Page 32 of Hot Girl Summer

Is there any outfit in the world that this guy can’t rock? How can he make the most ordinary black Henley look so damn good? It has to be witchcraft. Indie boys are fast becoming my new favourite thing to fantasise about, and I immediately retract the throwaway statement I voiced outside with April. Skinny jeans and rolled up sleeves will become my masturbatory affirmation.

Sure, he doesn’t have Alex’s bright blue eyes, or Luke’s tall stature, or Ryan’s bulging biceps, Stefan’s thick curls, or James’ pretty boy looks, but his energy—his whole demeanour—is magnetic. Up on that stage, he’s nothing like the cocky prick I met just over a week ago, and that carefree half smile spread across his face exudes quiet confidence, and is completely infectious.

The music starts, and Danny and his Wandering Dragons are bathed in bright lights against a starry backdrop. My heart races as I watch him, and I’m a little disappointed that I miss the chance to catch his gaze.

They kick off with a playful and upbeat opener, creating the atmosphere for their set list, and I’m safe to ogle to my heart’s content without my friends’ judgement.

As Danny plays, I’m mesmerised by the effortless way his fingers slide along the fretboard. He has this easy way about him which is, dare I say, so incredibly sexy. Warmth fills my belly, and I find myself fantasising about his hands on my body. I imagine what those fingers and his years of experience could do to me. I press my thighs together in an attempt to offset the ache between my legs, but it proves pointless. I’ve worked myself into some sort of frenzy over those perfect hands and that smile. My god, that smile. Too late now, my underwear is already soaked to the point of no return. I could touch myself here so easily that nobody would know. I could look right into his eyes and imagine those fingers making circles on my clit, and no one, not even Danny, would ever know.

I shake the thought away after I seriously consider excusing myself so that I can at least ease the pressure in a grimy toilet cubicle. What has gotten into me? Before my thoughts have a chance to manifest, the song ends, and the lead singer, who introduces himself as Ollie, addresses the audience.

He wears a neat, blonde pompadour haircut and a nose ring, and has a tiger’s face tattooed on his forearm. With natural charisma, he speaks about music and relays anecdotes like he’s talking to old friends. He seems sweet, and a lot younger than the other band members.

Ollie introduces the rest of the band, and when Danny greets the crowd with a nod and a half wave, he momentarily caches my eye. Or at least I think he does. His smile widens, but I manage to convince myself that it isn’t because of me. There’s no way he can see past those lights, right? Warmth and want stirs deep in my belly, and I will him to notice me, but he looks away before I can return the smile.

We pass the time dancing and drinking in what little space they have to The Wandering Dragons’ upbeat, easy songs, and the set comes to a close in a rowdy, energetic finale, leaving me pumped full of adrenaline and raring to go for Monty James to take the stage.

“What did you think?” Stefan asks.

“Surprisingly good, actually,” I say.

Stefan eyes up my empty glass. “Would you like another?”

I shake my head. “No thanks, I’m good. A couple more and I’ll be anyone’s.”

“Is that right?” Danny says, approaching us.

Words fail me.

Chapter Nine

“Youguyswereawesome,”Stefan says, pulling Danny into a hug.

“Thanks, man. Appreciate it,” Danny says.

“You were okay,” I deadpan, folding my arms across my chest.

“Gee, did it hurt to say that? Nice top, by the way. Have you even heard of Nirvana?”

“It’s a dress. And yes, I know who Kurt Cobain is.”

He doesn’t need to know that I can’t name any song of theirs other than Smells Like Teen Spirit and Come As You Are, but vintage band tees have always been a wardrobe staple for me, regardless of whether I’m their number one fan, and I don’t need to justify my sense of style to anyone.

“I wondered where the rest of your outfit was,” he says, treating me to those gloriously sexy dimples.

I meet his gaze, and a slow smile spreads across my face. Butterflies swarm my belly, and a familiar warmth spreads deeper throughout my body.

“You want a drink?”

“I think I’ve peaked, but thanks. Anyway, I should be buying you a drink for scoring these tickets.”

“Can’t, I’m driving,” Danny says, raising a glass of reddish-brown liquid and taking a sip. When he licks his lips, my nipples pinch, and I’m overcome with the urge to lick the cola off them. “But if you really want to thank me, I wouldn’t say no to breakfast.”

Oh.

“Oh. I’m not really a morning person,” is all I can say before an image of waking up next to him creeps into my mind, but I swat it away when I register the confusion etched on his face. Is breakfast fuckboy code for something else?

“No, I mean—"

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