His Royal Highness’s private quarters are to the left of the suite, and in another room off to my right, I catch a glimpse of a lap pool as someone splashes into it. A hairspray-scented group of girls races by me, already giggling and tearing off their clothes, and in front of me, Van spins around. He faces me and the rest of my bandmates, spreading his arms wide with a proud smile on his face. “Mi casa.”
Someone turns on the music, and the entire suite comes to life. Van’s entourage doesn’t stop racing past me—girls, girls, guys with girls, more girls. I get jostled by one and step forward, angling my body to get a better look inside the pool room.
“If I put my arm around you again,” Van questions from beside me, “will I be safe from getting another wet willy?”
I straighten and shake my head. “Nope.”
He chuckles and throws his arm around me anyway, leading me to the bar and telling the guy who’s busy stacking liquor bottles on top of it to pour me something. Everyone else is helping themselves, pouring top-shelf tequilas like they’re nothing but unfiltered water. All of the guys but Shawn have dispersed throughout the room, and when he presses up against my other side, the air charges with a static that fizzles thickly in my throat.
“So on a scale of one to ten,” Van says, “what are my chances with you tonight?”
I turn toward him so that his arm drops from my shoulder, smirking at the overconfident grin he gives me. My back is pressed against Shawn’s front when I hook a thumb over my shoulder. “You realize Shawn has a better chance with me tonight than you do, right?”
Van glances at Shawn and laughs, but he has no idea how serious I’m being. He toasts my jab and tells me to have fun, and when he disappears, Shawn’s fingertips slip into the waistband of the tight jeans I’m wearing.
“On a scale of one to ten,” he echoes in my ear, “what are my chances with you tonight?”
With goose bumps skipping down the back of my neck, I turn around to meet his eyes, but instead, I catch myself staring at those impossibly soft lips. I know what they feel like against my neck, my shoulders, my chest. And I can think of a dozen other places I’d like to feel them.
When he leans in, I don’t stop him. I know that anyone could see us—Adam, Joel, Mike, any of the roadies we brought with us tonight—but I don’t have it in me to care. I’m lost in him, lost in some place I never fully escaped from and now never want to. His lips are a caress against mine, a promise that deepens until I’m drowning in it, and it isn’t until someone pops a bottle of champagne that the spell is broken. Shawn and I both jerk out of the trance we’re in, my heart hammering against my ribs as my eyes swing up to meet his shocked expression.
“Oh my God,” I blurt, and we both start chuckling. I look around to see if anyone saw us, but the only people looking our way—Shawn’s way—are a few scantily dressed groupies who undoubtedly caught our performance tonight and are patiently waiting their turn for his attention.
I’m glaring at them when Shawn’s lips press against my neck, making my toes curl. My fingers press into my palms, and I nibble my lip between my teeth.
“I’d rather be back on the bus right now,” he says, and I couldn’t agree more, but that doesn’t stop me from wondering why the hell two of those chicks are still staring at me—me, not Shawn. When they grin at each other and start walking my way, I can’t help feeling like a meal about to be made.
“I’m Nikki,” the taller one says when she’s finished stalking across the black marble floor. She’s only an inch or so taller than me, with hair as long as mine, a nose ring even sparklier than mine, and curves a hell of a lot curvier than mine. She’s one of the prettiest girls here, but not a single guy is hitting on her, and I’m guessing that’s for a damn good reason—she has Van’s groupie written all over her.
“And I’m Molly,” her shorter counterpart says. The girl is five foot even at best, and petite all over, with an eyebrow piercing and the most doe-like eyes I’ve ever seen. Both girls have fake lashes, fake nails, neon pink hair, and an air about them that says they’re well-taken care of.
“I’m . . . ” Confused, curious, lost. “Okay?”
Molly giggles. “Nice to meet you, Okay! We loved you at the show tonight. You’re like this hot dangerous sex kitten that can play the guitar even better than Asshat over there.” She nods across the room, to where Cutting the Line’s rhythm guitarist is drinking C?roc straight out of the bottle, and then grins up at Shawn. “Isn’t that right, Shawn?”
It clicks in my head then, what those predatory smiles meant. They saw me kiss Shawn. They know Van. Van knows Adam, Joel, Mike.
Shit, shit, shit.
“Stop being a pain, Molly,” Nikki scolds. “Shawn, we’re borrowing Kit for a minute. Go take a cold dip in the pool or something.”
I follow them because I have no choice. They have unspoken blackmail, and I have everything to lose. Shawn and I aren’t ready for the world to know about us because, frankly, I’m not even sure there is an us. He likes me . . . I think. Or maybe he just likes kissing me. Maybe we’re friends with benefits.