Page 35 of Saving the Rockstar

And god, the casual touches. The way he'd guide me through throngs of fans with a hand on the small of my back, or brush a stray hair from my forehead in quiet moments backstage.

Each one sent a thrill through me, an almost painful awareness. I was hyper-attuned to him, to his presence, like a livewire seeking a ground.

It was maddening. Thrilling. The most exquisite torture I'd ever known.

Dylan, of course, noticed. He'd shoot me sly looks after every charged interaction. One night, as we lounged around the green room after a show, he finally broached the subject.

"So," he said casually, examining his nails. "You and the hunky bodyguard. That's new."

I choked on my water. "What? No, there's no me and Jared. Ever since the kiss, he’s made it clear he wants things to be professional."

Dylan gave me a flat look. "Babe. Come on. I haven't seen this much eye-fucking since Mason discovered leather pants."

As if summoned, Mason chose that moment to saunter into the room. He zeroed in on Dylan immediately, his eyes narrowing.

"Dylan. Care to explain why my guitar case smells like a Jamaican dispensary?"

Dylan blinked up at him innocently. "Why Mason, are you accusing me of something? I'm hurt, truly."

Mason chuckled. "Can it, buddy. I know you've been hotboxing in the equipment trailer again."

"Excuse you, I have done no such thing!" Dylan sniffed. "I'll have you know I only smoke the finest organic, ethically-sourced-"

"I swear to god, Dylan, if you finish that sentence, I will string you up by your nipple piercing."

Dylan grinned, shameless. "Don’t threaten me with a good time! Besides, you'll have to buy me dinner first, big boy."

Mason's face did something complicated, flitting between irritation and reluctant amusement. "You're an absolute fucking menace."

"Aw, you say the sweetest things." Dylan fluttered his lashes. "Be still my beating heart."

I watched the exchange with growing amusement, my own embarrassment momentarily forgotten. There was something there, a charged undercurrent to their bickering.

Like the bratty kid pulling his crush's pigtails on the playground, desperate for any scrap of attention.

And well, who was I to judge? My flirting style apparently involved pouring my soppy heart out onstage and mooning after my bodyguard like a lovesick puppy.

At least Dylan and Mason's dance had an edge of plausible deniability. The barbs, the snark... it was a thin veneer over the crackling tension, but a veneer all the same.

Not like me and Jared, laying ourselves bare with every heated look and lingering touch. Secrets whispered in lyrics, confessions made in the spaces between breaths.

I tuned back into the conversation just in time to catch Dylan mid-rant, gesticulating wildly.

"-and another thing, Mr. Tall, Dark and Disapproving! The next time you feel the need to criticize my rolling technique, maybe take a look in the mirror, huh? Because buddy, I've seen tighter joints on a GI Joe figure."

Mason pinched the bridge of his nose, looking pained. "My rolling technique is flawless, thank you very much. Precise. Efficient."

Dylan made an outraged sound. "Oh honey, no. Joints are an art, not a military operation. They require finesse, delicacy. Not ham-fisted brute force."

"I'll show you ham-fisted brute force," Mason growled, taking a menacing step forward.

Dylan, the reckless idiot, just grinned up at him sunnily. "Promise?"

I watched Mason's throat work as he swallowed, his eyes darkening. Torn between throttling Dylan and throwing him over the nearest flat surface, if I had to guess.

I decided to take pity on them both, clearing my throat pointedly. They jumped, having clearly forgotten I was there.

"You know," I said mildly, "for two people who claim to hate each other, you sure do flirt an awful lot."

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