Risky Rockstar: A Hero Club Novel, стр. 15
“Hey there, gorgeous?” I look up reluctantly from the video, not wanting to tear my eyes away from Kade’s piercing eyes. Thank God for dark glasses because the Ken-doll look-alike standing next to me misses my eye roll. Stifling the sigh when I realize I have to engage with this guy whose intentions are very clear from the way he once-overs me, I form a polite and expectant smile.
“Can I get you a refill?” Ken-doll gestures to my glass while flashing me a smile that could blind you in the dark.
I look down at the full glass in my hand. Calling on years of practiced poise, I will my smile to neither falter nor turn amused. “Uh, no. I’m good, thanks.”
This is usually the time when said guy takes the hint and walks away, except “Ken” pulls the lounger Misty just occupied closer to mine and promptly sits down.
“Cool tattoos.” His eyes rove over all four of my tattoos: the shooting star at my collarbone, my first song etched on spiral sheet music capped off on either side with bright orange daffodils at my hip, the watercolor guitar on my wrist, and finally the stick figures on my ribs.
Okay, I am going to give myself a serious eye strain if I carry on with the rolling. Lifting my sunglasses, I settle them on top of my head, so now I have to make a conscious effort not to roll my eyes and be rude.
“Thanks.”
He leans over, grazing his finger over the tattoo on my ribs. It’s a tattoo of two stick girls holding hands. One has wild crazy hair, and the other is bald; the arm of the wild-haired girl disappears into my bikini top, and as “Ken’s” fingers trace the ink, I jerk back.
He’s completely unfazed. “What’s that one mean?”
I stare at him for the longest time, willing my tongue to formulate a sentence which expresses exactly how I feel about him touching me without telling him to go fuck himself, but all I manage to do is to gape at him.
Every single one of my tattoos has a special meaning to me—each one represents a time in my life that was meaningful. It’s not to say that if you get inked it has to hold special meaning—some can be an expression of art, something that caught your eye—but for me, it’s about engraving moments in time on my skin. This one in particular, the one this douche-canoe is tracing intimately with his finger, is the most special to me. I got it when I was eighteen. Amy, my niece, battled her way through leukemia from six to eight. She fought so damn hard and is in remission now, but the strength and resilience she displayed during her treatments is what gave me the guts to pursue my dream of sharing the music I created with people. She drew the picture tattooed on my skin the day we shaved her hair. My brother Andrew broke down when the first clump of her beautiful blonde curls hit the floor, and to distract Amy, I asked her to draw me something. She drew us, hand in hand, me with my then crazy purple hair (I was still trying to find my style) and her with none. That afternoon I did two things: first I shaved off my purple hair in solidarity with Amy, and second, I got the drawing inked on my skin, on my ribs, close to my heart.
I feel like he’s violated something sacred to me, and I decide, fuck it, I am going to give this jerk-wad a piece of my mind. I stand and take a step forward, ready to unleash all kinds of hell, when Kevin Peyton, Oscar-nominated actor, walks over to us, an easy smile on his lips while he casually throws his phone up in the air and catches it.
“Hey, babe. Is your battery dead again? Your mom called. She’s been trying to get hold of you about Saturday’s game night. I told her we’d definitely be there, but I think you should call her back. She said something about having those pineapple margaritas you made last time, but I don’t think my liver can stand another bout of those.”
I’m confused. Really confused, but I decide to play along. While I’m doing my best not to look like a suffocating goldfish, Kevin turns his easy smile on “Ken” and holds out his hand. “Hey, man. I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m Kevin.”
“I…uh… I…I’m Edwin,” Ken-Doll guy stutters, and I can’t tell if he’s pissed at the interruption, embarrassed, or starstruck.
“It’s good to meet you, Edwin.”
Kevin turns back to me and holds out his phone. “Do you want to call your mom back on my phone?”
I can’t seem to stop my compulsive blinking, but I think Kevin Peyton is giving me an escape, and if I don’t do something soon, we are both going to look like idiots. “Thanks.” I take Kevin’s phone from his hand. “I won’t be long.”
I’m so grateful to Kevin that I impulsively lean over and kiss him on the cheek.
He doesn’t skip a beat and smiles tenderly at me. “I’ve made lunch reservations.”
“Perfect.” I start walking backward. “Be right back. Nice to meet you, Edwin.” See? I can act too.
Holding the phone to my ear, I pretend to wait for my mother to answer. Edwin has long forgotten about me and is animatedly talking to Kevin—I guess he wasn’t pissed after all. Even from across the pool I can tell that Kevin’s expression is fixed in an indulgent smile that’s 90 percent strained and 10 percent polite, because let’s face it, Edwin is a dick—but he’s too self-absorbed to notice.
After five minutes or so, a girl with an orange bikini walks past, and Edwin