Page 7 of Wild Infatuation (Rebel Rockstars #3)

Chapter Seven

Shawn

I’VE NEVER BEEN SO happy to pretend to play a guitar.

A director barks orders at us once we’re all through hair and makeup. I stand where they tell me, do what they tell me, pose the way they tell me. It’s all extremely weird, but not half as weird as my experience in the hair and makeup chair.

Terrance. His name is Terrance. It’s strange putting a name to a man I’ve seen so many times, but never really known. He’s been a shadow lingering at the edges of my life, and suddenly he’s real — real and tangible.

My head tingles whenever I remember my time in that hair and makeup chair. His touch was always professional, yet I couldn’t miss the little stutters, the way he sometimes turned abruptly away to fiddle with brushes and tools.

Look up at me .

Then there was that moment when our eyes met, that moment when eyes I’ve mostly glimpsed from across a room were close and bright and peering into mine.

Even at the meet and greet, I didn’t get an accurate sense of just how green they are, like moss in a forest. I felt like I could fall into them and the landing would be impossibly soft.

“And … jump!” the director shouts.

I come back to my senses in time to leap off a stage and into some kind of enormous padded cushion.

I fight the urge to cringe as I lie on the cushion with my guitar, but this is what the director says we need to do to make this music video, so I stuff down my complaints and roll off the mat and to my feet.

As soon as I’m out of the way, Levi jumps.

Everyone but Jacob performs the ridiculous stunt, until he’s on stage pretending to belt out “Escape” alone.

His voice blares through speakers while he mimes the words.

“Okay, great,” the director says. “Let’s try it again for safety.”

I make the silly jump two more times. I don’t really know what the difference is, but the director insists one of the jumps was superior to the others. Once the director is satisfied, he moves us on to the next shot.

It all makes very little sense to me. We shoot the song out of order, but there is some complicated math that makes it more prudent to do the second chorus before the first verse and after the bridge.

Every time we switch between shots, they call Terrance out to make sure everything’s in place. He touches up makeup here and there and fixes hair that’s gone astray. Mine is mostly glued back, so he doesn’t have to do much, but tension knots my stomach every time he draws near.

The second time he comes around to make sure every hair is exactly where he left it, I mumble, “So, does this music video actually look like anything? Because it feels really dumb.”

He chuckles, a light, easy sound that issues forth without restraint. I catch my mouth quirking toward a smile in time to stop it.

“It looked cool from where I was standing,” he says. “You even did your own stunt.”

“Jumping into a pillow isn’t really a stunt.”

That chuckle rings out again, so free, so honest. Even someone as jaded and bitter as me can’t help but believe it.

“You had a guitar with you,” he says. “Anything could have happened.”

“You’re right. I could have stubbed a toe.”

He smooths my hair back with his hands, then steps away and looks me over with a cool, appraising, professional eye. For some reason, it makes me miss the occasional stumble he committed back in the trailer.

“All set,” he says. “You’re perfect.”

As though I willed it into being by wishing for it, a flush rushes into his cheeks. It stands out against his light coloring and fair hair.

“I mean, you’re ready for your next shot,” he says. “I should … find who’s next.”

He scurries off, but before I can feel anything about that, someone comes and ushers me to the next shot.

This is an easier one, no stunts required, just a camera sitting on some huge rig.

It swings closer, swiveling around and taking in each of us in turn, then crawls away.

I’ll admit I prefer the wide shot to the moments when the whole rig gets so close that it’s like a mechanical monster about to swallow me whole, but I keep my head down and try to ignore it like the director instructed.

Unfortunately, putting my head down and pretending to play the same section of a song I know by heart leaves way too much time and space for my mind to wander back to the hair and makeup trailer.

If I was anyone else, I’d probably act on the obvious invitation sitting in my lap.

It’s not like I don’t realize why Terrance is so flustered around me in particular.

I would need to do little more than snap my fingers and I’m sure he’d follow.

But my mouth goes sour at the thought. Is that the type of famous rockstar I’m going to be? The type followed by a trail of dodgy whispers? Terrance might be a willing adult and all that, but I’d clearly be pushing some boundaries if I used such a devoted fan for a bit of fun.

And obviously that’s what it would be. He’s a fan, just a random fan. If I couldn’t trust three separate men who all dated me when I was nobody, I definitely can’t trust a guy who only wants me because he likes my music.

Still, his crazy devotion is kind of … comforting, in a way.

There’s no artifice behind anything he says or does.

He’s too off-balance around me to put up a front.

Strangely, the more I end up around the guy, the more I find his blunt obsession refreshing.

It’s honest, at least. He isn’t pretending to care.

I shouldn’t like that as much as I do, but, well, it’s been a while since someone touched me even the way he did.

I’ve held back since dickhead number three followed in the footsteps of dickheads one and two.

I don’t know how many more times we pretend to play this damn song, but when the director finally calls it for the day, I hate the sound of my own music.

I never thought I could get sick of Jacob’s voice, but I don’t want to hear him sing again for as long as possible.

Someone takes the guitar from me, and someone else shows me to the wardrobe trailer, where I can change into my normal clothes.

I do so swiftly, eager to get home and shower until my hair doesn’t feel like it’s made out of plastic.

The others change as quickly as me, all of us eager to be done getting ordered around.

We have to wade through pure chaos to reach our cars.

Crew members scramble to clean up the set.

They’ll be able to leave some of this stuff where it is since we’ll all be back tomorrow, but there’s plenty of big, expensive cameras and other equipment to pack up before they can leave for the night.

Part of me feels a little guilty leaving it all to other people, but I’d only get in their way if I jumped in and tried to handle their rigs and stuff, so I keep my head down and beeline it for my car.

I’m about to unlock the door when I look up and spot Terrance in the far corner of the lot.

With equipment and trailers taking up half the lot, he isn’t far from where I parked, and within seconds he notices me looking.

He’s such an open book that even distance can’t disguise his flinch of surprise.

Perhaps that’s why I approach.

My feet are moving before my brain catches up, then I scramble to come up with a plan.

Terrance goes rigid as I head toward him, the dusk settling throughout the arboretum masking his expression if not his body language.

Hopefully the encroaching gloom also conceals me .

Because seriously, what the hell am I doing?

“Hey,” I say when I reach him.

“Hi?” He phrases it like a question more than a greeting.

The short walk gave me enough time to come up with a plausible reason to approach, and I deploy it like a shield.

“Do you still have that shirt?”

His eyebrows furrow. “Shirt?”

“The one from the meet and greet.”

He blinks at me. His face is so expressive, so open, always telling me what he feels a beat before he speaks.

“Yeah, I have it,” he says. “Thanks for that. It was … really cool.”

“But you forgot Jacob, didn’t you?”

I noticed back at the signing. Jacob noticed too. The second Terrance got my autograph, he booked it out of there like the rest of the band didn’t matter. I’m starting to suspect that’s not far off the mark.

That endearing heat blooms in his cheeks again. “Yeah, I guess I did.” He runs anxious fingers through his sandy, artfully layered hair. It falls right back down to frame his face.

“I can get it for you,” I say. “Jacob’s autograph, I mean.”

His eyes go so wide I worry they might pop out of his head. “You could?”

I shrug. “Jacob’s nice. I’m sure he won’t mind. I’ll ask him.”

Terrance clasps his hands over his chest like his heart is a bird he has to contain in his palms. “That is so cool.”

“It’s really not a big deal. Jacob is my friend, after all. We’ve known each other forever.”

“Yeah, but you’re…” Terrance shakes his head. “Sorry, I probably sound crazy. I know you’re just people, but you’re also not just people, you know? I mean, you’re … you’re Baptism Emperor. Talking to me . Doing me a favor. I…”

He trails off, the blush intensifying as his brain apparently catches up with his mouth. With another shake, he dives into his car, and for a second I worry he’s going to speed away, but a moment later he pops back out clutching the shirt.

“You had it with you?” I say.

“I…” He squirms, the blush intensifying. “I keep it in my bag most of the time.”

I make no comment about that. Terrance hands me the shirt, but as I reach for it, my hands land atop his, and we both freeze, standing there with nothing but a T-shirt between us.

Terrance’s throat works as he swallows, his lips softly parted and shiny with that gloss he wears, the gloss from the meet and greet that I remember in far too much detail.

I could lean in right now and taste it. He wouldn’t stop me.

In fact, if he had the courage, he’d likely beg me to do it.

He’s already spent a solid hour touching me today.

Sealing it off with a kiss wouldn’t even be the most intimate part of the day after the time I spent in his chair.

But I can’t. I won’t. He’s an obsessed fan, and I’m a rockstar who has an insane amount of power over him in this dynamic. I’m not going to take something from him simply because I can. I won’t become the same man as the three who toyed with and betrayed me.

I step away, and Terrance releases the shirt, but I breathe a little easier when there’s space between us.

“I’ll talk to Jacob tomorrow,” I say.

I don’t wait for a response before turning back toward my car.