“Y’all sounded so hot out there,” I say, my hands roaming up his chest while his fingers dig into my hair, which has recently been dyed a beautiful shade of cobalt blue.
“I like this color,” he says.
“I’m a big fan of Blue Line.” I rub up against him. “The biggest.”
He nods his head toward the back door of the club. “Want to get out of here?”
His bandmates hear him and yell his name, “Sawyer! You’re not fucking bailing before we get this gear loaded!”
He pulls me close, tugging my hand around his waist. I dip my fingers right under the waistband of his jeans, my nails scratching gently into his skin. “Yeah, let’s get out of here,” I say.
“Gotta go! I owe you one,” he yells without ever looking back at them.
“Fuck you, Tate!”
I believe he would have been booted from this band long ago if dear old dad, Ralph Tate, wasn’t funding this little endeavor, because he’s easily the worst member in talent and usefulness.
“What’s your name?” he asks, ignoring everyone behind us.
Helen White is not going to cut it.
I wrinkle my nose and bite my bottom lip. He stares at my mouth like I knew he would. Then I whisper, “Kitty.”
He makes a cat noise. It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes.
Sawyer gives me a grin while he grabs my ass with one hand and pushes open the back door with the other. He’s going to be a tough one to wrangle. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s how to handle trust fund babies with big egos.
The Tate Fourth of July party is a big shindig complete with pig chases, lasso roping contests, and a thirty-minute fireworks display planned for just after the sun sets. It is one of the hardest invites to get.
Unless you’re his son’s band groupie.
Sawyer and I, along with twenty of his closest friends, show up anhour late. I’ve done as much recon on this little group as I can, trying to see if anyone else is using him to get inside the house, but they have been fried since last night, so I think I’m the only plant. It didn’t hurt being the girl to show up with the edibles to ensure they stayed that way.
We pull up to the valet stand, the other four cars in our caravan behind us. Sawyer throws his keys at the poor pimple-faced teen manning the station. “Keep it close. We’re not staying long.”
I sidle up next to him, my hand slipping around his back, and we walk inside the sprawling house. “But you promised me fireworks,” I say, my lips pouting.
“I got your fireworks, Kitty Cat,” he says, while grabbing his crotch.
While this is the easiest way to get into the party, it is also the grossest.
As soon as we enter the house, I hear someone shout “Sawyer!”
We both turn to find Ralph Tate staring at us from the top of the stairs. I knew I’d be memorable walking in with Sawyer so I played to it. My jean shorts are short enough that I have a little ass hanging out of the back, and the American flag bikini top leaves little to the imagination. My hair is blue in honor of my country on its birthday and my great love for Sawyer’s band, Blue Line. Some well-placed temporary tattoos, smoky eyes, and fire engine red lipstick complete the look. I am hiding in plain sight.
Ralph Tate approaches us slowly and I can feel Sawyer tense up next to me. He wants to cause a scene. Wants it to look like he’s thumbing his nose at Daddy’s money. But I know he’ll crumble the second Daddy threatens to take the money away. These boys are so predictable.
“Son, I believe you mentioned a few friends would be joining you.” He eyes the group behind us. “This is a bit more than we planned for.”
Sawyer spreads his arms out wide. “It’s either all of us or none of us.”
This fucking tool. I hold my breath, hoping Ralph isn’t about to throw us out just to put him in his well-deserved place. Luckily, Mrs. Tate steps in to smooth things over.
“Honey, we always have room for you and your friends!” She’s not his mother since she’s only about six years older than him, but she likes the show as much as Sawyer does. Ralph disappears outside while the missus points us in the direction of food and booze. I dig my phone out of my back pocket to send Devon a quick text:Tick tock
Sawyer gets swept up by a group of girls he’s known since childhood, while I slip away to the bar, swaying just enough to make it look like I’m as high as the crowd I showed up with.
“Vodka cranberry,” I say.
