My breath stutters.
A Vicious Vandals T-shirt.
No. Nope. No way.
A cartoon version of Andrew’s goofy face sits smack between her tits.
Hell-to-the-fucking-no.
The frown on my face must be working overtime. Mallory blinks up at me. “What? Andrew gave me the shirt and asked me to wear it tonight.”
I bet he did.
“I thought it would be a nice gesture for the interview…both bands support each other…the way Andrew’s gone on MTV and the tour…” Her voice trails off as the fuck no expression on my face doesn’t soften.
Despite the tornado brewing inside me, I gently set my hands on Mallory’s shoulders and lean down so we’re eye-to-eye. “Baby, I love you so much. That was a very sweet idea. And you know I’d never be some controlling asshole who tells you what you can and cannot wear. You’re so fucking sexy in everything you put on your body.” I stop and take a breath. “But you absolutely cannot wear that tonight.”
Or ever. But I’ll deal with that later.
She plucks at the material and stares down at the design. “It’s just a shirt.”
If she were any other woman in the world, I’d assume she was deliberately trying to provoke me. But this is Mallory and she’d never do that. She really doesn’t see the harm. “It will make me fucking insane to see that motherfucker’s band logo splashed across your tits all fucking night.” I was aiming for calm, but a few more fucks than I planned on slip into my explanation.
Her fingers curl in the hem. “You’re friends. You don’t want me to support your friend?”
At the moment, my friendship with Andrew is debatable at best. And after the shit he pulled last night, she shouldn’t want to show him any damn support.
Besides all of that, I’m ninety-nine percent positive what she’s wearing is the same shirt he hands out to groupies he’s fucked or girls he wants to fuck, so his security guard knows who to bring backstage after a show. “You’re my girl. I’m asking you, don’t—”
“Okay.” She lifts the shirt, revealing a sexy as fuck see-through black lace bra. “Give me a minute to find something else.” She tosses the shirt on the couch. I’m tempted to burn it and shove the ashes down Andrew’s throat as soon as I see the sneaky prick.
“Here.” She returns and holds up two black tank tops. One with the Harley Davidson logo and the other with Kickstart’s top-hat wearing skull and two guitars on the front.
“Either one.”
She tosses the Harley one on the couch and slips the other one over her head. Her gaze lingers on the discarded Vandals shirt. “I’m sorry.”
I press my palms to her cheeks and kiss her forehead. “Don’t apologize. Not your fault you’ve got a possessive motherfucker for a boyfriend.”
Jealousy’s the explanation I’m going with. Not to protect Andrew. Fuck that asshole. To protect Mallory. I can’t even imagine how much it would hurt her feelings to find out he tried to embarrass her in front of a stadium full of people tonight.
Guess I’ll have to figure out some other plausible explanation for why I’m going to knock the fucker out the second I see him.
Chapter Sixty
Mallory
Peter’s spitting fire when we finally arrive at the arena.
“Don’t you two fuck enough? I warned you to be on time for this—”
“Ease up.” Chaser levels a withering stare at his tour manager. “We had a hard time getting into the place. Maybe you should’ve mentioned we needed passes even at this hour.”
“Oh.” He gives us a sheepish look and pulls two laminated passes on black lanyards out for us. “You were on the list. The other guys got in without an issue.”
Chaser shrugs and hands me my pass.
“Chaser! You fucker! There is no thirteenth floor.” Andrew’s booming voice makes all three of us turn his way.
Chaser glares at him.
“Aww, Mallory, you didn’t wear my shirt.” His childish pout is almost cute, but I still feel bad I ever considered wearing the stupid shirt tonight. Of course I shouldn’t be running around at one of Chaser’s shows wearing another band’s shirt.
Chaser hasn’t stopped his death glare and even growls low in his throat.
As usual, Andrew’s oblivious.
Peter’s freaked out eyes dance between the two musicians. “Chaser. Let’s go. They’re waiting for you.” Peter shoves us into a dressing room that has Kickstart’s name on the door. I quickly point it out to Chaser while we rush by.
Inside, there’s another door to a lounge area, where the band and interviewer are chatting.
“Sorry we’re late. Had trouble getting into the arena.” Chaser’s earlier menace evaporates as he pastes on a professional smile.
“No problem. We were catching up about the tour.”
“Uh.” I tap Chaser’s shoulder. “I need to run to the bathroom,” I whisper.
Clearly torn, he glances at the door.
“I’ll be fine.” I hold up my pass. “I’m all legal now. No one will harass me.”