Page 33 of Of Heartbreak and Harmony
Nerves claw at my throat, suddenly protective of whatever weird bubble I’ve found myself in with Torren. I don’t want it popped yet. I don’t want to be the reason his cover is blown. I flick my eyes to the man in question to find him studying me intently.
“Yourfriend?”
I don’t answer him. I type out a quick text to Becket, trying my best to ignore the way Torren’s eyes make my heart quicken, mixing with my nerves and making me feel dizzy.
Me
Found a friend from high school. Be back later.
I’ve resolved to following Torren to his bus despite my earlier refusal. I shove down the niggling knowledge that it could be a very bad idea. Lust and curiosity suffocating every ounce of logical thought.
I put my phone away and look back at Torren. I’m about to tell him to lead the way when he shoves his hands in his pockets and straightens his back. I’m stunned a bit at how tall he is when he’s not sporting his cool kid slouch.
“I’ll let you get back to your friend. But if you care, I’ll be in Picasso tomorrow night at ten.”
Picasso is one of the activity tents dedicated to the arts. Every tent has a different name, and a different itinerary for the week.
“That’s during tomorrow’s headliner,” I say, the statement coming out slowly, betraying the interest I’ve been trying to hide.
“It is.”
“Are you going to tell me what you’ll be doing there?”
He smirks. “Waiting for you.”
He turns on his heel, and once again I stare at his retreating back, watching him leave and feeling like something I was gripping so tightly has slipped through my fingers.
“Why?” I call out, making him turn back around.
“Does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
The silence stretches between us, and the longer I wait, the further down my heart sinks in my chest. I didn’t realize how much it mattered until I said the words. Am I just an opportunity? Was I simply in the right place at the right time to catch his eye? Or is it something more strategic—a ploy to make sure I don’t go to the tabloids about Sav’s slap?
Everyone wants to be special. No one wants to feel like just another warm body to be used. Even now, standing in front of this gorgeous rock star I’ve been obsessed with for years in a scenario most people would kill for, I want it to be more than it probably is.
If he says there’s no particular reason, I won’t go.
If I don’t like what he says, I won’t go.
I won’t subject myself to any situation that will leave me feeling lesser. I have standards. I have self-respect. I won’t let him turn me into just another Heartless groupie, no matter how beautiful or tempting or mysterious he is.
Resisting the urge to fidget with my feather skirt, I stand my ground instead. I don’t take my eyes off him. I will him to tell me the truth. To tell me something compelling enough to make me meet him tomorrow night.
Then his lips curve slightly, slowly, into the kind of suggestive smirk I feel all the way to my toes.
“You intrigue me, Firebird,” he says finally, his voice a sensual rasp. “And I think I might be a bit of a pyro.”
I watch him turn to leave once more, and this time I don’t stop him. I think about what he said the whole walk back to the tent.
You intrigue me, Firebird.
I might be a bit of a pyro.
It’s corny, yes, but it’s notnotcompelling. Having Torren King say that I intrigue him does more things to my insides than Becket calling me hot today, and I can’t deny that.
And the nickname. Fuck. I’m a sucker for a good nickname.
