Behind the Lyrics by Melissa Riddell
Chapter 38
Viktor Farrow
“So, Angel.” I grinned and squinted, pulling her so tight against me I wanted to run my hands over her body, in her hair, and against her face. The screaming, crying crowd next to us squashed that romantic notion. “Still think I’m a has-been with a flailing career?”
She shrugged. She fucking shrugged. God, this woman. How could I impress her?
“Want to come on stage with me?” I had it all planned out in my mind. I’d sit her on a stool in front of me, and before the whole world, sing our song—the one I wrote and played with her body smashed between me and the guitar—the fantasy I’d replayed over and over in my mind, except it didn’t stop with Justin’s interruption. Surely, she’d see how much I cared for her and wanted this to work by laying it all on the line in front of everyone. Didn’t women love that kind of romantic shit?
“That depends.” Pausing for a moment, she put a few inches between her body and mine, and I resisted the urge to tug her back to my side. “If you’re implying a sexual form of come, I’ll pass. If you’re asking in an innocent manner”—she tossed her thick hair over a shoulder—“I’ll still pass.”
How can she resist my charm when no other woman ever has? I mean, it wasn’t that I was vain… Well, perhaps I stretched the truth a smidgeon, but for fuck’s sake, I was Viktor Farrow, the God of Nu Rock. Did she even care?
My angel, fierce and independent, jutted her chin upward and planted a fist on her hip, the picture of someone unfazed by being desired by music’s most successful musician ever. Okay, possibly the second most successful. I was okay with David Bowie being at the top.
A low chuckle slipped out of my mouth, and I rubbed the back of my neck.
Security surrounded me, their eyes bouncing from the raucous crowd to the cleared area next to the stage. A line of sweat dripped from one guy’s forehead, inching its way through his eyebrow, before he managed to wipe it away.
Evening had settled, and the temperature would cool down, but not soon enough.
I slipped my hand into hers and pulled her along. “Then at least go backstage. I have something important to show you.”
She rolled her eyes and smirked, her lips quivering as if she were trying to hold in a bigger smile. “I bet you do.”
“Seriously. It means more to me than all of this.” I flung a gesture toward the crowd and stage.
Amusement and curiosity seemed to shine from her eyes, and she nodded. “Fine, though this is a shady way to get me alone. Kind of stalkerish, you know.”
“What can I say? You didn’t give me any other fucking options.” I kept pulling her with me toward the steps then behind the walls into a lit, backstage hallway with red exit signs at either end.
I mulled over her words, and she was right. It was then I realized how desperate I’d become to be with her. Fiddlyfuck, I really am becoming one of my fans—a bona fide creeper.
I stole glances at her face as she and I passed doors and concert personnel from roadies to the set crew. Her shiny shirt clung to her curves in all the right places, and the ragged, stylish jeans hugged her ass. I scoured her high cheekbones, straight nose, and those tempting, pink lips. She was beautiful, but it wasn’t just physical loveliness making me want to throw myself down like a goddamn fool and spout sappy drivel.
Her intelligence, her perseverance, and her happiness with such a simple life drew me to her, even when I thought she was a demon sent to torture me. I wanted to be a part of her happiness and future. The thought of not being together ripped something inside of my chest. Over the years, I’d had quite a few affairs, but they’d always been missing something, yet I didn’t know what.
Until now. Angela, my angelic savior, was the one woman I could bear to spend the rest of my life with no matter how many demons tormented or chased me. Even if I didn’t have a dime to my name, I’d still be rich if she were mine.
I squeezed her hand tighter.
No, I can’t lose her, even if it means doing something idiotic.