Page 11 of Wild Infatuation (Rebel Rockstars #3)

Chapter Eleven

Shawn

“WE REALLY HAVE TO do this?” I grumble as I shift from foot to foot in the grass.

Levi chuckles beside me. “Emmett says we have to do it, so yeah, it’s pretty mandatory.”

I didn’t mean for him to hear me. I’ve been trying to keep my trepidation to myself, but it’s probably pretty obvious by now.

We’ve all changed, and my bandmates are disappearing one by one into a trailer where Terrance is doing their hair and makeup.

When Jacob emerges looking chipper and handsome as always, Levi pats me on the shoulder before taking his place.

That means I’m next. My stomach flutters at the thought like there are flies buzzing around inside it.

I didn’t think I’d ever have to see Terrance again, let alone so soon.

I’ve been telling myself that kiss didn’t matter because I would never get that close to the guy ever again.

It was a stupid mistake I could easily put behind me.

My self-deception crumbled long before Emmett told us we had to come back to do promo shots.

I’ve had dreams about that kiss and woken up in a state I’m not proud of.

My brain knows better, but my body apparently doesn’t.

Three shitty boyfriends weren’t enough to teach me not to fall for the first guy who seems into me, and he just had to be a groupie on top of that.

If guys I actually knew betrayed my trust, why would I ever put my faith in a stranger like Terrance?

And yet, when Levi emerges from hair and makeup and waves for me to head in, my heart leaps into my throat.

He pats my shoulder as I pass, giving me a tight, tense smile that sets my nerves on edge.

Maybe he saw something when he interrupted me and Terrance after the music video shoot.

I thought I pushed Terrance away quickly enough, and Levi hasn’t said anything in the days since, but he’s a quiet guy. His silence doesn’t mean I’m safe.

I have bigger things to worry about as I mount the stairs into the trailer where Terrance waits for me.

He’s sweeping the floor around his swiveling chair when I enter.

For a moment, he doesn’t notice me, and I get to appreciate the feathery fall of his hair around his face, the deft way his hands work even when handling a broom, the pale hair on his arms, the way his pants hug his ass as he bends over slightly.

I shake those thoughts away an instant before Terrance notices me. A brilliant smile lights his face. He sets the broom aside and waves at the chair, and I force myself to march toward him.

When I sit, he has me face the mirror as he sinks his fingers into my hair. He always starts this way, by combing through my hair with his hands, fluffing it this way and that as though it’s changed since the last time he saw me.

“It’s grown already,” he remarks.

“Yeah. Grows fast.”

I sound like a neanderthal, monosyllabic, mumbling barely above a grunt. I can’t seem to unclench my teeth and do any better as my scalp tingles from Terrance playing with my hair, however.

He starts clipping the hair to one side, then spins me around in the chair to face him. His fingers brush my neck as he secures a cape. I’m still thinking about it when he grabs his clippers.

Terrance braces a hand against my head and starts cleaning up my undershave.

His hand is light, his warm fingertips pressing against my head.

He moves me gently this way and that as he makes his way around the shave.

I could fall asleep under that touch, despite the buzz tingling in my blood.

It lulls me into a sense of security I haven’t felt since …

since maybe ever. I certainly didn’t get it at home with my judgmental parents, especially as I started realizing I was queer, and I didn’t get it later, either, with the various boyfriends who all saw me as disposable enough to cheat on flagrantly.

The closest I’ve come is the time I’ve spent with my bandmates, but none of them touch me like this.

It would be weird. We’re friends. And while the way Terrance touches me to fix my hair isn’t exactly sexual, it’s not entirely friendly, either.

I nearly protest when Terrance turns off the clippers and declares the job done. He uses a big soft brush to clean off stray hairs around my ears and on my neck. Then he unclips my hair and sinks his hands back into it, manipulating the dark strands until it falls the way he wants.

“You have such nice hair,” he says as he starts applying products to hold it in place. “I have so many clients at the salon who would kill for hair like this.”

I don’t know what to say to a compliment like that, so I simply mumble, “You work at a salon?”

“Mhmm, right up in Greenwood.”

“I thought you lived up north?”

Shit. I shouldn’t have remembered that. I shouldn’t have memorized the fact that he lives north of Seattle.

It was an offhand remark that he tossed out when Jacob was chatting with him, something I should have forgotten the second he said it, yet some part of my brain tucked that information carefully away.

Terrance’s pause reveals his surprise. “I do, but it’s not that far down the highway. I work strange hours compared to most people, so it’s an easy commute.”

“I … see.”

I resolve to keep my mouth shut after that, and fortunately Terrance moves on.

He does some other stuff to my hair until it starts to feel like the stiff, strange helmet it felt like for the music video shoot.

I assume it’s all sleek and slicked back like it was last time, but I can’t tell with my back to the mirror.

Terrance switches to the makeup, which offers me absolutely no relief. It means he’ll get even closer, and all while touching my face. If I was having trouble banishing that kiss from my mind before, it’s about to get a whole lot worse.

Is Terrance thinking about it as well? He seems completely unaffected.

He’s acting professional as he did last time, performing his job without so much as a tremble.

Maybe the kiss meant nothing to him. That or he already has a boyfriend and it was all a game.

With how my life has gone up until now, that would make a lot more sense than a nice, unattached guy simply being into me.

Terrance dabs products onto my face. I don’t mind it as much when he does it.

During the tour, there were nights where it felt like I was wearing a whole ‘nother face on top of my real one, but when Terrance applies makeup I hardly notice it. It makes me wish it was him doing it every time, but I’d be a maniac to request that.

He moves on to my lips, applying that gloss I can barely see.

A soft-bristled brush glides along my parted lips, but I can feel Terrance’s hand behind it.

That gentle pressure reminds me too much of the timid start of our kiss, the way our lips barely touched as we toppled into that moment.

Whatever my brain may tell me, my body aches at the memory, like I’m denying myself water while sitting in front of a fountain.

My fingers tingle with the desire to grab Terrance and drag him into my lap, knowing he’d go, knowing his mouth would crash willingly against mine, knowing he’d straddle my thighs and kiss me until we couldn’t breathe.

“Look up at me.”

My eyes flicker up, and I find Terrance watching me, his fingers gently tilting my chin up. He holds an eyeliner pen, but he hasn’t taken the cap off and he’s making no move to do so.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that kiss,” he says, voice soft and husky.

Heat flushes through me. My hands flinch, and I realize I’m gripping my pants like I mean to tear them off.

“Me neither,” I confess before I can stop myself.

Then I seize his shirt, and he drops right into my lap. The chair creaks as Terrance straddles me, one hand bracing against my shoulder. I let my hands skim around his lower back, stopping just above the swell of his ass. He sucks in a breath I can taste on my tongue, throat bobbing as he swallows.

We sit there staring at each other, breathless.

We freeze as though any loud noise or jerky movement will shatter this moment.

I let one hand wander up his body, feeling his chest through his shirt before caressing the side of his neck and cupping his cheek.

Then, before I can think about it too hard, I draw him down to me the way I’ve wanted to since the second I stepped in here.

Terrance gasps against my lips, but sinks into the kiss a second later.

The hand on my shoulder clutches harder.

I suck on his tongue, tilting my head to take him deeper, inhaling the fresh scent of whatever soap he must have used this morning.

He rocks a little in my lap, his body promising things that leave me aching and raw.

It’s just fun, I tell myself, the kind of fun a rockstar should be having, but the excuse rings hollow when all I want to do is hug him closer.

We break apart gasping, but I keep Terrance in my lap, unwilling to lose that warmth and pressure so soon.

“I have to fix your lips now,” he says.

I startle myself with a laugh and yank him back to my mouth to show him how little I care about ruining the makeup. After only a moment of groping lips, however, he pushes himself away. Though his breath shudders, he presses firmly on my shoulder to hold me back.

“Your makeup is taking too long,” he says. “Someone will notice. Discretion, right?”

My eyebrows flicker up. “Discretion. Yeah.” I shake my head. How is he the one thinking about that and not me? “Yeah, you’re right.”

Reluctantly, I let him climb out of my lap. Terrance takes a few more unsteady breaths, smoothing down his clothes, especially his pants. I can hardly judge him. I’m lucky I’m sitting, but I need to adjust the tight jeans they put me in before I can think straight again.

Terrance shakily fixes the makeup we ruined, then slaps eyeliner on me. I’m not ready to let him slip away when he’s done. I grab him by the wrist when he attempts to stand back, and he freezes, swallowing hard.

“After this,” I say.

He nods. “I’ll be here.”

“The wardrobe trailer,” I say. It’s not a great location, but it’s the only one I can think of. It worked well enough last time before Levi busted in. This time, I’ll need to ensure no one has any reason to interrupt.

Terrance nods again. I start to rise, as reluctant as I am to leave, and he says, “Oh, wait,” and digs in his pocket. He slips a business card out of his wallet. “It’s the card I use at the salon, but I don’t actually have a separate phone for work. That’s my personal number.”

I take the card, letting my fingers brush his as I do. I nod, not wanting to speak and put voice to this tenuous, insane promise.

I’m trusting him, I realize as I tuck his card in my pocket and leave the hair and makeup trailer. For the first time in a long time, I’m actually trusting that a man isn’t lying to me. I can only hope I’m not making the dumbest mistake of my life.