Because there is no me
Without you
Girl, you know it’s true
And now Madison from Los Angeles who works at a talent agency
The rest of the world does too
I didn’t remember that last part being in the song. And before another thought could enter my already spinning mind, his lips brushed against my cheek. Heat rose from the tips of my toes and flooded me in an instant, filling my whole body. By the time Walker pulled away, my face felt flushed and I was certain I was beet red.
He pulled the microphone away and leaned over to speak quickly into my ear. “Leave your phone number with Bob. Please?” he practically begged, his voice barely above a whisper, and the rocks in my stomach dropped to the floor and shattered into rock dust. Assuming he did this with every girl he brought onstage, I glared at him, my nervousness dissipating in a rush, only to be rapidly replaced with sharp disappointment.
“Please,” he said again. “Just give it to Bob and I’ll get it after the show.”
Another quick kiss on the cheek, and Bob appeared from the back to usher me from the stage. Walker whispered something to the tall man and clapped him on the shoulder, and Bob cracked a crooked smile before looking in my direction.
I was pissed. Although I wasn’t entirely sure why, the moment had been cheapened by Walker. What had started as something amazing and unbelievable had turned into something typical and demeaning. All his escapades ran through my mind like a ticker tape parade. The real Walker Rhodes was a player of presidential caliber, and I knew it. I read about it online daily.
“Mr. Rhodes would like your phone number,” Bob informed me before we headed out of the backstage area, as if I weren’t already aware of his desires.
“I’m sure Mr. Rhodes would like a lot of things,” I bit out in response.
He tugged at the black cap on his head, moving it from side to side before huffing out a long sigh. “So, you won’t leave your number?”
“No.” I stood firm, one hand on my hip.
“Fuck.” Apparently frustrated, Bob kicked the toe of his shoe at the floor.
“He’ll get over it,” I huffed. “Can I go back to my seat now?”
“He’s going to ask why.”
I shifted my weight, annoyed at his pushiness. “Just tell him I’m not interested,” I practically shouted as my emotions surged out of control. I was beyond angry, but I didn’t really know why.
What the hell was my problem?
I stormed out of the backstage area and practically sprinted to my open seat where Keri was waiting, her mouth hanging open.
“What in the mother fucking fuck? Oh my God, that was so hot. You two were so hot up there. Thank God I have it all on video. You’re going to shit when you see this,” she squealed as she wrapped one arm around my shoulder and squeezed.
“Can’t wait,” I forced through a tight smile.
Two songs later, the show ended. But not before Walker said good night to the crowd and to me specifically, although he called me “Sparkles” again instead of Madison.
My ears were ringing as Keri and I were pushed along with the exiting crowd. I couldn’t wait to get into the car and I hated to admit it, but booking a car service was a brilliant idea, especially after an emotional night like this.
“Tell me this isn’t blissful?” Keri asked as she scooted into the backseat and opened a waiting bottle of water.
I rested my head against the leather headrest and turned toward her. “It is.”
Bad sound quality filled the back of the car as Keri scrolled through her videos and photos, stopping abruptly. Walker’s muffled voice rattled me as he repeated my name.
“Madison. I like it. You look like a Madison.”
“Turn that off, Keri. Please. I don’t want to see it.” I pressed my head into my hands and pretended to hide.
“Oh yes, you do. It’s so fucking hot. It was hotter in real life, but it’s still pretty hot on my phone.”