Chapter 3

CHAPTER3

TATE

This night is fucking unbelievable. Indescribable. I’m on a high, and I never want to come down.

I’m also sweating profusely, not that anyone notices thanks to my all-black outfit. It’s been a while since I’ve performed in front of a crowd, and there are a lot more people at this shindig than I thought there would be. When Daddy Warbucks, a.k.a. Fitzy Lancaster, reached out to me via DM and asked if I’d perform for his daughter’s birthday party, I blew him off. Figured it was someone trying to catfish my ass.

Trust that I’ve had a few weird interactions since I started doing these personalized greetings, but a man’s gotta do what he can to survive, and I make a decent amount of cash. I’ve had a lot of strange requests, though. Like that one chick who keeps offering to pay me for dick pics. She started out at five thousand—definitely not enough. Her most recent offer is fifteen grand. Naturally I declined.

Though I was still tempted, can’t lie. Just for one photo? Granted it would be of my dick, and that’s just . . .

Not smart. Not after all the bullshit I’ve been through over the last few years.

Lancaster was persistent, messaging me constantly about how his daughter is turning eighteen and he’s throwing her a party. I was her favorite member of Five Car Pileup, blah blah blah. I’ve heard it all before, a thousand times over. She probably humped her favorite stuffed animal to thoughts of me late at night while staring at a poster of the band on her wall. I get it.

This scenario isn’t new to me.

He somehow got my phone number, and when he called, I picked up because I saw the name Lancaster flashing on my screen. Next thing I know, we’re talking about cars and music and fashion designers—all shit I care about like the shallow asshole I can still be. An hour later, and he’s got me agreeing to perform a full set of songs at his precious baby daughter’s birthday party. My payment?

One million dollars.

Yeah, I could not turn that amount down. I thought at first he might be playing me, but after our long phone conversation, he told me he felt we had a connection, and he wanted to help me out.

Now here I am, onstage and singing my heart out in front of a live audience for the first time in years, and it feels . . . damn good.

Don’t get me wrong. I prepped and practiced during the weeks leading up to this event. Hired a vocal coach I’d worked with years ago and did some vocal exercises to get ready. After a few hour-long lessons—paid for with some of the money Fitzy sent me as an advance—he told me I sounded better than I ever had. I figured he was blowing smoke up my ass, but maybe he was right, because tonight, this performance . . .

It feels right, being onstage, singing to all the screaming, attractive women. When the Lancasters throw a party, pretty sure they invite all the beautiful people in New York City. Well-kept older ladies and pretty young things who are screaming so loud for me, I’m pretty sure they’re creaming their panties right about now. Any one of them I could take home with me. Even one of the married ones.

Especially one of the married ones.

But I’m a different person now. I don’t do that kind of shit anymore. No womanizing. No drinking, no drugs. I’m clean and sober and I meditate and I’ve met with a life coach more often than I care to admit. I go to the gym five days a week—Planet Fitness, not a private trainer, but a guy down on his luck can only do so much. I repeat affirmations on the daily, and I’ve recently reduced my red meat consumption. Damn it, I’m healthy, and sometimes . . .

Sometimes I’m bored as shit.

Can’t let that get me down, though. I’m striving and trying. That’s all that matters.

I finish yet another song, pausing as I let the wave of cheers and applause wash over me, a big ol’ grin on my face while I try to catch my breath. This running around onstage and eye-fucking a large number of women is exhausting now that I’m an old man of twenty-one.

I need to up my workout sessions, that’s for damn sure.

“How are we doing tonight, yeah?” I say into the mic, grinning when they all scream at me, their hands up in the air. “Pretty good, am I right?”

I scan the screaming crowd, looking for Little Miss Pink Pouf. The birthday girl can’t be missed in the dress that reminds me of an elaborate cake. Clearly, she’s trying to catch people’s attention, and I suppose I can’t blame her considering this party is all for her. Hundreds of people in attendance, lush flowers everywhere that probably cost a fortune, and then there’s that table full of cakes I noticed earlier, when her father informed me rather proudly that there are eighteen of them in honor of his precious Scarlett.

She’s a spoiled-rotten princess, I’m sure. Despite the overwhelming dress that could’ve made her completely disappear, she still looks hot as fuck. All that long brown hair spilling down her back. The dark-brown eyes that appear fathomless. She was smiling and eating me up with that gaze earlier. Dancing front and center of the stage at the beginning of my set, but now I don’t know where she went.

“Where’s the birthday girl, huh? Someone going to find Scarlett for me?” I ask the crowd.

Heads start turning; phones come out. They’re on the hunt for her, when she should be fairly obvious. In fact, I spot her at that exact moment, standing at one of the makeshift bars, bringing a glass of pink champagne to her lips just when the pale-pink spotlight hits her.

“There she is! Come here, birthday girl!” I wave my hand toward the stage, and she shakes her head.

Doesn’t budge either.

My hand drops to my side, the mic forgotten as I shout, “Aw, come on, Scarlett Lancaster! Join me onstage!”

She glares at me.

I grin at her.

That champagne glass is drained of the pink bubbly in seconds, and then she’s marching over to the stage, the tulle skirt so wide the crowd parts for her as she makes her way toward me. She never takes her gaze from mine, and I can see a tiny flicker of irritation flaring in her eyes.

It’s kind of hot, how she might be a little mad. I can’t stop smiling, knowing I’m aggravating the shit out of her. I don’t normally get off on making a woman mad, but I gotta admit . . .

This is fun.

She daintily walks up the steps in sexy silver stilettos, the sides of the skirt and train clutched in her hands so she doesn’t step on it. I approach her, bringing the mic to my mouth as I murmur, “Let’s sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Scarlett, okay? Everyone, please join me.”

The small band hired to back me starts up the familiar tune, and I sing the simple lyrics, slowing the tune down, my gaze never straying from hers. Her cheeks turn as pink as the dress she’s wearing, apprehension shining in her dark gaze, but she doesn’t back down.

No, she takes it. I try to make the words sound suggestive, like Marilyn Monroe did so long ago when she sang “Happy Birthday” to the president, but I don’t think it’s working. I’m not a bombshell in a clingy, glittery dress trying to seduce the commander in chief.

Nah, I’m just an old boy band member having one night of glory at some rich girl’s birthday party.

When the song is over, the crowd cheering and the drummer tapping the cymbal over and over again, I whisper to her, “Happy birthday, Scarlett Lancaster.”

Her lush lips purse, looking like she’s ready to spit at me, but instead she murmurs, “Thank you.”

And then storms off the stage.

I watch her go, unable to take my eyes off her as she pushes through the crowd, never once turning back. The need to follow her is strong, so I say into the mic offhandedly, “Thank you. Good night,” before I flick the power off and replace it in its stand.

Without hesitation I give in to my urge and go after her, striding through the parting crowd, ignoring their requests.

“Tate! Oh my God, you were amazing! Can I get a hug?”

“Can I get your autograph, Tate?”

“Will you take a selfie with me, Tate?”

“Sign my tits, Tate! Please!”

Scarlett turns right, disappearing behind a giant floral heart that matches the one on the stage, and I go after her, increasing my pace, catching up with her easily. When I get close enough, I reach for her, grabbing her by the elbow and halting her progress.

She whirls on me, her eyes widening when she sees it’s me, and she yanks her arm out of my grip, rubbing the spot where I just touched her.

“You all right?” I ask with a frown.

Her gaze isn’t as hostile as it first was, the more she contemplates me. “Why did you follow me?”

“I don’t know.” That’s the honest-to-God truth. “You didn’t seem too happy with my performance.”

“It was great.” Her voice is flat, no inflection whatsoever. Meaning I don’t believe her.

“Did I . . . piss you off or something?” I rub the back of my neck, noting the way she watches me carefully, her gaze drifting.

Like she might be checking me out.

All those women screaming my name only a few minutes ago, and it was nothing compared to how I’m feeling in this moment, with the hot little rich girl contemplating me like I’m a delicious snack.

“Not at all. Though it did turn into the Tate Ramsey show tonight, don’t you think?” She lifts a brow.

I drop my hand from my neck, resting both of them on my hips. “Isn’t that what you wanted? For your birthday present?”

“Actually, your appearance was a complete surprise, sprung on me by my father right before you performed.” She hesitates only a moment. “And I was really hoping for Harry Styles.”

Ouch. Not the first time I’ve heard that.

“Your friends seemed into it.” That was a serious high, hearing them shout for me. Singing the lyrics along with me. They were fans—of Five Car Pileup, yeah, but also of me. And that felt good.

I haven’t felt this good in a long time. No way am I going to let this spoiled brat ruin my night.

“Hardly any of those people are my friends,” she mutters, wrapping her arms around her waist as if she’s cold.

This causes my gaze to drop, taking in her exposed legs. They’re long and thin and shiny with lotion. She has on those strappy silver stilettos, and her toenails are painted a pale pink that matches the dress.

Sexy. This girl is definitely sexy. Rich as fuck and smelling sweet. I’ve always had a secret thing for rich girls. They take care of themselves, and they’re usually not too clingy. More on the independent side.

At least the ones I’ve dealt with.

“For someone who’s having such a big party, you’re acting like you hate every single moment of it.” I take a step closer, invading her space, but not too much. “Though it looked like you were having fun at first. What changed?”

She drops her arms at her sides, her expression plaintive. Like she might burst into tears at any moment. “This night isn’t going like I planned at all. And your performance actually threw it completely off. And then Ian left when that was the last thing I wanted to happen, and now I want to leave too.”

Okay, this woman is confusing. “You can’t leave. This is your party. And who’s Ian?”

I glance around, my gaze snagging on a photographer lurking behind the massive flower heart, his camera poised in front of him. Like he’s sneaking photographs of us.

What the hell? Haven’t had to deal with the paparazzi in a long time, and it feels rather . . . foreign.

And kind of nice too, can’t lie.

Damn, I always was a massive attention whore.

“It doesn’t matter. I appreciate your performance, and I know my father paid you a ton of money, but your job is done.” She waves a hand. “You can go.”

I’m completely taken aback by the waving hand and the vaguely snotty tone. “Are you dismissing me?”

She tilts her head to the side, her eyes widening with emphasis. “Yes. Now please leave.”

I hear the shutter of a camera going off again and again, and I know whatever he’s getting, it looks bad. And the last thing I need is bad publicity.

I’ve had enough of that to last me a lifetime.

Without thought I grab Scarlett by both of her arms, hauling her into me. I’m immediately surrounded by layers of pink tulle, her chest flush with mine, her scent filling my senses, heady and sweet.

Reminding me it’s been a while since I’ve had a beautiful woman this close.

“What are you doing?” she practically screeches.

Before she can say anything else or, worse, run, I lean in and whisper in her ear, “Just go with it, okay?”

“Go with what?” Her voice is soft, her gaze lifting to mine, and I zero in on her plush mouth. It’s pink. Glossy.

Tempting.

“Follow my lead. Someone’s watching. A photographer.” I slip my arms around her slender waist, and she doesn’t protest.

More like she melts in my arms.

Hmm.

“So?” Her brows shoot up.

“So they’ll publish photos of us arguing and try to make us look bad.” I pause, watching the panic fill her gaze. “You don’t want that, do you?”

She’s quiet for a moment, contemplating me. She’s about to turn her head to check out the photographer, but I touch her cheek, keeping her in place.

Keeping her gaze on mine.

“Do you?” I ask again when she hasn’t answered, my voice low, my heart hammering. I think I’m allergic to photographers. I wouldn’t doubt for a moment that I’m about to break out in a full-on case of hives. This shit sucks.

I need Scarlett on my side, and I send her a look, one that hopefully communicates I need her help.

Actually, I need her cooperation.

I witness the realization dawning on her face. Her gaze softens, as do her lips, and she finally shakes her head.

“No. Of course not. This is supposed to be the best night of my life.” She hesitates for only a moment. “Um . . . I think I have an idea. How to make us look better in front of that guy’s camera.”

“You do?” I lift my brows, surprised she’s the one now doing the suggesting.

“Yes.” Her hand slips around the back of my neck, pulling my head down to hers. “Just . . . follow my lead.”

I realize she’s repeating my words back to me.

Right before her mouth lands on mine.