Page 51 of Broken Melody
“Seriously?” Nixon asks while Rocco chokes on a laugh.
“I’m man enough to rock some guy liner. I’m not intimidated,” he says.
“I didn’t know you were into looking like some pussy rock star wannabe,” I goad.
“I’m no pussy. Don’t make me whip out my dick and show you,” he says defensively.
“Your dick size doesn’t mean shit,” Nixon says. “You’re still wearing girly makeup.”
“Just wait and see how the chicks dig it, then you’ll be wishing you put some on too,” Henley says not at all ruffled and quiets down while Susie, the makeup artist, places the lines on his eyes. When he’s done, he checks himself out in the mirror again turning his head from side to side. “I think I’m going to do this for concerts too.”
“Oh god,” Rocco says.
“I say go for it if you like it,” Jace says.
When we’re done teasing Henley, we move out into a large room where the photographers have their equipment set up. Who knew they needed so much shit to take some photos. Several different cameras are sitting on a table and people are milling about. There’s a long table full of food, people walking around with headsets doing god knows what. “Go ahead and help yourselves to the food, but please put these on if you eat,” an assistant says holding up large bibs to cover our shirts. Make yourself comfortable,” she says pointing out the large leather couches and chair in the room. “It will be a few moments yet before Sailor’s ready. I think they just got her in hair and makeup,” she says.
We don’t waste time, we all put our bibs on like we’re told and head to the table to load up our plates. We’re starving. It isn’t until we’re sitting faces full of food that Sailor walks into the room. It’s a damn good thing I’m wearing that stupid bib because I come damn close to dropping my plate all over my lap. As it is, it catches the drool falling down my chin, because holy fuck.
She saunters toward us and I thank the gods that we are seated so far away because watching her walk to us is a fucking privilege. It’s a shock her mere presence isn’t setting the room on fire.
She’s wearing leather pants so tight each and every inch of her is on display. She’s mounted on studded high shoes that look so uncomfortable I give thanks again that I’m a guy, and marvel as I watch her manage to move in them gracefully. Her shirt, fuck her shirt is bright red, the only pop of color in our group, aside from her lips that match, and the damn thing is cut practically down to her navel. I’m sure they’ve got those babies taped in nice and tight but I find myself staring there anyway hoping and praying for a peek.
“Whoa,” I mutter under my breath and all the guys turn in synchronization to see what I’m looking at.
“Wow,” Nixon and Rocco say.
“She looks great,” Henley says.
Funny how none of them make me aggravated with their comments. Maybe because I know they aren’t interested in anything other than her voice. But right then and there, I know, that I’m doomed, because I want Sailor Blue, and I’m going to use the brand new opportunity presented to me to make her mine – even if it kills me.
