She’s Taylor Momsen with Kim Kardashian’s ass.
“I want a drink,” Heidi says loud enough to be heard over the screech of the guitar and the lead singer, who is a screamer and a damn good one. “Want me to grab you something?”
“Corona?”
“You got it, babe. Get us a table?”
I slink away from Terra, who’s still in deep conversation with the groper, and find a spot close enough to the stage to get a good view of the band but far enough away so I won’t have groupies bumping into me every five seconds. Wyatt’s eyes meet mine, and he grins and winks. He strokes the tip of his thumb over the neck of his Kramer in a slow, deliberate movement meant to make me think of his fingers between my legs.
He succeeds.
“So, you’re Lucas-Fucking-Wolfe’s baby sister?” Terra slides into the seat meant for Heidi.
I give her a polite smile. “Unfortunately.”
“I met him once. In”—Terra darts her green eyes upward, trying to recall the exact location and then she lowers her gaze, grinning—“2010.”
“At your high school graduation party?” I mean to keep that to myself, but somehow it slips out. She’s obviously not offended because she throws her head back and laughs.
“Rock Fest. But I’m pretty sure I’m older than Lucas and Wyatt.”
She says Wyatt’s name the same way she had at the door—with that desperate hush of admiration mixed with desire. I glide my tongue side to side between my teeth. Plenty of women are attracted to Wyatt McCrae. There’s no reason whatsoever for me to have a negative reaction to this particular one just because she can appreciate a sexy, talented man.
Heidi’s hand reaches down over my shoulder, plunking a Corona with lime down in front of me. “Here you go, love.” I glance back at her just in time to see her give Terra a long look that’s one part curious and the other part aggressive. “Sorry, did you want me to grab you something, too?”
Sliding out of Heidi’s chair, Terra shakes her head. Her mane of blonde hair flies around her face like a slow motion shampoo commercial. “I’ve got”—she flicks her green eyes toward the stage—“band stuff to do, but I’ll catch up with you bitches later.” She winks again. Somehow, Heidi holds in her snort until she’s out of earshot.
“She’s cute.” Heidi takes a swig of her banana bread-flavored beer. I wrinkle my nose up at the bottle. “Bet she gets them a bunch of gigs.”
“Maybe.” I focus my gaze back to the stage. The band has changed songs, and now they’re playing a metal version of Heart’s Crazy On You that literally gives me the chills. It’s a feeling that very few bands have been able to bring out in me, and I’ve got a good feeling about Hazard Anthem’s future. “They could probably be managed by a f**king ogre and still hit it big.”
My gaze glides back over Wyatt. He’s sweaty from the heat and exertion. I bite the inside of my lip. When he’s element like this, playing incredible music, it takes my breath away.
Heidi runs her finger in a circle around the neck of her beer bottle, a thoughtful look on her face. “You think that’s why Cal and Wyatt are helping them out? I mean, you don’t think they’re thinking about leaving Your Toxic Sequel, do you?”
Wyatt told me before that he has no plans to leave the band, so I decide to take him for his word. “I think YTS will be alright.”
She breathes a relieved sigh before twisting around in her seat to watch the band perform. She taps her fingers on the table, singing along with the lyrics and getting 75 percent of them wrong. “You’re right. They are kickass,” she says once the song ends.
My gaze is still connected with Wyatt’s midnight blue eyes as I murmur, “Absolutely amazing.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
My appreciation for Hazard Anthem’s music only grows during the band’s seven-song set. The lead singer has a range that reminds me of M. Shadows, and I find myself developing a bit of a voice crush on him. They perform a little of everything—from the angst-filled and powerful to a couple more covers and even the upbeat, innuendo-laced music that put Your Toxic Sequel on the map. The moment their set is finished and they’ve torn down their equipment for the next band, the lead singer maneuvers through the crowd in our direction, seemingly oblivious to the female hands grasping at various parts of his body.
Before I can say a word, he jerks me into a hug.
When I go entirely still, he pulls back a little, narrowing his dark eyes. “Ah shit, please tell me you’re Kylie.”
“I am.”
He wraps his arms around me again, and Heidi makes a face at his back. “I’ve been wanting to meet the infamous Kylie Wolfe since Cal started playing with YTS.”
“You’re his cousin?” It’s a stupid question. They look similar, except this guy has short, spiky black hair, as opposed to Cal’s shoulder length locks, and he’s built.
“Nate Romero,” he says. His dark eyes brush over Heidi, and he grins. “You must be—”
Since none of us know exactly what Cal has told his cousin about Heidi, she clears her throat. “Heidi Wright. Nice to meet you.” She lifts her gaze slightly to Cal, who’s walking toward us clutching two bottles of some specialty beer.
“What?” Heidi’s voice is dropped to the low, seductive purr she no doubt uses on her customers. “No PBR tonight?”
Cal’s lips jerk into a grin. “Fuck you, Heidi.”