And close.
My eyes snap open and my gaze darts through the backstage gloom as a dark form materializes out of the shadows next to the stack of crates I’m sitting on. The red cherry of a lit cigarette glows a streak across the dim as he lifts it to his mouth and takes a long drag. As the glowing tip brightens, it illuminates a mass of dark curls that stick up at every angle and appear to only ever have been combed by the multitude of women’s fists that have been twisted into them. Thick dark brows arch over deep-set eyes so intense I’m convinced I feel them burning a hole through mine. A slightly crooked nose leads my eyes to a square jaw covered in dark scruff, and a pair of firm red lips that are currently smirking at me.
Tro Gunnison.
I nearly fall off my crate. He’s the guy every woman in the world wants to fuck right now. His nude Rolling Stone cover last fall made sure of that. He’s outrageous in everything he does and notorious for the long list of celebrity hearts he’s left broken in the two years since Roadkill exploded onto the music charts.
My eyes trail down the tattoos on his neck to the black T-shirt covering what I know is an incredible body. (Yes, I’ve seen the Rolling Stone cover.) But I catch my wits and pull my eyes away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me ogle. I’ve spent enough time around his type in the last few months to know that’s what they get off on.
“If I said yes?”
He blows out a long stream of smoke and stalks around to the front of my crate, leaning his elbows onto it and staring up at me. “Then I’d be compelled to ask why.”
“And if I told you it was none of your fucking business?” I challenge.
His mouth pulls into a crooked smile and a little bit of devil flashes in his dark eyes. “Then I’d think you’re not only hot, but mysterious too.”
A sudden whoosh of butterflies in my chest sends a rush through me that tightens my groin. I mentally crush them into dust because I’m not letting Tro Gunnison turn me into some swooning groupie. I’m way the fuck smarter than that. Growing up in the system means you grow up fast. I know how the game is played, which makes me hard to play. If I fuck him, it’s going to be on my terms.
“Whatever,” I say with a roll of my eyes.
“You’ll be at the show tomorrow?” he asks, taking another drag off his cigarette. “I could get you backstage.”
I feel my eyes start to widen with surprise and stop them. He doesn’t know I’m his opener. Guess he’s too fucking high and mighty to concern himself with the rabble and hangers on. But when I get past feeling a little pissed off, I realize something about him not recognizing me is liberating.
I lean back against the wall and decide to have some fun with it. “What show?”
He gives me a curious look—the same one I nearly gave him a minute ago. But then his eyes rake down my body and the corner of his mouth curves into that devilish smile again. “Better idea. What are you doing right now?”
I can hear them doing sound checks on the other side of the wall, which means they’ll be ready to tape our segment in a few minutes. They’ll be calling for us any second. “Working.”
He drops his smoke and grinds it out with the heel of his biker boot, then pulls a pack of Dentyne Fire from his pocket and offers me the open end. I slide out a stick and fold it into my mouth.
He does the same then shoves the pack back into his pocket. “C’mon.”
I slide to the edge of the crate. “Where we going?”
“Somewhere that’s not here,” he says, holding out his hand to me.
A wave of nostalgia makes me shudder. This feels like something me and Lilah would have done back in the day. I know it sounds backward, but I miss no one giving a shit about me. I miss doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Now that I’m everybody’s paycheck, they monitor everything I do. Image is everything, after all.
I hop down and take his hand, feeling more than a little dangerous as he leads me toward a door at the back of the sound room. He glances over his shoulder at the crew scrambling around the fringes of the set before punching the panic bar.
“No alarm. That’s good,” he says, stepping through.
“Shiloh!” I hear Billie call from somewhere backstage. “You’re on in three!”
Tro tows me through the door into a dimly lit storeroom without slowing down. Course, he has no clue that Billie was calling for me. Tro’s supposed to be out there too for our segment, and if I didn’t know he’s probably going to catch more shit than me for this, I’d be shaking.
“What’s your name?” he asks as he strides past racks of props and stage gear, my hand still in his.
“Lo.”
“I’m Trotte.” He glances back at me, where he’s towing me along like a dingy. “Don’t ask.”