Billionaire Novelist 3 : The Wicked Redhead and the Billionaire Novelist(17)

Rochelle was a strawberry blond, but she loved my darker red hair so much, she started dying hers a similar shade. People said we could have passed for sisters, or even twins.

The details kept washing over me. I'd earned the nickname Tori the Torrid by sending messages from Rochelle's phone to her lesbian girlfriend, pretending to be Rochelle, who'd asked me to do this as a service to her sex life. I was always shooting my mouth off, telling insane tales about strap-ons and all-night sex marathons. I'd never even seen a strap-on in real life until my recent visit to the Montreal sex shop, much less considered using one, so it was all fiction. It was all just a joke.

I wasn't that adventurous, torrid girl.

Only here we all were.

I must have been making an inviting expression, because Rochelle grabbed my face in her hands and kissed me, right on the lips. I was so stunned, I didn't pull away, but let her kiss me. Her lips were cool, and her skin was smoother than any man's, smoother even than immediately post-shaving.

Todd was the one who actually pulled us apart.

His voice was loud enough to hear over the song. He chided Rochelle, "Not in front of Tori's father!"

Rochelle pulled out her cell phone and typed in a message, then held it up for me to read: Your father is Smith Wittingham? Lucky you!

I turned to my right. Smith was nodding his head, pretending to be focused on the band, but I knew he was riveted by all the drama he'd arranged for. I had a new name: Smith Shit-Disturber Wittingham.

My tension was gone, though, thanks to the kiss from Rochelle.

I started to laugh.

Thanks to the wine and the loud music, I was feeling hot and loose and out of control.

I typed out my own message on her phone: I was just joking. Smith and I are f**king. Big time. And dating, I guess. You could say it's complicated.

My head was still buzzing from her lips on my mouth, and Todd was here, touching my arm.

I'd missed both of them. I'd missed them so bad, and as we all settled back into our seats, I realized how lonely I'd been.

At least the concert was loud, and I didn't have to talk to anyone. I could feel Smith's eyes burning me, daring me to turn and give him a reaction, but I refused to look his way and give him the satisfaction. 

To my left, Todd adjusted his posture, and I could see why-the man was sporting an enormous erection. By the look of it, he had little blood still flowing to his brain. That was one of the cutest things about Todd, after his Australian accent-his ability to get a full-on, raging hard-on at the merest suggestion of play.

When we were together, I'd certainly taken advantage of that, doing things like sticking my foot in his crotch when we were at a restaurant. I wondered if his current porksword was for me, or for Rochelle. Or both of us.

I uncrossed and re-crossed my legs, fanning my face with one hand. The energy in the concert hall shifted, and Smith elbowed me. I glanced up and saw the lead singer of the band was extending his hand to me, inviting me up onto the stage.

Oh, shit. I put my hand over my face and sunk down into my seat. Could the evening get any more surreal?

The singer said into his microphone, "This beautiful redhead is shy, folks. Should I pick someone else? Maybe she'll be less scared if her beautiful twin sister comes up as well."

At that, Rochelle reached across Todd's lap, grabbed my hand, and dragged me from my chair. Laughing, I only pretended to drag my new red-soled shoes as we moved to the side, past the burly security guys, and onto the stage.

The lights were hot, like I'd stepped from shade into the mid-day sun. I could barely see anyone in the audience, which made the experience less terrifying and more terrifying, at the same time.

The singer, whose name I would later find out was Remi, positioned me and Rochelle on a low bench that some men in all-black clothes placed on the stage. I sat, hoping people couldn't see my knees trembling, and grabbed onto Rochelle's hand. She gave me a sweet smile and a wink, and I was actually glad to be there. Thrilled, even.

Remi said something in French, and the audience laughed. I felt my cheeks redden with blush, because the way he was looking at me felt so dirty. Remi had a Justin Timberlake vibe, but dangerous. He had a wiry build and fiercely bright blue eyes, and his blond hair was grown out long enough to twirl in tight curls. His resemblance to a mythical angel was offset by his aggressively sexual stance, and that mouth. I'd never seen such a sexy mouth on a man. Maybe it was the way he growled when he sang, or the things he was saying in French.

The band started, and he sang a song that was only partially in English, switching back and forth between the two languages. He shook his hips, then got down on his knees like he was begging, and writhed on the stage floor, walking his body in a circle with his chained-boot-clad feet. He finished the song by lying across both of our laps, on his back.