10. Infuriating and Lickable
10
INFURIATING AND LICKABLE
MAGGIE
Fistfight By The Ballroom Thieves
T he only light on the bus flickers from my laptop screen as I lie on my stomach in my bed, editing footage.
I speed it up to tonight’s, or was it last night’s performance? I’m not even sure what day it is anymore.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as I watch—Felix’s guitar rests low on his back, his hands curled tightly around the mic stand, head bowed, eyes closed. It’s almost reverent. The shot is soundless, but even so, I know exactly what song it is. I can read the soft movements of his lips, tracing the familiar lyrics like muscle memory.
My stomach growls unapologetically—I haven’t eaten since… when?
I pause the footage. His hair falls in loose strands over his brow, sweat-speckled and wild, but it’s his gaze—piercing and unyielding—it feels like he’s looking right back at me. My stomach flips, warmth pooling deep in my belly.
I sit up and stretch, rolling my stiff shoulders before sliding out of bed with my laptop tucked under my arm. I pad into the kitchen and paw through the cupboards for a snack.
How does he live without chips?
I open the refrigerator and snort laugh when I see Felix’s yogurts lined up in a perfect row. He’s not like any other rockstar I’ve ever met. Who knew Felix Krasinski—a man who screams like a caged animal onstage—would have yogurts arranged like little soldiers in his fridge?
Desperate, I grab one and pull the tab, smelling it before deciding that I’m hungry enough to eat anything.
Who thought ruining a perfectly good strawberry with rhubarb was a good idea? Desperate times, desperate measures. I dig in and lean against the small counter, flipping idly through more footage on my laptop.
I make a mental note to steal some snacks from craft service tomorrow so I can hide them under my pillow. Who knows how long it’ll take Dylan to get another bus.
With the spoon hanging out of my mouth, I hear the creak of Felix’s door open.
Shit.
Aside from his grumblings about my shit all over the place, we’ve managed to stay out of each other’s hair.
I brace myself for him to snap at me for waking him, but instead, he just leans against the doorway, his sleepy gaze steady and entirely too intense. Oh, and he’s shirtless. Because of course he is. The sharp ridges of his abs disappear into the waistband of his low-hanging sweatpants, and I involuntarily lick the spoon clean. How is it even fair for someone to look that good after barely any sleep?
He’s infuriating and lickable.
And yet, all I can do is stare like a starved idiot.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” I toss the spoon in the trash.
Felix scrubs a hand through his disheveled hair.
“Maggie,” he rasps, saying my name like a warning. “You can’t wear things like that.”
I glance down at my sleepwear—a simple, fitted tank top and small cotton shorts. “Why not?” I ask quietly.
“Because,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m imagining things I shouldn’t be.” His deep voice causes goosebumps to race along my arms.
My breath hitches, my palms gripping the counter’s edge behind me like some kind of life raft in a sea of reckless temptation. This is such a bad idea but his proximity is seismic; every inch closer tilts my world.
I am not imagining what it would be like to kiss Felix right now.
Okay, I’m a liar.
“What kind of things?”
Felix’s gaze drips down my body, unapologetic, and my traitorous nipples stand at attention. His lips curve into the faintest smirk. “I don’t think you want the answer to that, Sass.”
His hands lift, casually gripping the counter on either side of me, caging me in. His breath warms my cheek, and I hate how badly I want to lean into it.
I’ve had some bad ideas in my past. Okay, really bad ideas, and getting involved with Felix would be in the top ten. It’s a shame that ‘bad idea’ is my middle name. What if I do want him to answer that question? Would that be so bad? Just a little taste to get him out of my system.
That smirk widens as he tilts his head, leaning so close that every nerve in my body ignites. My hands fist behind me, nails digging into the counter as I brace against the overwhelming urge to touch him. This man is my weakness, and I can’t stand how eagerly my body embraces the threat.
He reaches past me and adjusts my laptop, tilting the screen slightly so he can see the still frame I’d paused. The shot of him staring into the camera—into me—is centered just perfectly.
He pushes away from the counter—from me—and the sudden loss of his body heat is so noticeable that I shiver.
“It’s nice to know I’m not the only one suffering,” he murmurs smugly.
His infuriatingly cocky smile snaps me out of this deranged stupor I’m in. I blame the lack of chemically altered nutrients. His fucking yogurt has momentarily weakened me.
“I was editing, if you must know,” I stammer, flushing furiously and loudly snapping the laptop shut.
Felix chuckles lightly, retrieving a bottle of water from the fridge. “If you say so.”
“God, you must be tired carrying around that ego of yours thinking every woman wants you.” I cross my arms over my chest, fully aware of his eyes still on me.
He leans casually in his doorway, one hand braced against the frame, his water bottle dangling from his fingertips. With smug certainty, he declares, “No, baby. Just you.”
And then he disappears, retreating into his room.
“Oh yeah? Well, tell your hand I said hi!” I yell at his closed door before heading back to my bed, slumping onto the mattress with force.
A low laugh seeps through the thin wood and I hurl a pillow at the closed door.
“Oh, by the way, I ate one of your yogurts!” I yell.
* * *
“So, Texas was flaming Cheetos on steroids,” I say to Joey through the earbud, dodging people as I weave through the line of buses toward the craft service tent.
She giggles, a light-hearted sound that momentarily lifts my spirits. “Where are you now?”
“I’m not sure,” I half-joke, squinting at the unfamiliar landscape. “I think Oklahoma, although I practically blacked out through most of Texas.”
“Why are you out of breath?”
“I overslept, and now I’m late for breakfast,” I admit, feeling the sting of exhaustion in my limbs.
“Classic,” Joey teases.
“Oh, I’m sorry, not all of us like getting up at the ass crack of dawn to shovel horseshit.” Before she can protest, I add, “I’m working my ass off here. These concerts run late, and editing the footage is no walk in the park.”
“Someone got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning,” she quips.
If by wrong side you mean staying up half the night thinking about my midnight encounter with Felix, then yes.
“Oh, thank God,” I say as I work my way through the breakfast line scooping up what’s left of the eggs. “I can’t eat another one of Felix’s yogurts.”
“Felix’s yogurts?” Joey asks, clearly curious.
Shit.
“Hey, where’d all the bacon go?” I call out.
“If you got here more than five minutes before breakfast ended, there’d be bacon left,” Dusty growls, arms full as he packs up the tables.
“Why would you be eating Felix’s yogurt?” Joey insists in my ear.
“I know you have leftover bacon back there.” I ignore Joey and try to scoot around Dusty, poking my head further into the tent.
“Ha! You’re funny, Maggs,” Dusty chuckles, grabbing me by the back of the shirt and depositing me on the other side of the tent.
I manage a playful huff as I head to the table with my plate. “Why does everyone keep saying that?” I mutter, stabbing my fork into the cold eggs.
“Hey, Maggs,” Dusty calls after me with a gentler tone, “Just wanted to say sorry for what happened. Shouldn’t have let you walk back to the buses alone.”
Joey’s voice prickles with urgency now. “What’s happening? What’s he talking about?”
“Don’t worry about it, Dusty. It’s fine.” I attempt to get him to shut the hell up but he doesn’t get the hint.
“I’m just glad Felix was there, and it was really good of him to offer for you to stay on his?—”
I cut him off by launching into an awkward hug. Both of us stiffen, standing in a tense silence while Joey keeps up her questions in my ear.
“Thanks, Dusty. You’re a good guy,” I say, patting his arm as he gives me a puzzled look.
“Okay, well. I’ll save some bacon for you next time.”
The sound of my sister yelling through the connection startles me, “Magdalena Morgan!”
Goddamn Dusty with his big mouth and even bigger heart.
“Are you trying to make me deaf?” I retort, plopping down at a table and shoveling more eggs into my mouth.
“Are you staying on Felix’s bus? And what happened to you?”
I sigh, dropping the fork and scanning the half-empty tent. “Fine,” I concede, relaying the story of how I ended up spending the night on Felix’s bus.
“Why didn’t you tell me? And more importantly, why are you walking around alone at night?”
“You sound like Dad,” I grumble, tossing my plate in the trash before making the trek back to the bus.
“Thank God Felix was there,” she says.
“ Thank God Felix was there ,” I mimic, rolling my eyes. “Yes, yes, he’s a hero, but how about acknowledging that he’s insufferably cocky, annoyingly fit, and a morning person?”
Joey laughs.
“What’s so funny about that?” I ask, exasperated.
“It’s just that I’ve never seen you this worked up over a guy before.”
“I am not worked up,” I insist, though the flutter in my chest says otherwise.
She makes an incredulous sound, testing my patience.
“Okay, maybe a little worked up, but not in the way you think.”
“Of course not,” she echoes, sarcasm vivid in her tone. “I still think you need to dance it out.”
“Again with this?” I question, swinging open the bus door to find it empty. Felix must be busy with his morning routine—push-ups, jogging, or something equally infuriating.
“You’re not sharing the big smelly bus with everyone anymore.”
“So?”
“So, you’ve got the whole rockstar bus to yourself, perfect for dancing out all that frustration,” she counters.
I glance around, hating how she might actually be right.
“To make you feel better, I’ll join you,” she offers.
Resigned to her persistent encouragement, I set my phone on the counter, clicking on video share. Her face lights up the screen, the familiar backdrop of our childhood bedroom behind her. Horse posters line the walls, and nostalgia tugs at me—even if I hated those posters growing up.
The first song blares, overly cheerful, prompting a quick, “Skip,” from me. She obliges, switching the track, though it earns another “Skip.”
“You only get so many skips,” she warns, tilting her head defiantly as I roll my eyes.
The next track is something our mom loved—a peppy tune from our childhood, one she’d sing loudly in the car, off-sync but endearing. It has a catchy beat, and despite myself, I shuffle my feet, even if it’s a tune from the stone age—and pop.
“Come on, Maggs!” Joey encourages, bouncing around our room like a deranged dolphin. Rolling my eyes but laughing, I find myself dancing, and she’s right, I feel a bit lighter.