Page 21 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
I looked at her the way you look at a blender running without a lid.
“Excuse me, what?”
“Yes, you heard me. Field test subjects. Human drills. Moving targets. Before we reach the big prize, we warm up with the B-league.”
10
That evening, Tess got ready like a diva on the eve of a media blitz. In the background, an old forty-five spun something halfway between Wagner and an ’80s fantasy movie soundtrack, rattling the walls and her neurons.
In front of the full-length mirror, she studied herself with the intensity of someone about to negotiate peace in the Middle East—or launch a rocket into space. Hands on hips, one eyebrow slightly raised, and then, a solemn whisper to her reflection: “Yes yes yes yes yes… we’re ready…”
She gave herself a tiny approving nod, like she’d just passed a military strategy exam with honors. “Now it’s time to get serious.”
The plan was simple: warm-up men. Like the opening acts at a concert, before the real star arrives. Emotional-strategic foreplay. She knew the theory far too well. She’d even slept on it. Literally. Only, like every human discipline, theory was one thing. Practice was another.
You couldn’t go straight from couch potato to Everest summit in one afternoon, right? First you try the hills. Maybe a walk in the woods. A marked trail with a picnic area. Even though, honestly, the metaphor didn’t quite work. Because someone who’s spent years scrolling Instagram profiles with one hand in a can of Pringles doesn’t just wake up one morning, zip up a windbreaker, and convince themselves they’re ready to climb vertical ice walls in Nepal.
But Tess wasn’t “someone.” She was Tess. And in her personal logic, one single night out with a standard human target—meaning some random guy from accounting or a part-time waiter—was enough to fire up the engines.
After that, no more rehearsals.
The next step? Knocking on Zane Ryder’s dressing-room door with the look of someone holding a record deal ready to sign… when what she really wanted to sign was something else entirely.
When I pointed out—with the calm rationality of someone still faintly connected to reality—the sheer absurdity of her entire plan, she looked at me as if I’d just told her Santa Claus was a postal worker.
“Exactly. A completely irrelevant comparison. I don’t need muscles or lung capacity. This isn’t about physical endurance.”
She paused theatrically, then lifted the fuchsia-covered manual and waved it at me like it was theTen Commandments.
“I havethis. A magic formula. A universal key that opens any emotional lock.”
In her mind, anything she touched would fall at her feet. Men, women, waiters, bartenders, entire bands. All it took was a glance, a well-placed whisper, andbam—Midas touch of the heart. Or better: Cupid with a driver’s license and stilettos.
“It’s nottraining,” she corrected me, applying lipstick with surgical precision. “It’spractice. Just to get comfortable with Countess Éloïse’s psychological spells. Think of it as stretching before a duel.”
And then, with the icy calm of someone who had already decided to ignore any outside opinion, she added: “If we need a metaphor, Bea—I’m a gun.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, hoping I’d misheard.
“A gun,” she repeated, with emphasis. “Whether you want to shoot a servant or a king, you don’t need endless preparation. If you’re planning to fire at close range, all you need is a quick stop at the shooting range, just to understand recoil. After that, you’re ready.”
But she wasn’t finished.
“And anyway,” she said, adjusting her choker with regal poise, “Zane Ryder is not Everest. Please.”
She gave a short, almost pitying laugh.
“If we’re talking climbs, he’s the one who’ll haveto cross oceans, deserts, and storms to get my attention. Forget a peak to conquer—I’m the entire solar system.”
She drew her eyeliner with the precision of a cosmetic surgeon and added, “You know… I almost feel sorry for them…”
“Them who?” I asked, already knowing the answer would send the needle of her madness into the red zone.
“The ones I’ll meet tonight,” she sighed, with the tragic voice of a silent-movie actress. “They’ll be normal guys, living normal lives… some are probably getting dressed right now, picking out a shirt in the hope of making out with someone. Others just clocked out of work and are looking for a glass of wine, a little peace from reality. And then there will be the married ones… who only want a beer and some laughs with friends. Unaware. Innocent.”
She paused dramatically, as if announcing the arrival of a meteorite.
“They don’t know it yet… but tonight they’ll suffer the emotional equivalent of an atomic bomb. Silent. Refined. Impeccably made up.”
