Stuck With The Four Hotties

Charlie wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of me going to a rock concert with a bunch of dudes, but I think having Miranda and Lizzie there mollified him a bit. That, and he gave me the whole you’ll be eighteen soon talk again. Pretty sure the hidden undertones to that conversation were I’m not going to be around forever, so you need to make smart choices as an adult. I chose to ignore that part. Well, just the not going to be around forever bit. I try to

make smart choices always.

The tour bus is pretty much just a rich person’s version of an RV. I mean, I like it, but it doesn’t wet my panties.

“Most girls get soaked when they look at this thing,” Zayd is saying, sitting on the counter and drinking a beer. I keep waiting for us to hit a pothole, so I can see his arrogant rock star ass go flying. I’ve already threatened to film it and post it on YouTube.

“Well, I guess I’m not most girls,” I quip back, enjoying the red leather bench seat I’m lounging on. With Creed on my right and Windsor on my left, I feel like a freaking princess.

“Nah, you’re different than most girls for sure,” Zayd says, voice

softening, green eyes going half-lidded. That sensual look of his only lasts so long as it takes Miranda to chuck her empty beer bottle at him. He dodges it and it plunks into the sink. “What the fuck was that for?”

“Saying someone isn’t ‘like most girls’,” Miranda starts, making little quotes with her fingers, “is misogynistic as fuck. It implies there’s something wrong with being like a girl in the first place. Don’t do it.”

Zayd snaps his fingers, bounces off the counter, and disappears into the back to dig through one of the drawers. When he comes back, he’s halfway to taking his shirt off.Belonging © NôvelDram/a.Org.

My eyes skim his tattooed body as he tears his top off and replaces it with a loose black tank that says Feminist AF in white cursive on the front. My mouth breaks into a huge grin, and Zayd grins right back at me.

“Pretty fantastic, huh?” he asks as Windsor sips his tea and studies him. “I’d wear it,” he adds, shrugging as Tristan stares into his own beer and

says nothing. He’s been so quiet, so withdrawn. I’m sure he’s still reeling from everything that happened at Vanderbilt Manor. He was certain he wasn’t coming back to Burberry, and then Windsor swept in and took care of it like he does everything.

I’m worried it’s starting to wear on him.

“You’re trying way too hard to be cool. In reality, you’re just a douchebag like all the rest of us.” Creed leans back and curves his arm over the back of the seat, trailing his fingers across my shoulder and making me shiver. I glance his way and his pale blue eyes catch on mine. I can’t we believe we spent our virgin night together. My breathing picks up slightly, but I look away before I end up embarrassing myself.

Luckily, it’s only a four hour ride to get the rest of the band, and then another couple hours to get to the venue. I’m not sure if I could handle the tension for much longer than that. Lizzie barely looks at me now, but she won’t leave Tristan alone.

I have this irrational urge to pry her away from him.

He, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be bothered by her constant proximity. My hands curl into fists, fingernails digging into the denim of my jeans. Don’t blame her, Marnye. It’s his choice. If he wants Lizzie by his side then …

“Am I going to hate your band members as much as I hate you?” Zack asks, raising both of his dark brows. He’s dressed in a tight black shirt and jean shorts, his letterman jacket tossed aside for the summer heat. It’s been an unusually warm season for our area, like concerningly warm. At least we have AC in both this silly bus and my dad’s house. The Train Car was sort of

hit or miss. We had to use either those portable units or the janky window ones. Oftentimes they’d work for a few weeks and then conk out.

“If by hate, you mean love with your whole heart and soul, then yes,” Zayd says, sweeping over to the door as the bus rolls to a stop. He’s practically giddy, running his inked hands down the front of his loose tank. It’s got those big armholes that show off his lean, muscular form underneath. He’s just covered in art, enticing my eye to travel the smooth lines of his body looking for more.

I liken Zayd to a poisonous tree frog (I’ve told him this, by the way) because he’s very pretty to look at, but he’s deadly to touch.

He glances over his shoulder suddenly, green eyes bright as jewels, a crooked, goofy smile on his pretty mouth. The black rings pierced through either side of his lower lip and eyebrow add this slight edge to all of his cute. And he really is, cute I mean.

“Hey Charity,” he says, and Zack makes this irritated sound under his breath.

“Yes, Zayd-Gets-the-Girls-Made?” I ask, blinking my lashes prettily. He raises both brows at me as Creed snorts.

“That’s seriously the worst bad boy nickname known to man. Why don’t you just call yourself Two-Pump-Chump? That has more oomph somehow.”

“Ah, don’t be jealous, man,” Zayd says, leaning his palms on the table and giving me this super saucy look. “If Charity’s heard that awful nickname, then that means she’s been lookin’ me up online, eh?” Zayd ducks down suddenly, and a small squeal escapes me as he drags me under the table and pulls me out, swinging me up into his arms. “Did you need spank-bank material, Working Girl?”

“You are so gross,” I groan, but he’s at least partially right. I did look him up and find that horrible, awful, not-even-a-very-good-rhyme nickname. There are entire threads online of girls who claimed they’ve slept with him.

Just thinking about it pisses me off.

“Guys!” Zayd shouts as the door opens and this huge dude with a beard walks in. “I got me a proper girlfriend!” He lifts me up, and laughter spills from my throat. I can’t help it. Besides the fact that we’ve got some sort of crazy, natural chemistry, this is why I liked him so much during first year. He’s got a natural charm-when he’s not being a to

tal bully, that is.