Page 38 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
I gave her that skeptical look that usually comes right before a “you’re about to say something insane,” but Tess took it as encouragement.
“Here’s how it works,” she explained. “When a woman who’s objectively magnetic—aka me—shows up with another woman—aka you—the divaeffect expands by proximity. It’s like… the moon. You do know the moon doesn’t shine on its own, right? It reflects the sun.”
“Wait a sec… are you saying I’m the moon and you’re the sun?”
“Exactly. When that bouncer saw you, he picked up my aura radiating off you. For one brief moment, you looked… special. Like an eclipse. An erotic-emotional optical illusion.”
“So what you’re saying is, he doesn’t actually like me?”
“Oh no, he likes you. Just… courtesy of me. Side effect of my charisma.”
“Right…” I said.
“Anyway…” Tess adjusted her scarf like a general after battle. “I’ll remember that fool when I write my memoirs. Chapter Seventeen: The Man Who Completely Missed the Point.”
That was pure Tess. And pure Vivienne Blaze—my fictional Tess. It needed to be written down immediately.
I pulled out my notebook as discreetly as possible while we headed down the tunnel to the stands. The walls vibrated with the distant roar of the crowd. Perfect cover for secret scribbling.
“What are you doing?” Tess spun around.
“Taking notes…”
“Notes?” She arched an eyebrow. Suspicious.
“Yeah… to learn how to be a proper seductress. Like you.”
Tess froze. Her expression was halfway between touched and spellbound, like I’d just told her I’d saved a panda.
“Oh, and here I thought nothing ever got through that thick skull of yours!”
She hugged me quickly, then kept walking.
I followed, capitalizing on the moment. “So, from now on, you’ll see me writing in my notebook a lot.”
Without turning around, she raised her voice just enough to be heard over the crowd.
“Notebook? Honey, better get yourself a war journal.”
Ahead of us, the stadium opened up like the jaws of a mythological monster hungry for glory. A tidal wave of sound, light, and bodies crashed into us. Everywhere: giant screens, screaming chants, ripped T-shirts, raised hands, running mascara. The crowd pulsed like one giant organism, hopelessly in love.
“Here we are, Bea. Welcome to the Church of Ryder,” Tess announced, with the same tone Hannibal must’ve used when he said, “We made it to Rome.”
She stopped, stretched her arms wide like a high priestess summoning the gods, and smiled.
“See?” she said, pointing at the endless sea of heads and flat-ironed hair. “See how many womenhe could have? All of them ready to drool at his feet. All of them dolled up, perfumed, convinced they’rethe one.”
She paused dramatically. One of the jumbotrons lit up, showing Zane Ryder’s silhouette backstage: tousled hair, guitar slung over his shoulder, torso straight out of a vintage poster.
Tess narrowed her eyes. “But me… I’ll do more. I’ll put a spell on his soul.”
I shot her a look. “A spell.”
“He’ll beg me on his knees not to leave him,” she went on. “He’ll write me songs. He might even quit touring. Maybe… we’ll garden together in Provence.”
I didn’t even get a chance to respond before a collective scream ripped through the air, a tidal wave crashing over the world. The lights dropped. The stage lit up. The concert was about to begin.
Tess whipped around, grabbed my hands tight, her eyes sparkling like she was about to cast a live spell. “Get ready. Because tomorrow… the war begins.”
