In the Arms of the Elite (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #4) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,31

groupies, he said?

I can see why.

“Now dance.” Zayd snaps this part off his tongue and twists his finger in a sharp circle, getting the crowd so riled up that a mosh pit forms near the front of the stage. Miranda and I are both screaming now and jumping up and down.

The energy carries through that song and into the next, when Zayd puts his guitar down and takes his performance up to a whole new level, using the entire stage as the canvas for his art. This next tune is much softer than the first, but still wild. He even climbs into the crowd and sings as they hold him up like a god.

“These videos are going to go viral,” Miranda shouts, soaked in sweat but grinning like a maniac. She points at the crowd and I see dozens … maybe more like hundreds of phones up and recording. She’s probably right. “By tomorrow, your boyfriend’s going to be in even higher demand.” Miranda squeezes my arm, and I wonder if she means that to be comforting … or terrifying.

Five hot, rich, talented guys … I’ve certainly got my hands full.

“Okay, party-fuckers,” Zayd says, panting, his shirt stuck to his body with sweat, green hair plastered to his forehead. He reaches up to scrub a hand down his face and smears his eyeliner. “This next song, I wrote for my girlfriend.” He points an inked finger in my direction and beckons me out toward him, past the safety of the curtain and into the spotlight.

“Go!” Miranda encourages, pushing me out and making me stumble slightly before Zayd is there, grabbing me by the hand and dragging me into the center of the stage. There’s some slight booing from some of the girls, annoying catcalls from some guys, but overall, the crowd seems pretty positive.

“Marnye Reed, y’all.” Zayd is panting as he lifts my arm up high, and I give a little wave to the audience. “She put up with my bullshit, and my bullying, and this song … it’s just for fucking her, okay?” He laughs and the sound travels through me like a shot, warming me up from my very core. “You can listen, but it’s not for you.” Zayd chucks some of his rubber arm bracelets into the crowd, the ones that say Afterglow Fangirl on them, before turning to me. “This is a new song, okay? So apologies in advance if I fuck this all the way up.” This last part is said with the switch on his mic turned off.

Zayd’s emerald eyes stare down at me as he slides the mic back into its stand and steps back, turning around and heading for a piano at the end of the stage. He beckons me to sit beside him and puts his fingers on the keys.

“Ready?” he asks me, looking down from under those long lashes of his, his piercings gleaming in the late afternoon sun as it sinks behind the horizon in a molten orange ball. I nod and Zayd exhales, reaching up to turn on his mic. Tattooed fingers rest above the pearly white piano keys, and he starts off with a slow, easy melody that has the crowd swaying with lighters in their hands. His band backs him up with a rougher, more gritty sound that pairs beautifully with the lilting piano notes. “I’ll never be a nice guy, and I’ll never be a saint, but if you’re game to let me try, I’ll make a valiant change. If you could only love me for the asshole that I am, then I swear to God I’d be the man you want to claim.” Zayd pauses and lifts his hands off the keys, glancing back at his band. “Okay, guys, hit it.”

The other three boys hit their instruments hard, rocking the stage as Zayd stands up on the bench, taking his mic with him.

“I’m sorry, Marnye, but I do feel bad,” he croons, sitting down on the top of the piano, sweat dripping down the beautiful inked planes of his skin as he rakes his fingers through his hair and makes it stand up straight. “If there’s any chance of trust, can you give me another chance? There’s so much fear inside, no place to hide. But can you see the real me?”

I’m such a sucker for a good apology, I think as Zayd reaches out, takes my hand, and pulls me into his lap. He’s so freaking warm, and he’s shaking, too, fueled by