Page 104 of Beautiful Distraction

I lean back against the seat and try to blend in with theupholstery to give them privacy.

But in secret, I wish I was back home—my real home inNYC—with a bowl of popcorn or double fudge ice cream, watching a goodmovie while downing an entire bottle of wine.

Get drunk.

Anything to help me forget the taste of his lips on mine.Forget the heady scent of his aftershave and the sound of his laughter. Stopthe echo of his name inside my mind and all the silly wishes and hopes thathe’s thinking of me the way I’m thinking of him.

I’m losing myself. That’s not something I envisionedhappening because I know that soon enough, maybe even today, maybe tomorrow,he’ll be chasing the next girl. Someone who won’t be me.

I’ll become a blurred memory.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

We drive for at least half an hour before I spy the hugetent adorned by hundreds of lights that sparkle like tiny fireflies in theevening sky. We seem to be in the middle of a field. There are countless carsparked to either side, and people are gathered in groups, chatting excitedlywhile they’re waiting.

“What’s everybody waiting for?” I ask and crane my neck toget a better look at what’s happening around us.

“The customary pat down.” Josh pulls the truck into an emptyspot and points at a police officer, who’s standing near what I assume is theentrance. I don’t understand what he’s doing there, until he moves aside.That’s when I see the two huge, beefy guys looking into every purse and pattingdown everyone before they get a wristband and are ushered inside.

“There isn’t much to pat,” I say, eyeing the short skirtsand snug tank tops that leave little to the imagination. Some have skipped thetank top part altogether and have gone straight for the underwear look.

“I’ve never seen so many women gathered in one place, unlessthere’s a sale,” Mandy says.

“That’s Mile High,” Josh says, as though that explainseverything.

We exit the car, and Josh leads us around the tent toward aclosed-off area with two security guys blocking the way. I suspect this is theprivate entrance for the artists. The guys’ expressions are so grim I wouldn’tbe surprised to find them ready to break a few bones if we come too close.

“You can’t be here,” one of the guys says.

“Josh Boyd,” Josh says. “The ladies are with me.”

“Of course, Mr. Boyd,” the other one says and hands us threeguest passes. I peer down, and to my surprise, find my name on it.

Without so much as a blink, the security guy opens the door.I peer at Josh, who just shrugs and ushers me inside.

“We’re backstage,” Mandy whispers. “I can’t believe it.”

Me neither.

And why are our names on the passes?

“Mandy,” I whisper. “How did they know our names?”

She shrugs. “You won tickets, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but as you probably noticed, they’re still in myhandbag.” I point to Josh. “What did you tell him?”

“Let’s talk later, okay? Enjoy this.”

“Fine.” In spite of my repulsion for anything Mile Highstands for, a tiny bit of excitement runs through me. From where we’re standing,we can see the entire stage. Roadies are rushing past us, setting up variouspieces of music equipment, while a band is tuning up, completely oblivious tothe commotion around them. To the far end, people are flooding in and the firstsqueals of excitement carry over.

“The soundcheck’s almost over. They’re opening for MileHigh,” Mandy says, pointing to the guys on the stage.

Even though this is strangely exhilarating, I feel like animpostor. “I don’t think we should be here.”

“Relax,” Josh says. “We’re guests. Of course we’re supposedto be here. You guys want anything to drink?” He points at a table with variousrefreshments.

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