“Yeah,” he answers slowly. “Still not the same.”
“Pretty sure he invited you to his anniversary party too. So, you must be friends of some sort.”
He hangs his head, a smirk twisting his lips. “Are you always such a cocky bastard?”
“Any reason you’re looking for his approval?”
He lifts his head, his mouth curving into the sly smile that’s responsible for selling millions of records. “Nah. Nothing in particular.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Rooster
If it wasn’t for Shelby, I’d never attend an awards show or anything close to this type of an event. It’s basically everything I hate—fake people, uncomfortable clothes, awkward small talk, and lots of photographs—all rolled into one long afternoon and evening.
But damn is Shelby breathtaking as she steps out of the dressing room over at Dawson’s place.
Although, I’m fighting the urge to cover her with my leather jacket.
Glittering gold material wraps around her body, leaving her shoulder blades, and the delicate line of her spine, exposed. All those beaded ties only emphasize how much skin’s visible, right down to the twin indentations above her ass that I consider mine.
All on display for the world to see.
“You like it?” She spins for me but only the bottom of the clingy dress fans into a circle. The beads and strings crisscrossing her back fly out, drawing attention to the fact that there’s no back to the dress.
The dip above her butt is completely exposed. That’s where I’ll be placing my hand all night.
“It’s very sexy.”
“I’ve never worn anything like it before.”
“Mmhmm.” I bite back any words that might add to her nervousness.
She takes a step toward me. Sweet Jesus. Is that a slit up to her thigh? Is her thigh peeking out?
Good fuck. Every step she takes provides teasing glimpses of her strong, toned legs. Where’d she find this thing? The drive-Rooster-insane shop?
“You, ah, don’t want to wear your hair down?” I ask.
She blinks at me.
Yeah, that was a dumb question since she just spent the last hour having her hair pulled and pinned into the complicated pile of curls on top of her head.
“Of course I’m wearing my hair up. The open back is the whole point of the dress.”
I cough into my fist. “I don’t want you to be chilly at the theater.”
She narrows her eyes.
Shit, instead of having a meltdown over her dress, I should give her the earrings stashed in my pocket. “Here, I have something for you.”
“You do?” Her face lights up and she edges closer. “What?”
I pull out the box and hand it to her.
“Oh!” She gasps as she flips the lid. “These are gorgeous. I love them. Thank you so much!” She passes the box to me and plucks the earrings out one at a time to put them in.
When she’s finished, she lifts her chin, turning her head. “What do you think?”
Swinging a few inches above her shoulders, the delicate gold stars catch the light, twinkling and sparkling.
“Beautiful. Perfect.” So damn glad I bought them for her.
“Good save, Rooster,” Angelina says, stepping out behind Shelby.
I’m sure Angelina’s dress is nice. In my peripheral vision, I catch a hint of shiny red, but I can’t stop staring at my girl to confirm.
“Ladies, you look lovely,” Dawson’s smooth voice slides over the awkwardness. “Angelina, you’re dazzling in red. That’s a beautiful color on you.”
Shaking off my baser desire to wrap a robe around Shelby, I move closer and whisper, “You’re absolutely stunning.”
Her nervous eyes search my face as if she’s waiting for a ‘but’ to come out of my mouth.
“Ready.” I offer her my arm.
The way Miranda explained it to us, every arrival is timed down to the minute. Based on the importance of the artist.
Dawson has a lot of clout, so our party’s arrival is closer to the start of the show. What a fucking relief.
As soon as we step out of the limo, I’m blinded by flashbulbs. People shouting questions and organizers giving us instructions all blend into a loud buzz in my head.
It’s not about me. I’m here for Shelby.
Reminding myself why I’m doing this helps me push away my unease about the chaotic scene.
The good thing about being a nobody is no one’s interested in photographing or talking to me. In fact, the photogs have a phrase to signal the riffraff needs to move aside.
“Fashion shot, Shelby?” one particularly persistent guy shouts several times.
One of the organizers carefully maneuvers her away from me.
Angelina and I get jostled into a separate roped-off lane so Dawson and Shelby can be photographed together.
“You all right with this?” Angelina peers up at me as if she’s expecting a biker freak-out any second.
“It’s her night.” I smile down at her. “I’m just here for support. How are you doing?”
“Fine.”
I finally have a second to take her in. “You look great. They should be tripping over themselves to photograph you too.”
“Thank you.” She studies me from head to toe. “You clean up nice too. Good choice for this thing.”
I huff out a laugh. “Dawson took me aside to give me some pointers. I think he was worried I’d embarrass the shit out of Shelby.”
She shifts, angling herself toward me. “I’m impressed. I haven’t met a lot of bikers, hell men in general, who would admit that.”
I shrug. “What’s the point of lying?”
“Indeed.”
“Logan!” Shelby’s anxious voice yanks my attention to the right.
She frantically waves her hands at me to join her. Ignoring the red-carpet cop, I step over the velvet rope barrier and join Shelby in front of a white background with the event’s logo scattered all over it.
A photographer crouches in front of us. “Very nice. Shelby’s boyfriend, could you put your arm around her, please?”
Laughing, I slip my arm around her waist. She leans into me and rests her hand on my chest.
“Thank you. Next.”
“Phew.” Shelby takes my hand and continues following the red carpet. “Sorry about that.” She glances over her shoulder.
“Nah, I think ‘Shelby’s boyfriend’ should be my new road name.”
She snickers. “I’m sure your club would love that.”
Finally, we’re inside the theater. The temperature drops to a tolerable level. Shelby stops, staring at the sea of people in front of her. Tension ripples through her body.
“Chin up,” I remind her. “You’re Shelby fucking Morgan.”
“I don’t recognize anyone,” she whispers.
Shit, in my own world, I’d have no problem walking up to whoever I wanted and opening up a conversation. Here, I’m not sure if that will help or hurt Shelby. And I sure as shit don’t have anything in common with anyone here.
“Glad that’s over with,” Dawson says from behind us. He claps his hand on my shoulder. “How was that first red-carpet walk? Fun?”