Chapter 2
Elinor
“Hey—!”
Someone grabs my arm as I pass through the entrance again. A big, meaty security dude.
I spin, elbows out, aiming for his ribs. “Get the hell off of me!”
“Whoa.” He throws up his hands. “Take it easy.”
“What are you doing?” I snap.
“I’ve been told to look out for you. To keep you here.”
“Like a prisoner?” My hand goes to my cellphone in my pocket. “Do I need to call the cops?”
“No, no. You’re on the band’s list, is all.”
He shows me a clipboard with a list of names on it. At the bottom, someone has scrawled by hand: Chick with edgy haircut and cool jacket.
Literally those words. WTF?
“That you?” he says.
I blink. Then I fold my arms and nod slowly. Might as well own it. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“You can go backstage after the gig. Meet the band.”
“Great,” I say flatly.
Another song ends, and the applause is deafening.
Fuck.
The audience loves him.
Confident, charismatic. Holding them all in the palm of his big, werewolf hand.
Adult Blake Waldgrave is stupidly hot.
For a moment, I forget that I hate him, and I drink him in. The way the lights glance off the planes of his face. The way he shakes that black, tousled hair out of his eyes. The way those pale eyes blaze as they scan the audience.
And his voice… low and growly, vibrating all the way through me.
My heart is beating faster, and something weird is going on with my body. Bits of it are tingling and aching, in a way that’s never happened before.
Fuck me dead.
He’s an asshole, but an incredibly sexy asshole.
“This one’s for the cool girl in the jacket,” he growls.
And those eyes come to rest right on me.
I stop breathing altogether. He and his buddies made my life hell, and now he’s serenading me? Confused doesn’t begin to cut it.
But somehow I can’t drag my own gaze away. I’m caught, like a rabbit in a trap, as the band plays the intro and he begins to sing. Lips close to the microphone, all his attention focused on me.
Oh god—and it’s one of my old favorites, from my teenage years.
One of the songs I used to play when I was alone, consoling myself after a shitty day.
No, this can’t be happening.
I should leave.
But I don’t.
Instead, I stand there, and stare at Blake Waldgrave while he sings.
To me.
An inspirational song about how things will get better, and the future is full of sunshine and rainbows.
“No thanks to you, asshole,” I mutter.
But still, my eyes keep running over him hungrily, zoning in on his crotch. I’ve always been a sucker for rock stars. That effortless sexiness, that attention-grabbing confidence. And he’s got it in spades.
He’s also gotten me aroused, goddamnit. I can tell my panties are a little wet.
I guess I came back because I wanted to see if it still hurt to look at him.
It does.
But hurt is not all I’m feeling, and I can’t stand it.
I tear myself away and burst outside again. My cheeks are burning, and my body is all stirred up. The cold air is the slap in the face I needed. I hunch over and inhale big lungfuls of it.
Why the hell was he serenading me?
Is it some kind of joke at my expense?
It must be.
That’s the only thing that makes any sense.
Some elaborate practical joke to entertain his friends. Some final act of revenge.
But what kind of freak gets turned on by shit like that?
Me, apparently.
The set continues. And I stand by the door, guts squirming, hearing the whole darn thing. Blake flirting with the audience. Owning the room. All the applause and adulation. The final song ending, the band leaving the stage. The rhythmic clapping and screams for “more!”
The encore goes on for three more songs. Pounding drums, thrashing guitars. And at long last, it’s over. “Goodnight, guys. You’ve all been awesome,” I hear Blake yell, and a few minutes later, people start to spill through the doors.
They’re pumped from the gig, chattering about how good it was; girls gossiping about how hot the lead singer is.
It’s easier to get people’s attention now they’re excitable and drunk, and I force myself to go super-fast, shoving the flyers in their faces and explaining the discounts at a hundred miles an hour.
And… I’m done.
I’ve given my last flyer away while people are still wandering out of the venue.
Good job, girl, I tell myself. Now I can get the hell out of here.
But, as I ease through a bunch of people chatting, smoking and discussing where to go drinking next, a couple of voices rise up above the others.
“Ronny, I don’t want to do this. Blake’s a nice guy—” This is coming from a blonde cheerleader-type in a skin-tight dress.
Blake?
I slide into the shadows and listen.
“I don’t give a damn. You wanna make this happen, or am I just wasting my time on you?” replies an older dude with a lean, pockmarked face.
Blonde chick sighs and rolls her eyes. “Okay. Tell me what I need to do.”
He leans closer to her. “When Blake comes out, you go up to him, tell him you’ve been cheating on him with his best friend—who’s that guy?”
“Ed,” she supplies.
“Yeah. You tell him you’ve been screwing Ed. Riding his nice big dick. He freaks out, grabs you or some shit. I snap a few pics. Send ‘em to my contacts. You wake up tomorrow, and your Insta feed is blowing up. Instant fame.”
She grimaces and chews on her lip. “But, what if he doesn’t freak out? What if he doesn’t give a shit?”
His eyes narrow. “He’s a were, right?”
“Yeah.”
“He’ll freak out, trust me. They’re possessive fuckers.”
She exhales loudly. “I dunno. Seems like Blake’s not that into me.”
The guy leans back and scans her up and down. “Gotta work your assets, honey. That’s what god made ‘em for.”
She grins stupidly, lit up by his cheap compliment.
Shit.
She’s going to set up Blake, to advance her own trashy career?
And wow, why do I even care?
I’m still finishing that thought when a door at the side of the building opens, and Blake emerges. My gut tightens. Silently, I watch as he scans the crowd.
“Blake, over here!” the girl hollers, arms thrown wide.
Blake’s gaze flicks to her, and away again. He’s looking for something—
Me.
The realization comes with a lurch.
I’m not easy to spot where I’m standing, but that pale gaze locks onto mine, and I shudder. I freaking shudder. He strides toward me and I’m frozen. Rooted to the spot.
“Blake, I’m here!” Desperation tinges the girl’s voice as she darts in front of him, flashing a huge smile, all shiny teeth and pumped-up lips.
Annoyance flickers in his handsome features as he stops and takes her in. “What’s up Paige?”
She turns her head, looking for her cameraman, then she flings her arms around his neck. “I wanted to tell you something!”
Rage courses through me. Blake might be an asshole, but if there’s one thing I hate as much as bullying, it’s lying and cheating.
“Whatever she tells you, she’s full of shit,” I say. “She and her promo guy just planned the whole thing.”
Blake goes still, then his eyes dart to me again. “What?”
I push up off the wall and come toward him. “She wants to make you mad, so you’ll hit her or something.”
His nostrils flare and his jaw juts out.
“She’s planning on telling you she’s been screwing your best friend,” I continue.
He unleashes a roar of fury. And he charges.
A second later, an expensive camera is smashing on the ground. Blake shoves the cameraman, knocking him off his feet. Then he rounds on the cheerleader.
Her eyes are glittering with a mixture of fear and excitement, but they dart around the crowd, before settling on him again. She’s hoping someone else is filming the scene, of course. “That’s right, Blake. I was just using you for my own career. Doesn’t that make you mad?”
Blake snorts. “Your career? Paige, you don’t have a career. There’s not a scrap of talent in that pretty little head of yours.” He curls his lip. “And Ed’s gay, you nitwit.”
He turns his back on her.
Then he walks right over to me.
My mouth is hanging open, but I snap it shut as he approaches.
“Thank you,” he says.
“You’re welcome.” I shrug nonchalantly, like my heart isn’t pounding all the way up in my throat. “Commiserations on your breakup.”
He makes a dismissive sound. “We weren’t together.”
“She seemed to think you were.”
His lip curls again and he shakes his head dismissively. “Wish I could say I’m surprised at that shit she just pulled.”
“Guess their bet didn’t pay off.”
“What bet?”
“They bet you were as possessive as hell.”
He gives a low, throaty growl. “Oh, I am possessive.” His eyes burn into mine. “No one touches what’s mine.”
I swallow hard and gooseflesh breaks out on my skin. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was talking about me.
But that’s ridiculous.
I drag my gaze away from him, remembering that I hate his guts.
“Anyway, I wasn’t trying to help you. I just hate lying and cheating, is all. Good deed done. So long.” I force myself into a one-eighty, and I flounce off toward my car.
“Wait.” A huge hand encircles my upper arm. A huge, callused hand. I swear I can feel the heat coming through my jacket.
“Why?” I snap.
His lips part but no sound comes out. He looks taken aback. Ha. I bet Blake Waldgrave has never been taken aback in his life before.
“You can’t leave.”
I tear my arm away. “What are you talking about?”
His lips work. No way am I noticing how stupidly lush they are. “I need your help.”
Help?
“What do you mean?”
“With—” He breaks off, his nostrils flaring. “With promo,” he says quickly.
Oh. And now I’m extra mad at myself.
My body sags. Because there was that dumb, dumb part of me that thought he might be attracted to me. But he wants me to hand out flyers for him or something.
Of course he’s not interested in you, weirdo.
“Get someone else,” I say.
His pupils dilate as they take me in. “No. You… you’re not like everyone else.”
“Yeah, I’ve been hearing that all my life—”
Those words start churning through my brain again: Weirdo. Freak. Loser.
“—And, guess what, I’m done hearing it!”
My voice is shrill. My crow’s caw. And it knocks him backward. But I don’t care.
“Leave me alone, Blake Waldgrave!”
My heart twists and my feathers begin to unfurl. I sprint for my car before I have one of my awful, ugly, broken-bird shifts.