Page 14 of Crimson Desires

Gritting my teeth, I pulled my hand away. “I’ll pass.”

“You just love playing hard to get, don’t you?”

“If imagining that I’m playing hard to get helps you sleep at night, then yes, I do.”

Jack laughed a bit to himself. It was infuriating how well he reacted to my cruel words. No matter what I said, he took my snide comments in stride. I got the urge to say something that would knock him down a peg. Something that would leave him speechless.

But before I could muster up anything truly awful, Jack interrupted me.

“Anyways, I love your dedication to bantering, but doors open in less than two hours. So, let’s get something to eat. Consider it an apology for last night.”

I tried to protest, but my rumbling stomach made my arguments a moot point.

“Fine. But this is an apology meal. Not a date.”

“Of course, flower girl. I’ll wait until we have an entire day off to take you out on a real date.” Jack winked; his lips drawn into that infuriatingly attractive crooked grin.

“You’re disgusting,” I said, but there was no bite to it. “And quit fucking calling me that.”

“Calling you what?”

“Flower girl.”

“Fine. What do you want me to call you?” Jack asked.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “You can call me Aster.”

Jack stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Alright then, Aster. Let’s go. I’m starving.” He nodded with his head toward the venue’s back exit.

Against my better judgment, I followed him.

Chapter Four

Jack

Aster wearing a Wicked Crimson T-shirt might have been one of the hottest fucking things I’ve ever borne witness to.

The shirt was a perfect fit. It clung to her body in all the right places, accentuating her small waist and the slight curve of her hips. The V-neck collar cut deep enough to expose the smallest bit of cleavage, and the jet-black material gave her a punky edge that made my cock strain against my jeans.

With her wearing that shirt, I was sure that our merch sales would go through the roof.

“So, where are we going anyways?” Aster asked.

We were seated in the back of my security guard, Dave’s, Honda Civic. Security traveled separately from the band and crew—which had its benefits. Namely, the fact that I didn’t have to order an Uber whenever I wanted to go somewhere.

“You’ll see,” I said.

The place that I’d picked for lunch was a small bagel shop about five minutes from the venue. It was a hole-in-the-wall kind of place. The kind that was often overshadowed by the bigger chain restaurants around it. Selfishly, I liked that it was a little obscure.

Dave pulled up to the curb outside the bagel shop. He parked the car, stepping out. Aster began to reach for the handle.

“Wait,” I told her. “Dave’s going to see if we can reserve the dining area first.”

Aster tilted her head. “What, like the entire café?”

“Yeah. Believe it or not, being a celebrity can be a double-edged sword. I can’t remember the last time I was able to casually go into a store without wearing some kind of disguise.”

Aster looked as though she was going to say something cutting. But she held herself back. “That actually does sound awful,” she admitted.

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