Page 36 of Revel
She twists the bottle around to read the label. “What is this?”
Slouching toward her, I lean my weight into her shoulder. “Beluga vodka.” My eyes drift to her, a wave of anxiety hitting me. I don’t know what I’m searching for. What the fuck am I doing with her? I have no business messing around with her head like this. Believe it or not, there are women out of my league. The arrogant rock star with more money than he knows what to do with would argue that point, but the reality here is Taylan Ash is out of my fucking league. And let me tell you, reality eventually catches up, and it’s hard to know the damage it’ll cause.
“Where are we going?” someone in the limo asks. I almost forgot we weren’t alone here. Suggestions are thrown out, security outs most of them but agree to a bar uptown where they can secure a back entrance.
When we left the venue, I knew Red wouldn’t have anything to worry about with a bunch of tattooed rock stars and Patrick. No one messes with him. I don’t know much about Patrick other than he’s a retired Navy SEAL and one badass dude. He’s been my personal bodyguard for two years, and I wouldn’t trust anyone else. He finds drugs for me in every country, aside from South America, apparently.
Beside me, I can sense Red’s nerves once we pull through a back alley behind the bar. She knows the moment we step out, together, it’s all over. We’ll be photographed at the same bar, getting out of the same car. Her image as the princess of pop will forever be tied to that one night she spent with the angry misfits of Revved, and more importantly,me.
Does she want that? Hadn’t that been her intention all along? I’m not stupid. I know why she agreed to the tour against her label’s wishes. Me. My presence, my reputation. She may be out of my league, but it still doesn’t mean she belongs in mine.
When there’s no one left in the car but the two of us, Red hesitates with her hand on the door.
I swallow down the knot of apprehension, breathing slow and steady.Don’t bite the apple, Red. Don’t do it.
Instead of getting out, there’s a pause, and she reaches for the vodka, smile in place, but eyes lost. She takes a drink, then hands it to me. I do the same, then set the bottle aside. Silence. Green eyes that won’t leave mine make my head pound in competition with my heartbeat.
Her body stiffens at my touch on her hand. Her lips part and I swear her voice shakes when she asks, “Shall we?”
I want to grab her face with my hands and force her to look at me and tell me no. That she doesn’t want anything to do with me. That she shouldn’t want anything to do with me. My hands find my own hair instead, frustrated, and I bite the inside of my cheek, hoping for blood. My chest expands. Again, I don’t say anything, but I nod to the open door. She knows what she’s doing, and me, well, I never claimed to know.
Outside the car I guide her through the mass of people photographing our every move. Red’s sandwiched between Patrick and me, her hands on my back, her warmth undeniable.
People shout out her name, mine, all trying to get our attention, but neither of us look up. Inside the bar, a table is secured in the corner and while I’m unsure what might happen next, it starts with a round of shots.
“Is this a bad idea?” Red whispers, still clinging to my side. We’re seated in a booth and she’s practically on my lap, yet I want her closer.
“Is what a bad idea?” I lean my head to hear her over the music, neon blue above us lighting the side of her face.
“Us being here together and drinking.” Her breath catches when my hand glides to her thigh. My eyes move to her plump red lips I want to suck on.
I shrug, never giving her an answer as I down the shot, and then another. It is a bad idea, but I don’t want to admit it because I like the feeling of having her next to me. As much as I hated her, now I can’t stand an inch of space between us. My stare drifts to Cruz when he cracks open a bottle of champagne.
Red giggles, stifling her laugh with her hand. “What was your dream really about?”
I raise an eyebrow. “What dream?”
Her head rests against mine in an attempt to talk over the blaring bass of the music. “The dream you had about me with the champagne.”
Leaning back against the leather bench we’re seated on, my hand falls from her thigh to the bottle of whiskey now in front of me. Courtesy of traveling with an entourage. They know what I like and I don’t even need to ask for it anymore. It’s there before I need to.
Wrapping my arm around her, she curls into my side like she’s meant to be there. Her heat burns and tempts, stinging like her beauty when you get close. “You know, the one with whipped cream.”
“Hmm.” I chuckle in her ear. She shivers at my words, her body tensing. “I’d have to show you.”
Her eyes light up, hopeful for some fucking reason. “Now?”
“No,” I laugh. “Later. Alone.”
She chews on her lip for a moment, considering my words, and then in haste, she grabs her shot and then drinks two more she finds on the table. After the fifth, I have to ask what she’s doing. “You’re going to get sick.”
“I’m nervous.”
“Why?” I reach for my cigarettes and light one.
“You make me nervous.”
I blow smoke out.You terrify me. I don’t tell her that. I can’t. I’m fascinated by the way she’s watching me, probably waiting for the cruel words that ordinarily follow any interaction we have together. So why now? Why tonight has it changed?
