Page 3 of Hard Rock Fling
"I think you were." He shook his head and made a tsk sound. "You shouldn't listen to tabloid gossip, you know."
He cupped my cheek, just like his brother had with bottled water girl. Maybe it was their signature move. His thumb brushed my lower lip. A jolt of electricity ran up my spine. My body warmed to the core. I tried to think through the haze taking over my brain.
"Then again," he said, "they do say there's a grain of truth to every rumor."
"Hey Damian!" The bassist called out. "Quit flirting. We're going on soon."
He pulled back. My lungs began working again.
"Your adoring fans await," I said, trying not to sound breathless despite my rapidly beating heart. "You better get going, Ian."
He tilted his head, giving me one more look, bemused, but with a heavy weight behind it. "Take good care of those shades, sweetheart. They're my favorite pair."
I watched through tinted lenses as he strolled off and joined his band members. The Twins shared a quick look and turned their eyes to the stage.
When my stomach stopped tumbling over, I took the sunglasses off and clutched them in my shaking hand. I could still feel the touch of his lips on my skin. The brush of his thumb against my mouth.
The audience burst into cheers. The concert had started.
I let out a slow breath. No need to freak out. I'd found the sunglasses. I'd delivered them to The Twins in time. No reason to panic.
No reason aside from the look in Ian's eyes whenever I said his name.
Chapter Two
After my encounter with Ian, I forced myself to take deep breaths, trying to calm my heartbeat. It was no use. My pulse points were throbbing — not to mention the throbbing in the other, more intimate, parts of me.
I glanced around to see if anyone noticed my reaction to Ian. Thankfully, the staff and crew members were absorbed in their own work. Besides, they were no doubt all used to The Twins' flirting. It meant nothing.
When my breathing was even, I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind. After all, Ian probably forgot I existed the moment he turned his back.
I wandered around backstage to find my boss, wanting to see if there was anything else for me to do. My job may have seemed insignificant — making sure the right sunglasses were worn on stage — but when it came to rock stars and their image, nothing was insignificant. Working with celebrities meant every move, every act, had to be planned out perfectly.
A few interns stood around watching the band perform. I wished I could take time to watch the show, but I wanted to make a good impression. To be known as a go-getter. I wanted them to offer me a real job. Being a perpetual intern was demoralizing.
I found my boss Janet talking to a man with a staff badge around his neck. Standing a few yards away, I waited until they were done with their conversation. I wanted to pull out my phone and text my sister about my encounter with Ian, but that would have been unprofessional.
It was loud backstage. The music assaulted my ears. It reverberated in my bones. I glanced to the side. If I stood a few more feet to the left, I would have a perfect view of the stage. I debated for long moments. Janet was still busy. I shuffled over, feeling guilty.
Not guilty enough to stop myself.
The drummer was positioned near the back, working the drums at a furious pace. Platinum blond hair, natural, not dyed, flew everywhere with the force of his drumming. His arms were nearly a blur as he pounded away.
"August! Marry me!"One loud fan screamed out during a lull in the music.
His crystal blue eyes were like chips of ice, narrowed in concentration, oblivious to the hollering crowd, paying no attention to the fan calling his name. August Summers concentrated solely on keeping the band in time. I often wondered if he resented his parents for calling him August with a last name like that.
Lead singer Noah Hart stood center stage, gripping the microphone with both hands.
"Noah is a god!" several girls cried at the same time, amplifying their voices.
His burning dark brown eyes narrowed, scorching the audience with passion. He sang with an impressive range, from erotic purrs to rough growling, as if each word were being ripped from his lips. As if his throat was raw and bloody from the pure emotion being wrung out of him.
The crowd was already at a fever pitch, but that didn't stop the bassist from gesturing at the audience to start a mosh pit with a swirl of his hand.
"Come on, you guys!" Cameron shouted out with a manic grin. "It's not a proper show if at least one person doesn't leave with a broken nose!"
His bright, fire-engine red hair glimmered under the spotlights, as if he'd sprinkled glitter over his head. Long strands fell over his face, half covering his heavily kohl-rimmed eyes. The dyed hair should have been damaged and destroyed from all the abuse he put it through, but groupie rumors said it was as soft as a baby's. I snorted at the thought of Cameron Thorne putting his hair though an intense daily conditioning regime.
