Page 51 of Damaged Mogul
I’m a huge Lucky Break fan. So is Nadine. She’s going to die.
Even if the group is no longer active due to tragedy, I still shake my hips to their upbeat tunes.
As for Stasia—any woman who can bring the house down with her mad guitar skills while balancing on five-inch heels earns my respect.
I nearly fainted when Mikki suggested a selfie with the fourof us. I guess my poker face wasn’t as stoic as I thought. Maybe it’s because I kept shooting glances filled with admiration Keira’s way.
When Mikki talked about the sisterhood and the inner circle, she wasn’t joking.
While the girls were primping at Dom’s house, the men were kicking off the evening at Rhys’s business partner’s house. I was overwhelmed by all this girl power, but when we arrived at the club, I was hit with another wave of awestruck-worthy celebrities.
Cello2Cello’s talented duo are here.
I’m not into rock music, so I didn’t know Rod, Rhys’s business partner Beckett, Beckett’s older brother, and cousin were part of Random Misconception—one of the best rock bands of our time. The birthday boy also has superstar status as a former rap star.
Little ol’ me is rubbing elbows with some pretty big names.
I’m nothing special.
I can’t sing.
I can’t compose music.
I’m not that great at faking it, so acting is out of the question.
God knows after a long string of music lessons, I still suck at piano and violin.
Despite my father’s colossal wealth, I can’t even call myself a socialite, because he’s kept me a secret for most of my life, so I’ve always kept a low profile, for fearing of calling too much attention to myself.
Yet, here I am.
I’m a fish out of water, but I’m loving this new adventure. The people in my father’s circle might be wealthy, but none of them have Hollywood star power.
I was having an incredible time until I went and ruined it for myself.
Arianne, Beckett’s better half, introduced me to Cesar Navarro and his wife Diana. I’m not on top of my Latin music, so I didn’t go into fan girl mode like I had with Keira and Stasia. Still, these two are mega music stars.
I was chatting up a storm––too many French martinis in a row tend to do that––when my mouth ran away from me. I made the mistake of saying I’ve always wanted to learn how to dance salsa. Diana promptly enlisted her husband as my dance teacher.
My cheeks warm, not because of the martinis, but because I’m injuring Cesar. The former King of Reggaetón turned successful businessman has been teaching me the basics for the past half hour. I wouldn’t say I have two left feet, but salsa is hard. OnDancing with The Stars, Strictly Come Dancing,andDanse avec les starseveryone dances with such ease and grace.
I’m sure Cesar must be regretting he accepted to step up to the challenge. By the time this lesson is done, I’ll have scuffed up his expensive looking shoes.
I stare up at him. “I’m sorry.” I cringe when I step on his foot. Again.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, his dark brown eyes filled with understanding. “Let’s take it from the top.”
“I’m a lost cause,” I say.
The music isn’t too loud to prevent easy conversation. Or in this case, easy complaining.
“Nonsense. Practice makes perfect.”
If you say so.
“Chica muévelo.”
Cesar has been saying that on repeat since this torture began. I do as I’m told, and shake my hips.
