"On to the real stuff, then. We have to celebrate, yeah?" Damian hops off the barstool, then comes over to join us. "Tomorrow night is my gig. I assume you guys will be there?"
4
Sinclair
"He’s bloody good." Saint nods toward the stage in front of us, where Damian’s letting loose on a solo guitar riff.
"Brilliant," I agree, as I swig from my bottle of whiskey. MacAllans’ twelve-year-old, which was all the bar had. Their most expensive whiskey and I’d bought it. And yeah, it was with the money Saint and I had made on our early transactions on the stock market already.
We’re in the VIP lounge that hangs over the crowds of people below. The front rows are packed with women, many swaying, singing along. As I watch, Damian moves forward to the edge of the stage. He falls to his knees, and the crowd roars. He throws back his head, hair rippling around his shoulders, eyes closed as he gives in to the notes of the guitar…then stops. The last notes die away. There’s silence for a second then the crowd screams and there’s a surge toward the stage. They break through the barriers. Girls jump on the stage, throwing themselves at Damian, before security can reach him. They manage to extricate his limbs before escorting him off stage.
"Wowzer." Weston grins. "And that, ladies, is how a rock star is born."
"No shit." I swig more from the bottle of whiskey, before Arpad seizes it from me, gulps down a healthy portion of the liquid, then wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.
Edward ambles over to join us. Arpad offers it to him. Edward refuses, but before Arpad can pull back his hand, Baron snatches it from him. He tilts it to his lips, then lowers the bottle. "Asshole." He stares at Arpad. "The bottle is practically empty."
"So?" Arpad grins.
"I need more alcohol, man."
"Now you’re talking." Saint nods toward the now empty stage, "What say we head on over to the Rockstar’s dressing room, see what he has for us?"
"Let’s do it." I push away from the window, head for the exit. The rest follow me. We walk down the steps, elbow our way through the crowds pouring out of the concert hall. Reaching backstage, we cross the hallway and run into a gaggle of girls—groupies. They'd flocked to Damian's shows from his very first concert, and only grown in number with every gig since.
Their leader is a blonde busty girl with a skirt that barely reaches mid-thigh. Her tits are bursting out of what passes for a blouse. She drags her gaze down my chest to my crotch, before raising a wide-eyed gaze back to my face.
"Are you with Damian?" she breathes.
"He'swith me." I drawl. "Why do you ask?"
"Can you get us in to meet him?"
"Oh, I can do more than that." I lean in close enough for the metallic scent of her hairspray to overpower me. My balls shrink. Shit, I lean away from her, and she swoops down, grabs at the front of my sweatshirt. "Please, please can you get us in? The girls and I are dying to meet the Rockstar."
"Oh?"
She nods.
I glare down at where her fingers clutch at me. She pales, then hurriedly releases me
"What do you guys reckon?" I jerk my chin toward the rest of the Seven. "Should we get the girls in?"
Behind me, Arpad whistles. Someone else—Baron, maybe—catcalls.
I grin. "I take that as a yes, then?"
There is a chorus of yes's from the men.
"What do we get in return?"
"Anything." She licks her lips. "Whatever you want. And your friends too..."
"Is that right?" Weston chortles.
A dark-haired girl steps forward. "It is." She moves toward Wes, drags a finger down his chest, "You guys are so much more macho than the rest of his band too."
I bark out a laugh, "Flattery will get you?—"
