“Oh, an orange juice for me,” says the journalist, and I turn my attention to Shane.
“I’m good,” he says abruptly, and I frown.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have interrupted, but I was only trying to help. I walk back behind the bar and pour an orange juice into a glass of ice. I don’t really want to return to their table, given Shane’s somewhat frosty reception, but I don’t have another choice now.
Silently, I place the glass down on the table and quickly return to my station. Shane doesn’t meet my eyes the entire time, and I can’t tell if he’s pissed off or just embarrassed. They’ve moved on to a lighter, less personal topic now. I lose myself in my work, focusing intently on stacking glasses and stocking the bar for this afternoon’s event; a famous opera singer has flown in from Italy to do a handful of shows, and she’ll be accompanied by the house orchestra.
I like opera. Even though I can’t understand the words, somehow my brain translates the emotions, in the same way an instrumental piece can tell me a story with no words at all.
I’m in the small storage room at the back of the bar when I get a text from Alec telling me he’ll take care of dinner tonight for April and Pete since I’m going to be working until eight. As I type out a quick thank-you in response, I hear somebody enter the room from the soft click of a shoe. Turning around, I find Shane standing mere inches away from me.
“Uh, you’re not supposed to be in here,” I say while his eyes roam my face. Tingles seize my chest at his closeness. I can feel the air of his breath hit my cheeks.
“I know. I just wanted to apologise for being cold with you earlier. It wasn’t you — I was just pissed with the guy interviewing me.”
Sucking in a quick breath, I nod. “Yeah, he seemed to be going right for the jugular. How are your stitches?”
“They’re fine, a little stingy and a lot itchy. You look good in that shirt,” he says, the words tumbling out like he hadn’t meant to vocalise the thought.
I give him a small grin. “This is my work uniform. You’ve seen me in it before.”
“And you’ve always looked good in it.” His hand moves to my shoulder, his thumb brushing slowly back and forth.
I swallow.
“So, um, what was the interview for?”
He rolls his eyes and smiles. “They’re doing a feature on me in Hot Press, though you’d think it was for a gossip mag by the way that guy was carrying on.”
“Yeah, stupid nosy bastard,” I reply jokingly. “Asking lots of questions like it’s his job or something.”
Shane squeezes my shoulder and narrows his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “Think you’re clever, huh?”
I raise my chin and continue to taunt him. “Yes, I think I’m very clever, Shane Arthur.”
He moves an inch closer. “Oh, really?”
“Mm-hmm.” His chest rubs off mine, and now I’m pushed up against the wall.
He dips his nose to my neck and inhales deeply. “You smell good,” he whispers, and I momentarily lose the ability to speak. The next thing I know his mouth is on my neck, sucking, and I let out an involuntary moan. Jesus. My willpower is really being tested as I force myself to pull away from him. His body is hard and strong, so it’s difficult to pry him off me, especially since he seems so determined to keep his mouth on my neck. If I don’t stop him soon, he’s going to leave a mark.
Perhaps that’s his intention.
Finally, I twist my body, duck, and swing under his arm. My chest is rising and falling quickly, and his gorgeous brandy-coloured eyes have grown dark with need. I move to the door, wrapping my fingers around the handle.
“You’re taking liberties here, Shane. I already told you where we stand.”
His eyes dip at the ends sadly as he continues to stare at me. “Yeah, that’s right, you did. I’m sorry, couldn’t help myself.”
“Well, you should’ve tried harder. I can’t be in a relationship. You know this.” My words come out sounding weak and desperate. I really need him to stop pushing, because if he doesn’t, sooner or later I’m going to give in.
He walks to me and takes my hand into his. “I’m sorry, Bluebird. I promise not to do anything like that again.”
God. How could I ever stay mad at a face as beautiful as his?
I look at him seriously. “You promise?”
“Cross my heart.”
“Okay, then.”
He smiles big. “So, um, now that we’re friends again, could I ask a favour?”
“You can ask,” I allow.
“Well, I’ve got to do this ridiculous photo shoot for the Hot Press interview, and I was wondering if you’d come with me? You know, for moral support. I hate doing these sorts of things, but it’s good publicity for the orchestra.”
My lips curve in a grin. “You’re doing a photo shoot! Of course I’ll come. When and where?”
The idea of watching Shane getting dressed up by some stylist like a living Ken doll is oddly appealing to me. Perhaps I’ll get to watch him try on outfits, catch glimpses of his perfect body. You know, like the best and worst kind of torture all rolled into one.
“Tomorrow at lunchtime in the Clarendon Hotel. You don’t have a shift then, do you?”
I shake my head. “No, tomorrow’s my day off. I had planned on doing some busking, but I’ll put it off to go with you.”
“Great. They’ve booked a suite. I’m not sure how long it’s going to run, but there’ll be food, so you won’t get hungry.”
I hold up a hand, laughing. “Hey, you had me at photo shoot, there’s no need to sweeten the deal with free food, although it’s always a plus.”
Shane lets out a breath as though in relief. “Thank you so much, Jade. It would have been torture going alone.”
When he says this, I realise that what he’s told me is true; he really doesn’t have any friends. I feel quite honoured that he’s allowing me into his life, but I also plan on remedying his friendlessness, so I say, “If I come with you to the photo shoot, will you come somewhere with me this Sunday?”
“Sure, I’m not working. Where do you want to go?”
“It’s a surprise, but I promise you’ll like it.”
“Has it got to do with you teaching me how to live?” he asks slyly.
Hmm, I’d forgotten about that one. “Yeah, in a way I guess it does.”
“Then I’m all in.”
***
For the rest of the day I’m rushed off my feet with work. It’s almost a full house for the afternoon and evening concerts, so I don’t get the chance to see Shane again. We exchanged numbers before leaving the storage room, and when I get home I’m tempted to send him a text. I don’t even have anything important to say, but for some reason I feel this need to touch base. I hate to admit it, but I love interacting with him, love talking to him about anything and everything.
I resist the urge and instead give in to a different temptation, one that I’m sure to regret. I Google his ex-fiancée, Mona Campbell, and discover that she’s a semi-famous musician just like Shane, and a concert pianist at that. She even has a Wiki page. My gut sinks when I see how drop-dead gorgeous she is. The facts I glean are that she’s twenty-nine years old, the daughter of manager mogul Jack Campbell, is world-renowned in her field, and has the silkiest chestnut brown hair I’ve ever seen.
There are one or two old pictures online of her and Shane when they were together, taken at some sort of awards ceremony. They look perfect. There are also a couple of newer ones of her with the cellist, Justin, and I don’t get it, because he’s not half as good-looking as Shane. Deciding to cut myself off — otherwise, I’ll be browsing through pictures for the rest of the night — I go and check my emails.
A notification tells me that Shane Arthur has just added me on Facebook.
Interesting.
I laugh
out loud when I check out his profile and see he’s got a grand total of 1,213 friends. Well, now, I’m definitely going to have fun with this. Immediately clicking to accept the friendship, I go straight to the private message function and type:
Jade Lennon, 21.43 p.m.: Only in this day and age can a man have 1,213 virtual friends while still having no friends at all. Here’s to number 1,214 being a real one ;-) P.S. How did you find me on this?
At first I put a few kisses at the end but then decide that might give him the wrong impression, so I change them to a winky face. Scrolling down his wall, all I see are messages from women proclaiming their love of his music. One girl called Suzy Carmine has posted almost every day for the last month. That’s kind of alarming, taking into account the fact that Shane hasn’t responded, but only “liked” the first few. A couple of minutes later he writes back:
Shane Arthur, 21.50 p.m.: It’s pathetic, right? They’re all fans and work contacts. I’m thinking 1,214 is going to be the magic number. Found you through your phone.
Jade Lennon, 21.53 p.m.: I am magic, aren’t I? And no, it’s not pathetic. I’m going to transform that low self-esteem into high self-esteem if it’s the last thing I do, mister! Btw, what’s the deal with Suzy Carmine? She seems…enthusiastic.
Shane Arthur, 21.54 p.m.: You’ve been busy, or should I say nosy! Sometimes the fans can be a little intense. She’ll get bored and move on eventually. P.S. Yes, you are fucking magic. Xxx
Jade Lennon, 21.54 p.m.: You’re too sweet.
Shane Arthur, 21.55 p.m.: You should let me show you how sweet I can be.
Jade Lennon, 21.55 p.m.: Shane…
Shane Arthur, 21.56 p.m.: I know. Sorry.
Jade Lennon, 21.56 p.m.: Okay, you’re forgiven. You nervous for tomorrow?
Shane Arthur, 21.57 p.m.: Dreading it :-/
Jade Lennon, 21.57 p.m.: Don’t be. You’re going to be fantastic. Are you bringing your violin?
Shane Arthur, 21.57 p.m.: Yeah, they want to get to some pics of me with the Strad.
Jade Lennon, 21.58 p.m.: Oh, this is going to be so much fun. For me, I mean. :-D I get to be a spectator.
Shane Arthur, 21.58 p.m.: You’re cruel.
Jade Lennon, 21.59 p.m.: Mwah ha ha.
Shane Arthur, 21.59 p.m.: I just realised your name is three letters off John Lennon.
I laugh when I read this.
Jade Lennon, 21.59 p.m.: That’s because I’m John Lennon reincarnated as a female. I was born seven years after he died, so it’s entirely possible.
Shane Arthur, 22.00 p.m.: Well, in that case I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for writing some of the best songs of the 20th century.
Jade Lennon, 22.01 p.m.: You’re most welcome.
Shane Arthur, 22.01 p.m.: Lol.
A couple of minutes pass and I’m tired, so I decide to say my goodbyes for the night.
Jade Lennon, 22.05 p.m.: Right, I’m gonna get some sleep. Talk to you tomorrow, friend!
Shane Arthur, 22.05 p.m.: Cool. Dream of me, Bluebird. Xxx.
His last message makes my belly flutter. He doesn’t know it, but I’ve dreamt of him practically every night since I met him. His kisses make my cheeks grow warm even though they aren’t real ones.
The next day I dress casually in jeans and a cream blouse. I’m on my way to meet Shane at the Clarendon when a little kid slides in front of me. He can’t be any more than eleven or twelve, and he has the gall to ask, “Hey, missus, gotta smoke?”
“No, I don’t. And you’re too young to be smoking,” I say before walking by him.
“Yeah, well, your arse is too big to be wearing those jeans, but that didn’t stop ya, did it?” he shouts after me, brazen as you like.
Ah, lovely. If I ever feel I’m getting too full of myself, all I’ll need to do is walk down this street, and I’m sure some little fucker will take me down a peg or two. Continuing my walk, I surreptitiously check out my bottom in a shop window. It’s certainly well-endowed, but…oh, fuck it. I’m not thinking about this.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I find a text from Shane telling me he’s already at the hotel and that he left my name at the reception desk. When I get there a couple of minutes later, I’m ushered on through to the elevators by a helpful receptionist.
Oh, yeah, one of life’s mysteries, why do elevators always have to be lined with mirrors? After my run-in with “little mister gotta smoke,” I’m feeling decidedly paranoid about my appearance, so I could really do without the three-dimensional view right now. I run my fingers through my wind-tossed hair and wipe a fleck of mascara away from under my eye.
When I reach the suite, I knock on the door and get greeted by a pretty redhead, the photographer’s assistant. Stepping inside, I find quite the professional setup. They must be planning on putting him on the cover or something.
Shane’s sitting in a chair while a stylist does his hair, which in my opinion doesn’t really need doing anyway. He looks so out of his comfort zone that I have to stifle the urge to laugh. There’s a free-standing clothes rack lining one wall and it’s full of classy men’s outfits — designer suits and the like.
His eyes are constantly scanning the room while his hair is fussed over, and when he sees me he gives a full-on smile; it’s one part happy to see me and two parts relieved his friend is here to make him feel less awkward at being primped up like a show pony.
“Jade,” he says, standing to greet me while the stylist scowls that he’s moved out of her reach. He takes my hand when I get to him and gives it a soft kiss, which makes a little swoosh rush through my chest.
“Hey, look at you,” I reply, gesturing to the sharp grey suit he’s wearing.
“Do I scrub up well?” he asks modestly.
“Hell, yeah.”
“Mr Arthur, I need to finish your hair,” the stylist, a twenty-something honey blonde, interrupts impatiently.
I give him the nod to sit back down and he does, while I peruse a table of sandwiches and drinks set up nearby. I pick up one that looks like smoked salmon and cream cheese, and pop it discreetly into my mouth, all la di da I’m just taking a look around.
“Jade, could you bring me some of those? I’m starving,” Shane calls, and I turn in surprise to find he’d been watching me. Caught red-handed. It causes me to gulp the whole thing down in one go like a bird of prey swallowing a live robin.
I purse my lips at him and suppress a smirk of my own, while putting a couple of the tiny sandwiches on a paper plate and carrying them over to him. The stylist lets out a sigh as I approach; I’m obviously making her job harder here, but Shane did ask for something to eat.
Feeling playful, I lift a sandwich to his mouth for him to take a bite. His eyes stay on mine the entire time as his mouth closes over it. Okay, perhaps that was a questionable move.
I didn’t anticipate how hard it would be to stay platonic with a man I’m this strongly attracted to. There’s an underlying note of sex in everything we do. I can barely look at him without remembering what it felt like to have him fill me up, for him to effortlessly hold me and fuck me against a brick wall.
I hand him the plate then, deciding that feeding him was a little too…sensual for my liking. A couple of minutes later, the photographer, a dark-haired man in his mid-thirties, strolls into the room and starts giving Shane directions as to where he wants him. I sit back and watch as he removes his violin from its case and goes to sit on a chair by the window.
The photographer tells Shane to look out the window and try to affect a thoughtful expression. He flattens out his mouth and narrows his eyes, giving a faraway look. I can’t help smiling, because he’s clearly not enjoying this at all. His posture is all ramrod straight.
The photographer tries to give him more directions, but he’s sort of useless at taking them. I butt in, saying, “Hey, why don’t you try squi
nching?”
The photographer turns to me, shakes his head, and laughs.
“Do I even want to know what that is?” Shane asks, hesitant but amused.
“It’s all the rage right now,” I explain. “You just sort of squint your eyelids and it’s supposed to make you look better in pictures, you know, like, all moody and smouldering. Ben and Clark both swear by it.”
I internally chuckle, remembering Ben showing me his holiday pictures from Spain last summer, and in every one it’s pretty obvious that he and Clark were trying to out-squinch each other, which just ends up looking ridiculous. So yeah, a rule of thumb, if you’re going to squinch, make sure there isn’t anybody else in the photo doing it as well.
“If I squint I’m going to look constipated, Jade,” Shane replies, deadpan, and I let out a bark of laughter.
The photographer puts his hand on his hip, looking back and forth between the two of us. “Is she your girlfriend?” he asks while snapping a couple of shots. Shane is still looking at me and smiling.
“Nah, just a friend,” he answers as he regards me warmly.
“Mm-hmm,” the photographer responds in a very sure she’s just a friend sort of way.
“Ugh, I’m so bad at this,” says Shane dejectedly, rubbing at his forehead for a second.
“Honey, nobody with a face and body like yours is bad at getting pictured,” the redheaded assistant butts in, all sass and flirtation. I automatically give her an evil look without realising I’m doing it. Shane is the only one who catches me, and he seems pleased as punch about it. Great, now he thinks I’m jealous.
“Hey, I know. You should play something and not think about trying to pose,” I say. “Forget anybody else is in the room, and just pretend you’re practicing. I bet you’ll look really natural in the shots if you do that.”
The photographer clicks his fingers at me. “That’s a fabulous idea.” Turning his attention to Shane, he says, “I like your friend — she’s good.”
“All right, I’ll give it a try,” says Shane, lifting his bow and setting the violin under his chin. He starts to play a really lovely, almost dreamy song, and the photographer is like a bat out of hell snapping pictures. I smile, satisfied that my idea is working. Sitting back on my stool, I watch the images float out of the camera and sail through the window like bubbles floating on air, capturing a moment of musical brilliance. The melody sparks off the images and makes them shine, makes them that much more vital.
Rockers After Dark: 6 Book Bundle of Sexy Musicians Page 33
