Page 29 of Of Heartbreak and Harmony
He cocks his head to the side, assessing me as he takes a long drag from his cigarette. The end glows bright red, but all I can see is my nervous expression in his mirrored aviators.
I put a hand on my hip instead of wrapping it around my stomach like I want. I make my back ramrod straight and work to school my face into something less...baffled fangirl. I give what I hope looks like a nonchalant shrug.
“It’s not every day you see one world-famous rock star slap another world-famous rock star across the face. I was curious. Sue me.”
His lips twitch at the corners, and he slowly blows out a stream of smoke.
“I could. It’d make the pap payout look like chump change.”
He’s not smiling, but he’s amused. I can hear it in his voice, and it gets my back up, squashing my nerves with anger. He’s in this beer line trying to not-so-subtly intimidate me, and he finds itamusing.
I open my mouth to snap something snarky back at him, to tell himto stop with the back-alley shakedown because it’s unnecessary and a waste of my time, but he cuts me off.
“Is that your natural hair color?”
My head jerks back in a flinch at the rapid change of topic. He bites his lip, stifling a laugh, and I scoff.
“Is this adoes the carpet match the drapeskind of question? Are we in high school?”
His smile breaks free, full lips stretching over white teeth, and for some reason, my eyes zero in on his unusually sharp canines. Like understated fangs.
Jesus, Rock was right. This man would eat me alive.
“Does it?” he says with a low laugh.
I roll my eyes and turn around, giving him my back. I’m fuming. What an asshole. This is why they say to never meet your idols.
“Hey, I was just kidding,” he says, and his voice is lower. Closer than before. So close that I’m afraid to turn around to see just how much distance is left between our bodies. “It’s an unusual color, is all. Pretty, the way it’s multicolored. Copper. Cinnamon. Blonde. Matches with your outfit perfectly.”
I don’t respond, but my lips curl into a tiny smile. A compliment from a hot rock star. It’s probably shallow. It’s probably just a line. A weak excuse to hopefully keep me from going to the media. But I smile anyway.
He doesn’t speak to me again as the line inches forward. Not until we step up to the counter and I order my drinks.
“She’s on mine,” Torren says suddenly, flashing a badge of some sort to the bartender. The guy’s eyes flare, and he glances quickly from the badge to Torren, then his head bobbles in a rapid nod.
“Yes, sir. Mr. King, sir.”
I don’t even have to show him my fake ID or flash my alcohol wristband. The guy just turns and gets to work grabbing our drinks. I flick my eyes toward Torren over my shoulder.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
His cigarette is gone, his face trained forward and not on me as he shrugs.
“Consider it an apology for insulting you. It’s theleastI can do.”
I don’t know if I imagine the veiled innuendo in that last sentence. Probably. But damn if my heart doesn’t kick up anyway.
“Thank you,” I force out, hoping he can’t hear the breathlessness in my tone. “Consider yourself forgiven.”
The bartender hands me my two drinks and Torren his one. I thank the bartender and turn to leave. To my surprise, Torren follows beside me.
“Youareold enough to drink, right?”
I hold my breath for a moment, consider the question quickly in my head, then take note of the two beers already in my hands. I force a laugh.
“That mattersnow?” I deflect. “You already gave me the drinks.”
I see him nod in my periphery. “It matters.”
