Mel is gaping and pointing. “That’s Trystan Scott.”
“I know. Are you all right? What happened?”
She doesn’t look at me. “That’s Trystan Scott. Like, thee Trystan Scott. Here.”
Oh my God. How cute. Mel is star stuck. She stands there like a twelve-year-old, practically giddy. I look her over and don’t see any gaping wounds. There’s no blood, and her brain has obviously left her body. “Listen, tonight kind of sucked. Grab a drink and join us on stage when you get over your whole boy band crush.”
“I’m not a boy band.” Trystan glares at me with his mouth scrunched to the side.
I smirk. “Of course not.”
Trystan’s lips twitch as he tries not to smile, or curse me out—it’s getting hard to tell which one. I walk over to our table and pour another shot for each of us, before walking it over to him. His long legs are sprawled over the arm of the chair like a surly teenager. I hold out the glass.
His dark eyes stare at the drink for a beat too long, but he finally takes it. “Just for the record,” he says, staring at the floor, “I admire you.” His gaze flicks up and he lifts his glass.
What changed? I’m not about to ruin it and ask him. Maybe he has rock star PMS. “Well, coolness.” I smile at him, sincerely this time, and look at my shot glass. “And just for the record, I’m a total fangirl. Your music is awesome, plus you have guts. So, I guess I admire you, too.” I lift my face so he’s looking right at me. “Truce? Or is it too late?” I hold out my hand, hoping he’ll shake it.
That smirk teases his lips into a full grin. “I couldn’t hate the future Mrs. Ferro, not when it’ll piss off Sean to know exactly how much I like you.” He laughs, clinks his glass to mine, and downs his drink. I do the same and head back to the stage.
As I pass Mel, she’s still staring at Trystan, muttering to herself. “Well, don’t just stand there, go say hi.” I smack her back towards him.
Mel walks over to him like he’s made of magic, as if the illusion will disappear if she moves too fast. Her voice is uncharacteristically soft. “Oh my God—it’s Trystan Scott.”
CHAPTER 8
Sidney and I are laughing hysterically, dancing on the stage, each of us with a drink in hand, when I feel eyes on us. Mel’s been blabbering at Trystan for the past half an hour, going on and on, rambling and poking him like he’s a mirage. It’s kind of funny. Nothing fazes her, but put a rock star in the room and she’s gone brain dead. Trystan takes it well enough. He just laughs and pats the arm of the chair and tells her to sit.
Then, two things happen at the same time. Mel’s spine straightens—I see her out of the corner of my eye—she’s a curve of shadow. And then, the rigidness turns to mush and she falls. I stop dancing and stare past her—there are also more shadows moving in the back of the room—people that I didn’t see before.
Trystan scoops up Mel and sets her down in his chair. “Avery, your friend didn’t even drink anything.” He looks up at me and then at the back of the room. “Hey, guys.” Even with my hand shading my eyes, I can’t see who’s back there, not past the glare of the spotlight.
“Avery?” a familiar voice asks, walking toward me. “What on earth have you done to Sidney?” Peter Ferro, uh Granz, walks toward me quickly. I lower myself and hang my legs off the side of the stage. The room tips a little bit and I blink hard. Peter seems tense, and in that moment he reminds me of Sean. Damn, it’s late. When is Sean going to get here?
“Nothing,” I reply. “She asked about stripping, so we’ve been dancing.” I grin broadly at him. “Ask her to show you what she can do with the pole.”
Sidney giggles and nearly doubles over. Peter looks up at her. “Is she drunk?” Peter’s head snaps back toward Trystan with a pissed off glare and he could easily double as Sean in that moment.
Trystan is fanning Mel, trying to get her to wake up. “Don’t look at me. They’re the ones that swallowed.”
All of a sudden, Sidney starts laughing. It’s way too loud, and she realizes that no one else thought the line was dirty, so she slaps her hands over her mouth and cuts off the sound. Peter rubs the heels of his hands over his eyes and sighs.
I feel sheepish. “I’m sorry, Peter.”
“It’s not your fault.” He smiles up at his bride-to-be. “Come on, cupcake. Let’s take you home.”
Peter holds up a hand, and Sidney walks over to the edge of the stage. The way she looks at him is the perfect combination of lust and adoration. The emotion is so raw, so intense, that I avert my eyes and look at the floor. Peter’s wearing saddle shoes, black on brown, and vintage from the look of them. She sits next to me, and then Peter reaches up for her. She slips into his arms and he holds her like that, and walks to the door, whispering things that make Sidney giggle softly.