James smiles at me when I hide behind him. “Not used to being in front of the camera?” he asks.
“Hell no,” I say. “You?”
“Hate it,” he replies. He reaches into his pocket and hands me a card, seriousness in his eyes. “If you find yourself in the situation that happened here the other night, text ‘SOS.’ I’ll be in and out tonight. I have a few more guys stationed inside just in case.”
I take the card. The notion of Adam being there makes me nauseous. “Hopefully, he’s not idiot enough to try it again. I was surprised they weren’t at the venue protesting yesterday.”
James gives me a look that lets me know he's the one who took care of it.
“Oh… that bad?” I ask.
“I didn’t want the band worrying. But yeah, he was there,” James tells me. “Along with about twenty-five others.”
“That’s very protective of you,” I say.
“I don’t do it just because they pay me,” James says. “They’re good kids. A lot easier to work with than some of the pricks I’ve worked for in the past. Someone hurting them is personal.”
I glance over and notice the band is heading up the stairs, surrounded by a gaggle of press trying to chat. James cusses under his breath.
“Here we go,” he mutters. “Text me, Andi. I mean it.”
I nod at him one more time before he sets off to thin the crowd of people encircling the band. I tap the card against my palm and glance around the room to all those with their phones out taking photos or already posting on social media, and then I make my way up the stairs.
There’s no way to get a word in with the band for over an hour. I chat with a few people I recognize, but eventually, I make my way to a booth by the far corner that overlooks the club below. I’m nursing my second whiskey-ginger ale, scoping out the people in the crowd who have chosen to wear Halloween masks tonight, and tapping my foot to the music playing when I feel someone sit beside me.
I don’t even have to turn around. I can smell Maddox’s woodsy scent.
“Bored already?” I ask, chin moving toward my shoulder.
“Thirsty,” he says, and I chuckle at his honesty.
I slide my drink to him. “You can hide in my shirt long enough to take a sip.”
Only his eyes move to me, a smirk visible within them. He shrugs his coat off and hands it over. “Hold this for me.”
I scoff and hold it up over his head—just long enough for him to pull the mask down, slurp my entire drink, and then push it back up.
“The tedious things you do to maintain this image,” I taunt him.
“Exhausting,” he says.
I start to hand him the coat, and he gives it back. “Hang onto it for me?”
I’m not about to refuse.
It’s warm and smells too much like him.
I fold it up and lay it on the table between us, letting it hang off the side. Even just sitting beside Maddox has my body on alert, my neck heating. I take out my phone and pretend to scroll through social media so I don't appear too fidgety. I’m itching to touch him, for him to touch me—
His hand moves to my thigh.
The unexpected, yet so-fucking-welcome, touch shortens my next breath.
Maddox’s fingers catch in the rip of my jeans and slip beneath the fabric toward the inside of my leg as if he can’t stand another moment. It’s soft and promising, not entirely lustful. He squeezes my thickness. I don’t dare look his way. Even though everyone else is too busy and deep in their own conversations to notice us.
I’m running out of things to pretend to do on my phone when a text comes through.
Push me away, Maddox texts.
