I can feel her pink lipstick staining my skin as she informs me of my role tonight for the millionth time; the show’s over now, a stagehand having already taken my acoustic guitar up to the penthouse, leaving my hands feeling very empty.
Autographs have been signed, and I’m supposed to sit on stage and look pretty for the rest of the night.
Until the auction, that is. Then, I’m supposed to be attentive and friendly to entice the crowd—as if any woman here wouldn’t crawl on her fucking knees for a chance to breathe the same air as Aiden fucking James.
That’s not even ego talking; it’s just how it is. Rabid fans flashing their tits in the hopes that I’ll see and want to take them home with me. It’s the main reason I stopped doing VIP events after concerts.
“Think you can handle sitting here and not causing a commotion?” Callie asks, pushing some of her dark coppery hair off her shoulder.
“Do I think I can handle something you can teach a dog to do?” I hook one ankle over the opposite knee, resting my hands on my lap. “Yes, you’ve trained me well.”
She rolls her eyes, reaching to adjust the collar of her red blazer. “Ay, such a smart-ass. I can tell your father is around.”
Her accent peeks through her irritation, so I don’t bother correcting her; he left right after telling me to nut up and get over my reservations with the label, presumably to rejoin my ex-girlfriend in whatever luxury hotel they’re at for the weekend.
Since I had this event scheduled, there was no time to press him on it.
“See any causes you might wanna bid on?” Liam, my best friend and publicist, asks as Callie walks away to bother some of the catering staff. He pulls a hand through his dirty-blond hair, tossing a quick look around the room, as if we haven’t been through the prospects twice since arriving.
I shake my head, glancing around quickly for the millionth time; black satin cloths mask each round table lining the ballroom, and candles sit at their centers, drowning the partygoers in darkness.
They all look the fucking same at these events; the men in their expensive three-piece suits, eyes roaming no matter their attachments. There’s always someone willing to put themselves up for sale, if only for the night.
Far be it from any of these men to deny themselves temporary carnal pleasure.
The women are all dressed in similar black gowns, unable to deviate from the status quo for even a second.
It’s positively fucking boring.
A flash of green catches my eye, and I squint into the shadows, trying to make out more than just a silhouette.
I spotted her the second we walked in, my eyes drawn to her like moths to a flame. She’d been flocked by two giggling girls and dragged around the room countless times, so I hadn’t had a chance to fully soak her in; the girls have since gone, and now that I’m looking, I don’t ever want to stop.
She sits at the corner of the bar staring into an empty champagne flute, right leg cocked on the bottom rung of her stool, revealing pale flesh through the high slit in her dress.
And fuck me, the dress.
Deep, emerald-green silk molds to every curve of her lithe body, and the way she folds her arms over her chest has her tits spilling from the ridiculous neckline.
Light emanates from the chandelier just above her head, casting a warm glow over her honey-colored hair, and even though her face is hidden, she looks like a fucking angel.
An uneasy fish out of water… but an angel, no less.
My gut tightens, twisting with each passing second spent not in her presence.
For some inexplicable reason, I want to taste the discomfort radiating off her skin. Want to be the sole cause of it.
But that’s insane, and I’m trying to prove to the world that I’m not. So, instead of marching over and thrusting myself into her existence, I swallow down my arousal and ignore it.
Gripping my armrests, I blow out a breath and groan loudly, ignoring the immediate swarm of attention the sound brings. I tower over everyone on stage, sticking out like a sore thumb, and while I’m used to those stares, right now, I’m not in the mood.
Besides, she doesn’t look my way, and I don’t like the hollow feeling that sprouts in my chest at that notion.
“You have to donate something.” Liam raises his brows. “We’re trying to improve your image here. Do you know how bad it’ll look if you attend a charity function and don’t actually do anything?”
“I don’t really give a shit how it looks. This was your idea.”
He frowns, pointing an index finger at my chest. “You hired me to fix your reputation.”
My stomach burns, reality clawing at my skin and trying to slip inside. God, you trash a few hotel rooms in a fit of grief, and suddenly you’re the poster child for mental instability.
Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I snatch the laminated pamphlet we were given when we walked in from his hands.
I scan the itemized list, looking for something that catches my eye. Airbnbs, wellness consultations, dates with celebrities—all things I can get any day of the week without dropping half a million dollars beforehand.
“What is this even benefiting?” I ask, tossing the pamphlet back. “Women putting themselves up for celebrities to bid on, like this is some sort of cattle show?”
Liam catches it in his lap, shrugging. “It’s benefiting homelessness.” He pauses, glaring at the paper, and turns it over. “Or… maybe AIDS research? I can’t remember now.”
Folding the pamphlet, he reaches up and tucks it inside his suit jacket, lifting his hand in greeting to someone over my shoulder. His smile lights up his face, fading the second his gaze drops back to mine.
“It doesn’t have to be anything huge. Bid on a random, see how shit turns out.” He nods his chin in the direction of the blonde at the bar. “Want me to find out her deal?”
“No.” The word’s too quick. Too sharp. Liam catches on immediately, a grin slowly stretching across his freckled face.