K. Linde - Take Me for Granted

“Conquered? As in, you had sex last night?” Cheyenne asked.

“Do you know me at all?” I asked, flabbergasted.

“Oh my God, don’t spare us the details!”

I stared at them in disbelief. They actually thought I’d gone through with it. How could they think that I would give it up that easily? It wasn’t like I was forty and had never had sex. I was only nineteen years old. What’s the big deal? I hadn’t been interested in any guy enough to give myself up, and since it hadn’t happened yet, I just wasn’t willing to let it all go so freely. I wanted there to be a reason to do it. I wanted to want to do it. And all I’d ever felt was nervous, disgusted, and to be totally honest, scared.

But I wasn’t about to tell them that. It was easier to deflect the conversation.

“Did you hook up with that guy you were talking about?” I asked instead of answering Cheyenne’s question.

“No, but that’s not the point. Grant McDermott was in our house. He came here to see you!”

Shelby stepped forward. She tossed her brown hair over her shoulder and piped up, “You know Cheyenne is never going to let you do your homework until you tell her what happened.”

And neither is she obviously.

Fair point. Nice move, Shelby.

“Grant came over and knocked on the door until I answered. We kissed, we talked some, and then I made him leave.” I left out the part about the record label and the second kiss. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to talk about the former, and I kind of wanted to keep the latter to myself.

They all looked stunned. What did I say?

“He just left?” Gabi whispered.

“Well, he asked to see me again, but yeah, he just left.”

“Okay, you’re like a Grant McDermott virgin, so let me fill you in,” Cheyenne said.

I scrunched my eyebrows together. “Aren’t all of you Grant virgins?”

“We follow him around to his shows. We know him and how he operates,” Shelby explained.

“How he operates?” I asked. I thought I knew where this was going, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

“Grant can have whoever he wants. Yeah, he plays guitar and sings, but there’s more than that. He has a presence onstage, and if you had paid attention the night we went, you’d understand.”

“Okay,” I drawled the word out.

“But he doesn’t date, Aribel,” Gabi said.

“Right!” Cheyenne cried. “He doesn’t date. He doesn’t just kiss a girl and leave unless he’s not interested, and he must be interested because he never leaves a show empty-handed.”

“Are you supposed to be endearing him to me? That sounds disgusting.”

“Okay, maybe a little, but he drove over an hour to see you. After just a kiss, he asked to see you again and then left. Grant McDermott is not acting like himself with you, Aribel.”

“So?”

“So, are you going to see him again?” Shelby asked earnestly.

“Everyone in New Jersey might die if Grant starts dating,” Gabi murmured to herself.

“Look, I’m not dating Grant. If anything, you have all convinced me that I shouldn’t see him anymore.”

“But you want to,” Cheyenne said with a wink.

Maybe I did.

It was the strangest feeling in the world, but I kind of did want to see Grant again. He hadn’t been so bad once he actually stopped and talked to me about something other than getting in my pants. And that last kiss.

I shivered slightly at the thought of it. Kisses like that made me lose touch with reality, and I knew that if I saw Grant again…I wasn’t going to stop him from kissing me.

Luckily, no one had questioned my motives for driving back to Jersey to get ass when plenty of women who’d been more than willing were at the venue. I’d never been happier for my manwhore title than at that moment.

But the only way that I could escape a repeat appearance at her place had been to get the fuck out of Jersey, so I’d packed my shit and gotten the hell out of there. On the ten-hour drive to Knoxville to visit Sydney, I’d done nothing but convince myself that I’d been an idiot for storming into Ari’s house after the show.

A week away had been exactly what I needed. I’d needed to forget Ari and blow off some steam after the disappointment from the label. Then, when I’d come back, I’d fallen seamlessly into the daily band rehearsals and the routine we’d perfected since we formed the band. I had been glad to be back, and it had seemed the guys were too.

Miller had written a new song during the break, and we had been messing around with it all week. He’d wanted to open with it, but I’d thought it would do better as a closer.

Since we were playing at The Ivy League, and the regulars loved our normal opener, “Hemorrhage,” everyone agreed to add the new song to the end. After we put together the set list and ran through the entire show a few times, we packed up the van to head out to the show.

After the show, I’d have to decide what to do about Ari. I’d thought that getting away and sinking myself into my music would make me forget her, but she was still on my mind two weeks later. I’d wanted to go see her since I got back, but I hadn’t let myself. I hadn’t cared that she thought I was stalking her, but I didn’t want her to think that I was more attached than I was. No matter how much I’d thought about her since I walked out of her place.

On Saturday night, I slung my guitar over my shoulder and walked into The Ivy League. The bar already had a bunch of girls crowding the counter, and when I walked inside, a few pointed in my direction and giggled. I shot them a smile, and that only made them giggle more.

By the time we were finished setting up, the bar was full of students crawling into the League after classes had ended. I usually saw a number of the same faces over and over again at our shows. I hated to admit that I missed the larger crowds from the city. Nothing would compare to the energy from our home show, but I loved when I could look out across the room and not be able to calculate how many people were in attendance.

The guys got into position just as the lights dimmed. I walked onto the stage last, and applause hit me from all sides.

I smiled confidently, owning the stage, and then stepped up to the mic. “What’s up, Leaguers? I’m Grant McDermott, and we’re ContraBand.” I waited until the screams died down before speaking again. “It’s fucking good to be here again. For the first-timers in the audience, my virgins, here’s a taste of what I’m going to be giving you all night.” I winked for added effect. “This is ‘Hemorrhage.’”

McAvoy started up the backbeats, and then Miller, Vin, and I came in after an eight count. We’d played this song so many times that I could perform it in my sleep, but I tried to give it the same feel every time. The crowd bobbed along with beat, and I could hear girls singing along with me.

Just as I started on the second chorus, I saw her. The lyrics stuck in my throat, and I faltered through the line before recovering. Miller looked at me like I’d grown horns, but I just kept singing into the microphone as if nothing had happened. My eyes darted back to her, and she smiled at me.

Shit! Aribel.

What is she doing here? I’d thought that I would have to go to her if I ever wanted to see her again. Now, her hot little body was at my show and only ten feet in front of me. I was done for.

We ended “Hemorrhage” and moved into the next song easily. Her friends pushed her forward through the crowd until she was only a couple of rows away from me. And she wasn’t in a cardigan. She wasn’t even in a sweater. In fact, she was in some tight black dress, showing off her figure in ways that had my mind thinking about anything but the lyrics to this song.

I wasn’t sure my eyes left her for the next couple of songs. And as embarrassed as she clearly was by the attention and her friends whispering in her ear, she held her head high and watched the entire set. She wasn’t like the groupies in the first row—grinding their bodies to the music, singing along to every song, and reaching out for me—but she seemed to be enjoying herself.

“We have a special treat for you tonight,” I called into the microphone. “We’re playing a never-before-released track just for you. We’re calling this one ‘Letting You.’”

The only thing I could think about as I moved on to our last song was how fast I was going to get her backstage when I was finished.

Okay, I’d underestimated how good he is. Why didn’t I pay attention the last time I was at the ContraBand show? His voice was smooth and sexy, captivating the audience with the clever lyrics and easy rhythms.

Grant moved across the stage—guitar forgotten, microphone in hand—as he belted out the bridge of the song. His stage presence was the male equivalent to a Siren entrancing and capturing its victim. He owned the stage, the music, the lyrics, the people, the lights, and the sounds. The whole fucking room belonged to him, which inevitably meant that I belonged to him.

His eyes swept the crowd, making every single person around him feel like he was singing the song specifically for to that person, but then his eyes would return to me—intense, enthralling, and alluring.

I could feel people looking at me, assessing me, wondering what was holding Grant’s attention. I’d thought that I would make some kind of splash by showing up tonight, but more like a ripple and less like a tidal wave.