Page 222 of Composed
As expected, they’re amused—and fucking confused—about the guys’ attire. But mostly, the focus has been on the music. And on the mysterious woman in the crowd I snogged senseless.
Hendrix just laughed it off when Saint announced she was trending within minutes of us coming off stage.
Turns out, she really does give less than two fucks that her boyfriend’s famous.
Not surprising.
She’s always cared more about the music than the life that comes with it.
She tugs me around the corner and careens to a stop.
Air lodges in my lungs as a sea of white floods my vision.
A neon-pink, gaudy sign flickers above the chapel. Strings of white fairy lights hang from the awning, tangled in plastic ivy and glitter-dusted roses. The stained windows are shrouded in darkness, but I spy my best friend as he plasters his face to the glass.
My pulse skitters. “Rixie—”
I stumble as Hendrix steps in front of me. The T-shirt with my face all over it has gone, leaving her in a white, corset-top-style dress. Tulle skirt, lacy sleeves that slip down her shoulders, and ink fucking everywhere. She’s wearing black Converse on her feet with frilly white socks poking over the ankles.
“I’m feeling a little…” She flicks the cap off the tequila and swigs a shot before propping it on a bench. “Reckless.”
Emotion crawls up my throat. “Have you been spending too much time with Saint?”
“Always.” She tilts her head, her lips curling sweetly.
I follow her gaze down to her thumb, where she twists off a ring and tosses it at me.
It arcs through the air, glittering beneath the flashing lights of Vegas. I snatch it up, looking back at her as a thick white-gold band sits heavy in my palm. My vision mists. “This yours?”
“For now.” She bridges the distance between us, only stopping when the toes of her Converse hit my chequered Vans. She slides a warm, trembling hand over my cheek and brings me down until our lips touch. “Was hoping you might want to take it off my hands.”
“Rixie, baby.” I trap her fingers between mine and crane my neck, pressing a kiss to my microphone on her wrist. Then I lock our eyes, a smirk curving my mouth. “You gonna take my last name?”
She hums, tilting her head side to side as she tests the idea on her lips. “Hendrix Hayes.”
Yeah, no, it doesn’t sound right.
“Absolutely not, dude.” Her nose wrinkles, her lips twisting as gold sparkles behind her irises. “Cole Moore has a ring to it, though.”
I hike a brow. “Really?”
“Definitely not.” She throws her arms around my neck, a bright grin on her face. “Oh, well. At least we tried.”
I wrap my arm around her back and lift her into my chest.
Her legs wind around my waist, and she giggles.
A man could really get used to this.
Carter pokes his head round the door, and the Elvis costume suddenly makes a fuck-ton of sense.
I press my forehead to Hendrix’s as I step forward. “How the hell did you get Carter to wear that monstrosity?”
“He volunteered, actually.” She drags her nails over my scalp. “I was trying to get Axel on board, but he point-blank refused. God only knows why—the man has worn far worse. I was just gonna dress him myself if I had to, but Carter stepped in and said he’d do it before I had to resort to such extremes.”
I slide her to the floor, my laughter warm as it coasts past my lips.
Saint barrels over.
