"No, the crazy thing is that you’re right," she said, totally serious. "I mean, where has predictability gotten me?"
"Right here with me?" He didn’t mean it as a joke, but rather... hey, you won a contest you didn’t even know you entered!
Now she laughed. Started as a chuckle and built into full belly laughs.
He laughed with her, even though he wasn’t certain why they were laughing. Not exactly.
But she couldn’t seem to stop. She held her side as he continued to laugh.
This could get uncomfortable.
"Did you play the trumpet?" he asked, going back to their game from before.
She shook her head again.
"You’re persistent. All right, fine. I played the…" She did a drum roll on the table with her hands. "Clarinet."
Now that he did not expect, but—
"I've always had a soft spot for woodwinds," he teased.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder and his eyes followed the movement. "I’ll have you know, I was first chair as a senior in high school."
He let out a low whistle. "Now that is impressive."
Something seemed to shift inside her.
"I know this whole thing is for show," she said, resigned. "It’s not like you actually want to be here with me."
A pang of guilt hit him in the chest. "That’s not—"
She held up her wait-a-minute hand. "I appreciate the effort you’re making here. I do. But you don’t have to. Really. I’ll hang out so it looks good. You don’t have to try, though. You don’t want to hear about my failed relationships or the crap I put up with at work. It’s sweet of you to ask. But I get it. I’m a prop. It’s all good."
Well, fuck. He didn’t want her to think he was only using her. Then again, he sort of was, and that wasn’t okay.
It was almost time to take the stage with the band, so he showed her the way to the table reserved for the girls up front. Darla moved beside him, and their arms brushed a little as the crowd jostled them and pushed them together. He had to put his arm around her waist, so they didn’t get separated. He liked that she let him. Liked how natural her body felt next to his. How she smelled of vanilla and he wanted to live in that scent. In the moment.
The thing is, Mach lived the rockstar dream. But, honestly, sometimes he felt like he was only going through the motions, never really opening himself up to anyone. Not really.
Sure, Dimefront gave him purpose and a steady paycheck, but was it enough? Did he need something more?
He hadn’t actually thought that might be true, until these moments. Until Darla let him off the hook. Until he introduced her to the wives and girlfriends, watching from the stage as she settled in with them.
By the time the band hit the third song, a couple of pitchers of piña coladas appeared on their table along with a dozen donuts topped with breakfast cereal.
And Darla barely looked up at the stage the whole time.
That was her choice, he didn’t have a say in it at all. But it bugged him. And he couldn’t figure out exactly why.
Chapter Three
DARLA
Two piña coladas(and a couple of donuts) in and she was on a serious sugar kick. And a mega rock ‘n roll high. Because Mach on stage with his guitar? In those jeans? With those tats? Darla was absolutely salivating.
Yup, she was now and forever officially a Ten—the pet name Dimefront gave to their groupies. Everything she said before about Dimefront being too commercial? She took it all back, because up there, on the stage, the guys weren’t playing music. They were the music.
She’d never experienced music like this before. Not that she was a regular at Red Rocks for concerts or anything, but she’d been to a few. Tonight she was captivated by each note, each lyric, and every move Mach made on the stage.
