet voice gives me cavities. I’d slam her face into this table a few times if it were up to me. Maybe knock some sense into her stupid skull. They don’t want you. I am theirs.
She scans my shirt, narrowing her eyes. “We want some shirts,” she says, pointing to mine. “Something like that.”
I grin more, widening my arms to the shirts folded on the table in front of me. “Sorry, this is an exclusive shirt for their girlfriend.” I freeze, dropping my arms. I probably looked as shocked as her pinched face.
Heat envelops my neck, creeping onto my face. I wholeheartedly blame my damn jealousy for my decisions. That bitch is going to get me into trouble. But damn, the look on Tessa’s face is worth the fallout. Whatever. I’ll roll with it. Yeah, their girlfriend. All four of them belong to me. If they’re goingto put their claim on me, then I’ll return the favor. Maybe I can stamp my name on their dicks.
“You’re joking, right?” She throws her head back and laughs in my face. “Like they’d ever choose a piece of Central trash like you. You’ve got to be kidding me.” She slaps Sara on the shoulder in laughter, and her friend joins in, screeching along and ruining the damn music.
I blow out a breath and cross my arms, deciding not to push it. “These are your only options. Not this. This is mine, and so are they.”
Welp. So much for dropping it. It looks like I’m officially about to throw my hat into the ring. Only I’ll win, not them. I’m always up for crushing my competition. I’m competitive like that.
“You’ve got to be joking,” Tessa snarls, pounding a fist on the table. “Not you,” she scoffs, looking me up and down.
Leaning forward, I get right in her face with a bright, knowing grin. She doesn’t know I hang around them every day. Or that they’re my stalkers, watching my every move. They join me at work—both places. Play at my bar and drink my drinks while laughing with me. I said Tessa was my competition before, but the reality is, she’s nothing. I’ve already crossed the finish line and won while she’s in last place, slowly jogging toward the yellow tape. She doesn’t know it yet.
“Does this face look like it’s joking?” I grin cockily, tilting my head. Sometimes antagonizing the girl who made high school hell is fun. “Back off, Tessa. Buy a shirt or don’t. But you’re holding up the line.” I gesture to the four people behind her, sending her scathing looks for taking so much damn time.
“Just two shirts, smalls,” Sara says in a hurry, placating her fuming friend.
I nod and hand them two black shirts with the Whispered Words printed across the chest.
“That’ll be fifty,” I say, putting them into a black bag and setting it on the table.
Sara grumbles about the price, digging through her purse. Tessa snatches the bag with a haughty attitude and growls at me, exposing her teeth. Down, girl. I’ll put you in the pound.
“Let them have their fun with your diseased ass. But they’ll come running back to us, and I can guarantee that,” Tessa hisses, stomping away with her friend in tow.
“Sure,” I mumble sarcastically, helping the other customers with their purchase and the next after that.
The show continues for another thirty minutes without any incidents. When the line for merch lulls, I grab my phone, record their performance, and take several stills for their FlashGram. There’s nothing more intoxicating than a sweaty rock star holding their gear on stage, rocking out to the beautiful music they created.
