Beautiful Distraction(74)

“Where’s this gig?” I ask.

“Josh knows. He’s driving us.”

As if on cue, a car honks outside.

“Josh? Your most recent conquest?” I can’t help but ask.

“Yes. So?” Mandy shoots me a frown.

“What about my car?”

“We’ll get it after the gig.”

“I can’t believe you asked him to trudge along.” I brush my hair out of my eyes, barely able to contain my laughter. “He’ll be so into you when you start squealing in his ear.”

“I don’t squeal.”

“You so do when Mile High’s on.”

“So what?” She glares at me. “He told me he’s a fan himself.”

God, no!

Not another fan.

I’d rather be stuck with a zombie and the danger of being eaten alive than with a complete snooze fest of a rendition of Mile High’s lyrics.

I open the door and head out to the waiting pickup truck, settling in the back seat. Mandy takes the front seat a few moments later, ignoring me as she leans into Josh to place a soft kiss on his cheek.

It’s so obvious they have a fling, I turn away to give them privacy.

“Are you ladies excited?” Josh asks.

“Hell, yeah.” Mandy giggles.

“Hell, no,” I mumble.

Josh laughs and meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. His dark blue eyes shimmer with unspoken understanding. Or maybe that’s what I want to see in them because they’re warm and friendly and the complete opposite of Kellan’s, with his brooding looks and evasiveness. Josh’s hand travels to touch Mandy’s arm as he’s saying something to her. I turn away again, feeling just a little bit sorry for myself at the idea she’s found someone so nice and easygoing while I seem to have caught the attention of Mr. Complicated-I-don’t-do-relationships-aloof.

“Josh, do we have any plans after the gig?” Mandy asks.

“I have a surprise in store for you.” He winks at her.

“Now we’re talking,” Mandy says.

Let me guess!

It involves his bedroom and handcuffs, which I’m sure he has stacked somewhere in there. All guys do.

“Thanks for driving us,” Mandy says.

He smiles at her for a second before his gaze focuses back on the dark street. “Anything for you.”

I lean back against the seat and try to blend in with the upholstery to give them privacy.

But in secret, I wish I was back home—my real home in NYC—with a bowl of popcorn or double fudge ice cream, watching a good movie while downing an entire bottle of wine.

Get drunk.

Anything to help me forget the taste of his lips on mine. Forget the heady scent of his aftershave and the sound of his laughter. Stop the echo of his name inside my mind and all the silly wishes and hopes that he’s thinking of me the way I’m thinking of him.

I’m losing myself. That’s not something I envisioned happening because I know that soon enough, maybe even today, maybe tomorrow, he’ll be chasing the next girl. Someone who won’t be me.

I’ll become a blurred memory.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT





We drive for at least half an hour before I spy the huge tent adorned by hundreds of lights that sparkle like tiny fireflies in the evening sky. We seem to be in the middle of a field. There are countless cars parked to either side, and people are gathered in groups, chatting excitedly while they’re waiting.

“What’s everybody waiting for?” I ask and crane my neck to get a better look at what’s happening around us.

“The customary pat down.” Josh pulls the truck into an empty spot and points at a police officer, who’s standing near what I assume is the entrance. I don’t understand what he’s doing there, until he moves aside. That’s when I see the two huge, beefy guys looking into every purse and patting down everyone before they get a wristband and are ushered inside.

“There isn’t much to pat,” I say, eyeing the short skirts and snug tank tops that leave little to the imagination. Some have skipped the tank top part altogether and have gone straight for the underwear look.

“I’ve never seen so many women gathered in one place, unless there’s a sale,” Mandy says.

“That’s Mile High,” Josh says, as though that explains everything.

We exit the car, and Josh leads us around the tent toward a closed-off area with two security guys blocking the way. I suspect this is the private entrance for the artists. The guys’ expressions are so grim I wouldn’t be surprised to find them ready to break a few bones if we come too close.

“You can’t be here,” one of the guys says.

“Josh Boyd,” Josh says. “The ladies are with me.”