Chapter 7 #3
Jase snorts and shoves him off, smoothing his mussed hair with exaggerated care. “The Three Musketeers, right. Pretty sure I was more like the third wheel.”
I shoot him a warning look. Not helpful, Jase.
Not a moment too soon, Susannah and a couple of the other event coordinators descend upon our group. “Great, you’re all together. Let’s get the three of you mic’d up.”
The next couple of minutes are spent getting microphones affixed to my dress strap and the guys’ collars, respectively, before our handlers usher us toward a backstage wing, assembling us behind a thick red velvet curtain that shields us from the audience.
Susannah is still firing a flurry of instructions at us. “The moderator will introduce each cast member one by one, ending with the three of you. We’re just about ready to start, so let’s get you lined up.”
I can hear the excited buzz of the audience from behind the curtain, and I manage to find a spot where I can peek out at the crowd without being seen.
It’s packed to the gills, people spilling into the aisles, with fans waving signs that say Ryde or Die or Justice 4 Jason.
Even ten years later, the debate rages on.
A handful of audience members are dressed in full vintage costumes, cosplaying in forties garb.
I can only laugh at the surreality of it all.
“Where were all these people ten years ago?” a voice says in my ear, and I turn to see Nate has appeared behind me. “We could’ve saved a ton of money on extras,” he jokes as I throw my arms around him.
We’re only able to chat for a minute before we’re told it’s time to start, and we both promise to catch up for real once the interview’s over. The moderator begins by announcing Nate, then the other cast members one by one, until it’s just the three of us again.
I give Jase a sly grin. “Looks like you’re up next, J-Ham.”
He visibly shudders. “You’ll never let me live that down.”
“Never.”
He crosses his eyes at me just as the moderator calls his name, then walks out to thunderous applause, ear-splitting whistles, and screams so loud the ground vibrates beneath my feet.
And Jase being Jase, he laps up every drop of the attention.
If ever anyone was born to be a movie star, it’s Jason Hamilton.
And then it’s just us. I turn to Ryder, who’s watching me with a sunlit smile. “Guess it’s our turn.” I have to wonder which gods I angered in a past life to have thrust us back together like this. I feel like a pawn on a cosmic chess board.
He’s standing closer now, and from this distance my brain is even more consumed by the sun-kissed skin at his neck.
Someone got a head start on his tan. My eyes, no matter how hard I try to tear them away, keep snapping back to his bare flesh like an industrial strength magnet.
I remember that skin. Once upon a time, it was mine to touch and taste whenever I wanted.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach out to brush a nonexistent speck of lint from his shirt, then pretend to adjust the mic at his collar, letting my fingertips graze his chest in the process—and because I’ve already brazenly crossed that red line, I slide my palms down the front of his jacket, smoothing the lapels slowly and deliberately, before reluctantly letting my hands drop back to my sides.
He tracks my movements wordlessly, unblinking, the only hint of a reaction in the flare of his eyes and the nearly imperceptible intake of breath when my fingers skim his torso.
In the distance, I hear the moderator start to introduce him as Ryder swallows heavily, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “You know, if you wanted to touch me, all you had to do was ask.”
He’s goading me into a snappy retort, but I don’t take the bait. “You look good, Ry. I should’ve told you that last night.”
He blinks at me, lips parting, his face a mask of confusion at my behavioral one-eighty. Honestly, I’m confused too. Think I’ll blame my candor on the nostalgia. I dimly register the moderator droning his name in the background.
“They’re calling you,” I tell him, nudging him out toward the stage. “Try not to trip,” I taunt. I can’t help myself.
But instead of walking out, he catches me off guard by reaching for my hand and clasping it firmly in his. I choke back a gasp, staring down at his hand like it’s a coiled snake ready to strike. “What are you doing?”
He answers my question with one of his own. “Tell me something.” His eyes smolder like embers, glowing golden in the backstage shadows. “Is there anyone back home who’ll mind me doing this?”
Now I’m the one who’s struck dumb. My mouth opens and closes like a guppy. “What about me?” I manage to stammer. “Maybe I mind.”
His lips curve into that smirk I know so well, I could see it in my sleep. And I have. “Come on. Let’s give ’em what they came here for.”
The moderator gives up on Ryder and starts calling my name instead.
He grins at me, his eyes dancing, before squeezing my hand once. “Ready?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer before leading me out on stage—one hand laced possessively through mine, the other raised in a triumphant wave—to deafening roars.