Page 17 of Backstage

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, from inside the tropical climate that is your apartment, but we common mortals have to cover ourselves so we don’t die of pneumonia,” I answer sharply. I make him move by placing my hand on his toned belly and I imagine my tongue going through every single inch of those well-outlined abs. I feel the heat pervading my lower abdomen at the mere thought, and curse myself for my weakness.

More than once, while rehearsing together, I peeked at that area of skin his shirt sometimes leaves uncovered. I admired the well-defined muscles you feel like touching, running your fingers lower to caress the dark hair that descends from the navel until it disappears under the belt of his pants. They call it “happy trail,” and I’d be thrilled to find out where it goes, mostly because I’m sure he doesn’t wear boxer shorts and, when he isn’t paying attention to how he sits, the thin fabric of his sweatpants leaves little to the imagination. On more than one occasion, I had to make an effort to look away and put aside the incredibly dirty fantasies of him lying naked on that damn white sofa with me on top of him. Before I started working with Damian I restrained myself and kept a professional attitude. But hell, not even a cloistered nun could be indifferent to what I see now.

He gives me an amused look as he comes closer towards me down the hallway.

“What did you have for breakfast this morning? Sour cream?”

“I’d say yes if I could swallow anything without it making me sick,” I admit honestly. He might as well know what he’s getting into right now.

Damian grabs my wrist, making me turn towards him, then holds onto my shoulders and forces me to raise my eyes to his and lose myself in his intensity.

“Are you nervous about tonight?” he asks me so seriously it almost makes my legs shake.

“That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Me freaking out before a concert, and you babysitting me, so I don’t run off to another continent,” I say with some sarcasm in my voice, not enough to cover my terror. What bothers me the most is that getting on stage has always been an immense pleasure for me, a safe haven where I can be myself. I’ve always felt strong up there. Now Brad’s taking that away from me, and all because we won this damn contest.

Damian studies me for a while, then takes me by the hand, sending a pleasant jolt through my body until it reaches the center of my stomach and almost makes me waver. I hate how he manages to turn everything upside down with the simplest physical contact between us.

“You don’t need a nurse, trust me,” he says with a half-smile as he drags me to the elevator.

I look at him out of the corner of my eye and try to understand what he’s really thinking. Sometimes, when I think I’ve finally got him in my sights, he bewilders me with a sarcastic joke, or he totally clams up. “You mean I need a prince charming to come and save me?”

If there’s one thing I’ve realized during the hours we’ve spent together recently, it’s that we can talk about anything but his past and the fact that he’s never had a woman for more than one night.

Damian laughs, filling the elevator with that big voice of his. “You don’t need a prince charming, trust me. In the fairy-tale, you’d be the ball-busting dragon protecting the princess’s tower. You spend your life giving anyone you don’t think is worthy of your presence a hard time. You’re a pain in the ass for any prince who would want to get anywhere near that tower. You’re the one to kill, not save.”

A half-smile appears on my lips. In a slightly complicated way, he managed to describe me impeccably: an independent woman who is far too proud to ask others for help.

“And who are you supposed to be? Prince Charming?” I ask him with a smile.

“There’s nothing princely about me, trust me.” He gives me a grim look.

“That’s right, sorry, you’re the bad boy who breaks hearts left and right. I forgot.” I raise an amused eyebrow.

He doesn’t answer me and sets his jaw, looking annoyed—like every time I prick him on a subject he doesn’t like to deal with. “How touchy you are. I forgot that with you, it’s only possible to talk about the weather or the job, at the most,” I whisper with a little pout.

Damian looks down and eases the tension. He seems almost guilty for making the atmosphere less pleasant. “Given how much alcohol I drink, I could be a pirate,” he adds after a moment of silence, with a half-grin on his lips and without looking me in the eye.

The smile reappears on my face. I appreciate the effort even though I brought up a subject Damian doesn’t like to talk about. I don’t have time to argue because the elevator bell announces that we have arrived at his floor, and when the doors open, it looks like a hurricane hit the living room.

“Are you changing your wardrobe?” I ask, considering an endless line of clothes is lined up in his living room.

Damian rolls his eyes and pushes me by my shoulders towards them. “They’re for you, genius. Evan sent the stylist to give you a new look for tonight. You can’t show up in sweatshirts three sizes too big,” he says, amused.

“Why not?” I ask, outraged. There’s never been any talk of changing my wardrobe, especially not with something that looks like a miniskirt, or a belt, given the size, in leopard print, that I immediately put back where I found it.

“Because, darling, you’re going to have to turn the heads of all the men in the room. They must want to take you to bed but think they can’t because you’re completely out of their league. You have to make them orgasm into those thousand-dollar suits.” A voice I don’t know makes me turn to the hallway where a tall, skinny, young man dressed in a flashy shirt comes towards me hugging me as if we’ve known each other forever.

His sweet perfume suffocates me, but it’s his stiletto heels that grab my attention. How the hell can he walk on those stilts and look so sinuous and ethereal? He looks like he stepped off a catwalk, and I envy his gait in shoes that I can’t even look at without tripping.

“I signed the contract to sing, not to prostitute myself,” I point out, crossing my arms to my chest. Every second I’m getting more and more uncomfortable. I don’t want to squeeze myself in a dress, I’ve never done it, and I get nauseous just thinking about showing off pieces of my body. Do they have any idea how much working out I’d have to do to wear a miniskirt? What’s not clear to Evan and the others? I don’t want media attention on me! That’s what scares me the most.

I notice Damian snickering as he turns his back on me and walks into the kitchen.

“Traitor. You’re supposed to be on my side, not abandon me to the enemy,” I yell as he laughs and sits at the kitchen counter with his computer, showing me his back.

“You want me to stand there and watch you undress? If those are your intentions, Lilly, just ask, and we can do it as often as you want without witnesses.” He winks at me, looking over his shoulder. A gesture that makes me loosen up more than I have to.

I feel hot and I know I’m blushing violently. I open my mouth a couple of times, trying to get a sarcastic response out, but my brain can’t focus on anything other than his words. Did he really just say he’d like to see me naked?

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