Make Believeby Memphis May Fire comes on, and Rowan shoves my arm with his elbow. “These guys kind of sound like your band.”
“Not really.”
“Oh, shut up. Yes, they do.”
Rolling my eyes, I glance to the left, away from Chatterbox, toward the waterfall. “You talk an awful fucking lot. Anybody ever told you that before?”
He chuckles. “Oh yeah, once or twice.”
“So, shut the fuck up.”
“You are exactly how you look on TV.” There’s no bite to his words. In fact, he sounds amused, and I know if I were to look over at him, he’d have that annoying goofy grin on his face. He’s way too fuckinghappy.
He’s right, though. It’s something Sebastian hates, the way I don’t mask my true self for the cameras. The other guys are usually pretty good at putting on a friendly face for fans or for paparazzi, but not me. I am who I am, and you’re either going to accept that and love my music anyway, or you’re going to hate me. Either way, I couldn’t care less.
“My parents sent me here after one too many noise complaints at the hotel I was staying at,” he provides.
I don’t respond.
Of course, he continues. “They act like I’m some suicidal drug addict who’s one hit away from my next lethal overdose.” Rowan huffs out a laugh, and I can hear the cap to the whiskey opening again. “Sure, I enjoy the occasional drug at a party. And sure, I probably throw more parties than I should, but who cares, right?”
Again, I don’t answer. He’s clearly talking for his own benefit, enjoying the way his voice sounds, because he doesn’t need a single other person to keep a conversation going.
“Your dad was famous, too, right?” The question is rhetorical. Anybody who knows me knows exactly who my fucking father is. “I wonder if your experience of being raised by someone famous is similar to mine.”
Doubtful.
“Wanna play a game?” he asks.Is he for real?I’m giving himnothingand he keeps going. He’s like the fucking Energizer Bunny of small talk.
Slowly, I drag my gaze back to him, his hazel eyes looking almost gold in the sun, his lips a baby pink and so pouty. I don’t respond, but I raise my brows in question. If he’s not going to shut the hell up, I may as well entertain his ridiculous game.
“Two truths and a lie.” He says it so matter of fact. “I’ll start. I’ll list three things, and you have to tell me which you think is the—”
“I know how to fucking play the game,” I snap, my voice coming out rough as I grab the bottle from his grip. Unscrewing the lid, I bring it up to my lips, downing another two swallows.
“Okay, grump.” He laughs, using his fingers to count. “I’ve been to a party at the Playboy mansion, I went skydiving for my eighteenth birthday, and grapes are my least favorite fruit.”
This is so fucking stupid.
“The skydiving is the lie,” I guess.
This guy is either completely oblivious to social cues or he just doesn’t care. I couldn’t look or sound more bored and uninterested if I tried. Yet, his eyes light up with my guess.
“Correct! How did you know?”
“Lucky guess,” I drawl. “Give me another smoke.”
“Please,” he says with a laugh, but he grabs the pack out of his pocket, nonetheless. “Your turn.”
“Not playing.”
“Then you’re not getting this,” he mutters, twirling the stick around his fingers.
“Fuck off,” I grunt. He’s getting on my last nerve. Thankfully, the cheap whiskey swimming around my veins is helping me not deck him again.
“Come on,” he whines, his smooth voice growing more grating by the second. “Just play.”
I swear to God, I roll my eyes so much in his presence, they’re bound to get stuck. “Fine. I once partook in an orgy with a famous pop band, I committed armed robbery as a teenager, and I’ve had a knife held to my throat before.”
