Page 24 of The Rush

The sexy rockstar with a knack for showing up at the wrong place at the wrong damn time—like anytime I’m in the room—has left me feeling achy in all the wrong ways.

Like taking over my mind the second he left my tent this morning that wasn’t really morning anymore. And last night.

Which left me tense over each piece I did the rest of the day and wondering if he’d show the hell back up.

Only slightly wishing he would anyway.

Bubbles float along the water’s surface, catching on the edge that holds the iced margarita glass and beginning to climb up the surrounding walls that leave behind an earthy aroma I was surprised to find in the hotel toiletries.

I think it’s supposed to be the men’s shit, though.

Snorting, I raise my hand from the water and reach with foam-covered fingers to the glass that’ll help make all the things better.

’Cause it’s not sad at all to drink margs in the bath. Alone.

Not at all.

Sipping, glad that the vendors are tasked with closing down before the last show of the night starts, I was able to make it to this lake of hellfire before traffic could box me in and make the bruise blackening my skin wait.

Which fucking hurts like a bitch.

And then I add in the fact that I hunched over bodies for ten crazy hours, holding a vibrating machine, and I’m surprised I can feel my entire arm.

Six hundred and sixty-five fucking people got that same damn devil head.

The same damn one.

To which I tried to convince the last chick in my chair to get the six hundred and sixty-sixth one, but she’d already made up her mind about the flaming skull. And security was literally at my door, rushing me along to shut down.

Lames.

I stretch out my loose legs because there’s enough room in this giant tub to do so and tip back the rest of my room service alcohol—both wonderful fucking amenities I’ve never dared to splurge on before now—as my phone rings somewhere under the layer of bubbles coating the surfaces surrounding me.

Locating the thing and silencing the noise with an answer to my best friend, I push myself up just a hair in the tub.

“Did you see it?” Aria rushes out, her question echoed somewhere in the background by a second voice I recognize.

“Did she see it?” Aurora parrots her sister and has me sitting all the way up in the tub.

“See what?” I ask, my brow furrowed as I swipe down the notifications on my phone and see the list piling up. “What the hell?”

“The video,” Aria chirps into the receiver.

“Of Fin,” Aurora shrieks from the back.

“Umm …” I click on the link in our shared message thread with a furrowed brow and watch the screen populate with a pretty epic pit. “He moshed? So what.”

I go to swipe away the app when Aria’s voice stops me.

“No, C. He played with them.”

“And it’s so good.”

Alright. Just kill the cat now so it can come back.

I press play on the link and watch as Fin is lifted from the rushing crowd and plants his ass on the stage like he belongs there.

Because he does belong there.

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