Page 110 of Dear Rockstar (Dear Rockstar 1)

“Good, because—” He bent down to get a drink and that cut off any more words. I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, I pushed the back of his head and he looked up at me, eyes wide, face dripping. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“You’re going to get it!” he growled, but he was grinning. I backed away as he advanced, still laughing. When I began to run, he grabbed me around the waist, whirling me around to face him. He pulled me close, rubbing his cold, wet cheek against mine until I squealed in protest. Laughing, he wiped his face with the tail-end of his t-shirt and then wiped mine too, giving me a very nice glimpse of his washboard abs.

I put my arms around his neck, sliding my thigh up between his, watching his eyes darken, my nails lightly raking over the back of his neck the way I knew he liked, the way that got him instantly hard.

“Stop distracting me,” he insisted, but he kissed me, tongue probing, making my limbs feel heavy and weak, like I couldn’t hold myself up, but that was okay, because I was in his arms, his hips pinning me to the wall, and I couldn’t help remember how he licked me and fucked me in the storage room at the club, how Carrie and Wendy had looked at us when we came out, all disheveled and flushed.

That’s when Dale told me they were lesbians.

“Are you sure about Carrie and Wendy?” I murmured, as Dale distracted himself now, nibbling on my collar bone.

He chuckled. “Sweetheart, your gaydar is so broken it’s not even funny.”

“It is not,” I protested, letting my head tilt a little to the side so he could rub that gorgeous stubble over my neck. “I knew Boy George was gay.”

Dale snorted laughter. “The Pope could tell Boy George is gay.”

“It’s just… I guess it makes sense. I’ve never seen either of them with a guy, and they’re always together. I just thought they were friends, like me and Aimee…”

He pulled back to look at me, amused.

“Gaydar. Broken.” He touched my nose with each word.

“But they talk about guys!” I protested.

He smiled. “Wouldn’t you, if you didn’t want anyone to know?”

“So who else?” I asked, frowning. “What am I missing?”

“George Michael is gay,” he said, watching with amusement as my eyes widened.

“He is not!”

Dale cracked up. “I’m afraid so.”

“Next thing you’ll be telling me Tyler Vincent is gay,” I muttered, playing with his belt, wishing I could undo it right here and now.

“That would solve a few problems.” He made a face, shaking his head. “But no. Not gay.”

“Dale! There you are!” Holly Larson hurried toward us. “I saw you at the semi-finals. You guys were great! Are you doing that song for the finals? It’s so awesome!”

“Don’t know yet,” he replied. He was never short or cold or mean to anyone who came up to compliment his music, although sometimes, like now, I really wished he would just tell them to take a hike. Especially her.

Holly stood in front of us, playing with the end of her ponytail, trying to look all seductive. She acted like I wasn’t even standing there.

“Hey, maybe I can say I knew you when.” Holly smiled. That was the smile that caught her Josh Wilson, quarterback, in high school—and got her pregnant, I thought, a little ungraciously. He’d dropped her like Van Halen dropped David Lee Roth when he found out, and Holly had disappeared for the rest of the year. We all heard she gave her baby up for adoption.

“Maybe.” Dale looked like he was enjoying her attention a little too much.

“My birthday’s coming up at the end of March, and I know it’s a little early, but I was wondering if you wanted to help me host?”

My eyes widened and then narrowed at her. Unbelievable! Was she kidding?

“I think I have plans.” Dale turned, seeing the look on my face and immediately steering me toward the auditorium doors.

“Maybe you can call Josh Wilson and ask him to host your party with you?” I called snidely over my shoulder.

Dale snorted as he pushed me through the doors, and I didn’t hear Holly reply, but I saw the hurt look in her eyes and the flash of her ponytail as she turned down the hallway.

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