Bad Boy Rock Star

By: Candy J. Starr

Then the band went quiet and the crowd screamed. I smoothed down my skirt, getting ready to corner them as they came offstage. That's when the green-haired girl sprang out from nowhere. She stopped abruptly when she saw me, giving my outfit the up and down, then sniggered.

A guy with his head shaved pushed through the girls, the bouncer holding the door open for him.

"Hey, Spud," one of the girls called.

He raised his eyebrows in response.

"Jack'll be here soon," he said.

The girl made a weird whimper.

"If you bitches really cared, you'd have been out front watching the band instead of hanging around here," the green-haired girl snorted.

Then she turned to me. Her gaze started at my feet and worked its way up in silent judgment. I could play that game too. In fact, when it came to that game, I could win Olympic gold.

My shoes were designer high heels probably ruined from this disgusting carpet, hers were huge platform boots covered with straps and buckles like some kind of strait-jacket for your feet.

Silk stockings caressed my long, shapely legs. The flesh of her stumpy legs squeezed out through the rips in her fishnet stockings.

My skirt had been a pivotal part of this season’s fashion collections. Her skirt was some red, plaid thing that screamed second-hand.

Her t-shirt barely contained her ample flesh. Me – elegance and sophistication with a touch of cheeky fun.

She dangled some kind of red, furry backpack from her arm. My bag had featured in this month’s Vogue, although the designer had offered it to me months ago. Part of the VIP service.

She had a turned-up nose covered in freckles. I had the best nose money could buy.

Her eyes were ringed in black eyeliner, making her look like a panda. My nude makeup extenuated my sapphire blue eyes. The eye colour, real, the lashes not so much.

And you could hardly compare the green, scruffy mop on her head with my perfect blonde curls.

Game, set and match to me. But she didn’t seem at all phased. She scrunched up her face in disgust.

"Are you lost?" she asked. "This isn’t the Royal Opera, you know."

And that’s when he kissed me.

Then he moved onto her.

She balanced against me as her hands ran up his chest, her back leaning against my side. Did she think I just existed for her convenience? That cheap perfume she wore would never come out of my top.

I moved away and she stumbled slightly but her lips stayed locked on his. So I grabbed his arm and pulled them apart.

"Now listen here –"

"No, you listen. You've had your moment now move along. I hate pushy groupies." He ran his fingers through his hair and glared at me.

"I'm not a groupie. I'm your manager!" I put my hands on my hips and glared right back.

I may have actually stamped my foot here but he deserved it. He totally deserved to have my foot stamped at him. With that look of pure arrogant irritation he'd shot at me, he deserved more than foot stamping. He deserved a well-timed punch in the stomach – and I'd be just the woman to give it to him if I didn't think it'd ruin my manicure.

A guy carrying a drum squeezed past me, pressing me further against the wall. I sighed and waited for him to pass so I could finish what I had to say. The green-haired chick looked daggers at me for interrupting her but seriously I'd done her a favour. She would thank me in years to come when she wised up.

Jack Colt ran his eyes over my designer outfit and high heels that looked so out of place in this dingy bar. His long eyelashes flickered as his eyes filled with a look of thinly-veiled amusement.

"You're no manager, babe. Buy your shit and then get back to Rich Town and tell your friends all about your night slumming with the poor people."

It wasn’t his words that got me angry but the way he grinned after he said it, as if I was someone he could dismiss.

I raised my hand and swung, ready to slap some sense into that annoying face of his, but he grabbed my wrist before I made contact.

"Don’t even think about it, babe."

Then he dropped my hand as though it were something dirty.

He turned away, winking and grinning at someone at the bar.

"Megastar Management. Does that name ring any bells?"

He swung around.

"I'm Hannah Sorrento, the new manager."

"You're kidding, right? What's this, a new project for the bored little rich girl? Some kind of game. I'm busy, babe, so run back home."

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