number in my phone because I wasn’t ready to do that—saving someone’s number shows some level of commitment—but I recognized the first three numbers.
Are you a witch or something? Because I’m pretty sure you’ve possessed me. I can’t stop thinking about you, princess.
That text did nothing to help me. It makes it seem a lot less destructive when the person you’re obsessing over is obsessing over you too.
Chapter 11
I didn’t do too great of a job of ignoring his calls. And I never returned any of the things he bought me.
The very next day, there I was, with him again, even though I knew I shouldn’t be. I’d come to the conclusion that it was safe because it would go nowhere: He’d go back on tour and then forget about me. I enjoyed being around him, and more than anything, he had me intrigued. What would it hurt to hang around a bit longer?
He made me shaky inside and sweaty outside. I struggled to not trip over my words at times, but none of that was because of who he was; it was all because I liked him. The first few times I’d met him I was a cold bitch, and now, after spending days with him I had become a blubbering idiot when I was around him. I felt I was starting to resemble those dumb fans…at least that’s how I felt on the inside.
No, that couldn’t have been what I resembled because I turned into a blubbering idiot because I liked him. To me, he wasn’t a rock star. Actually, that side of him didn’t even seem real anymore. He was just a guy that I liked way too much. It felt good to like someone, and at the same time it absolutely terrified me.
Two days and two dates later, Jag called me again.
Thirty minutes later, he picked me up, and I didn’t even ask where we were going. I didn’t care. I just liked being with him. As fucked up as it may sound, I felt safe with him.
“You don’t care where we’re going?” he asked, turning off the interstate.
“Nope.”
“Hmm, that’s dangerous,” he growled. I could literally take you anywhere…wanna go to Paris?”
I glanced over at him, and he wasn’t joking.
“Serious. I can take you. Wanna go?”
“Uh, no.”
“Oh, come on. It’s fun. Beautiful city, plus I still haven’t spent as much time in the Louvre as I want.”
The Louvre? Are you serious? Who is this guy?
I snickered and adjusted in the seat. “The Louvre? You, Mr. Rock God, like art?”
He glared at me over the rim of his shades. “Yeah. I make art for a living; of course I like art… and —are you ready for this?—I also like history. Shocking, right? I have a fucking brain, who knew?”
I felt heat paint its way across my cheeks. I shouldn’t have reacted like I was surprised. “I didn’t say you were stupid, I—”
Jag took a sharp left-hand turn, forcing me to slide across the smooth leather seat. “You didn’t have to. It’s what people think. I’m an addict, I’m famous and good-looking, which means I must be an idiot.”
He did have feelings, and his intelligence was evidently a sore topic. “Maybe next week we can go to Paris,” I said. But right now, where are we going?”
“Next week, huh? So, this isn’t just a one-night stand for you then?”
My cheeks flushed even more; by now I’m sure they were candy-apple red. I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t want to seem stupid. I didn’t want him to think I naively expected this to go anywhere. Honestly, I didn’t know what the hell to think about any of it.
Jag parked the car, got out, and opened my door.
I looked around and smiled. “The beach? Well, isn’t this a normal place to bring a girl?”
He shrugged and took my hand into his, softly stroking the inside of my palm with his thumb. “I like normal every once and a while.”
We walked out onto the sand and down to the coast. The sticky air whipped my hair around, and the sound of the waves crashing onto the shoreline made my body relax.
Jag pulled me closer to him and placed his arm around my hip.
Are you a witch or something? Because I’m pretty sure you’ve possessed me. I can’t stop thinking about you, princess.
That text did nothing to help me. It makes it seem a lot less destructive when the person you’re obsessing over is obsessing over you too.
Chapter 11
I didn’t do too great of a job of ignoring his calls. And I never returned any of the things he bought me.
The very next day, there I was, with him again, even though I knew I shouldn’t be. I’d come to the conclusion that it was safe because it would go nowhere: He’d go back on tour and then forget about me. I enjoyed being around him, and more than anything, he had me intrigued. What would it hurt to hang around a bit longer?
He made me shaky inside and sweaty outside. I struggled to not trip over my words at times, but none of that was because of who he was; it was all because I liked him. The first few times I’d met him I was a cold bitch, and now, after spending days with him I had become a blubbering idiot when I was around him. I felt I was starting to resemble those dumb fans…at least that’s how I felt on the inside.
No, that couldn’t have been what I resembled because I turned into a blubbering idiot because I liked him. To me, he wasn’t a rock star. Actually, that side of him didn’t even seem real anymore. He was just a guy that I liked way too much. It felt good to like someone, and at the same time it absolutely terrified me.
Two days and two dates later, Jag called me again.
Thirty minutes later, he picked me up, and I didn’t even ask where we were going. I didn’t care. I just liked being with him. As fucked up as it may sound, I felt safe with him.
“You don’t care where we’re going?” he asked, turning off the interstate.
“Nope.”
“Hmm, that’s dangerous,” he growled. I could literally take you anywhere…wanna go to Paris?”
I glanced over at him, and he wasn’t joking.
“Serious. I can take you. Wanna go?”
“Uh, no.”
“Oh, come on. It’s fun. Beautiful city, plus I still haven’t spent as much time in the Louvre as I want.”
The Louvre? Are you serious? Who is this guy?
I snickered and adjusted in the seat. “The Louvre? You, Mr. Rock God, like art?”
He glared at me over the rim of his shades. “Yeah. I make art for a living; of course I like art… and —are you ready for this?—I also like history. Shocking, right? I have a fucking brain, who knew?”
I felt heat paint its way across my cheeks. I shouldn’t have reacted like I was surprised. “I didn’t say you were stupid, I—”
Jag took a sharp left-hand turn, forcing me to slide across the smooth leather seat. “You didn’t have to. It’s what people think. I’m an addict, I’m famous and good-looking, which means I must be an idiot.”
He did have feelings, and his intelligence was evidently a sore topic. “Maybe next week we can go to Paris,” I said. But right now, where are we going?”
“Next week, huh? So, this isn’t just a one-night stand for you then?”
My cheeks flushed even more; by now I’m sure they were candy-apple red. I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t want to seem stupid. I didn’t want him to think I naively expected this to go anywhere. Honestly, I didn’t know what the hell to think about any of it.
Jag parked the car, got out, and opened my door.
I looked around and smiled. “The beach? Well, isn’t this a normal place to bring a girl?”
He shrugged and took my hand into his, softly stroking the inside of my palm with his thumb. “I like normal every once and a while.”
We walked out onto the sand and down to the coast. The sticky air whipped my hair around, and the sound of the waves crashing onto the shoreline made my body relax.
Jag pulled me closer to him and placed his arm around my hip.
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