Indy: Ladies Of Ink, #1

By Ash Hosking

Indy Black is a top tattoo artist from Beauty Mark, an in demand and renowned, female run parlour.

After growing up as the "odd one" and feeling like she never belonged anywhere, she's finally found her home and place in the world and couldn't be happier.

That is, until a drunk and disorderly figure turns up on the doorstep after closing and let's himself in.

Zac Miller is the lead guitarist for the popular punk-rock band Manic Mayhem, and currently on a world tour. He wears his heart on his sleeve and comes to Indy's shop in a state after finding out his fiancée has cheated on him in the worst way possible.

Zac has been Indy's celebrity crush since she was fifteen and now he's in her shop.

He's a total mess and begging for her help… What's a girl to do?

Their moment is fleeting and caused by heartbreak.

Nothing real and lasting can come from it. Can it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ash Hosking
• Release date: Sep 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9780995415775

Book preview

1

Indy

The night seems to be crawling by at a snail’s pace as I wait for closing time.

It’s one of those nights where no matter what I find to do, each time I check the clock, it’s barely been five minutes if I’m lucky.

The parlour is now spotless. I’ve even sorted the old magazines in the waiting area by date and alphabetised the colours of my ink bottles.

This is bullshit.

It’s Saturday night, in the heart of Fortitude Valley, part of Brisbane’s night scene, and here I am staring at the hands of the clock on the wall with contempt as every venue surrounding this place vibrates with life. I could be out there. I could have joined my co-workers and friends at the historic church that’s been transformed on the inside into a nightclub, known as The Rev to see one of my favourite bands play, but I had a booking. Or I did until they didn’t show.

So now I’m stuck holding down the fort until closing since I let Kieran take off early because he wasn’t feeling well. I’ve spent the last two hours aimlessly surfing YouTube and wound up watching clip after clip of cute puppy fails.

At a quarter till ten, I give up and gather my things. I shut down the computer, then turn off the lights on my way to the front door because no one will blame me for shutting at this point. Anyone who walks in now will doubtfully be sober enough to work on.

I’m just switching off the neon ‘open’ sign on the front window when there’s suddenly a dark figure blocking out the light filtering in from outside as the door rattles. It startles me, and I jump back before realising it’s a guy at the door trying to enter.

I turn the light in front of the door back on so we can see each other.

He’s tall. Dark-haired from what I can see hanging in his face under the black hoodie he’s cloaked in that’s making it hard to make out his facial features, and he’s drunk.

Sorry, pal. We’re closed, I call out through the door, but he continues to knock.

No, no, no. Please, it’s an emergency, he slurs. Determined, he continues to knock until he notices the door isn’t locked—he was trying to push it when he needed to pull it.

I step back with caution as he enters and invades my personal space.

Whoa. Back up or I’ll start kicking. I have a black belt in karate, and I’m not afraid to use it.

He doesn’t need to know I haven’t trained in over ten years.

What’s this emergency? I ask when he concedes my demand, stumbling back to lean against the closed door, which doesn’t make me feel much better.

I’m trapped in here, in the damn near dark, with this stranger or could-be-killer or robber, or God knows what. I take several more steps backward, trying to look casual, as I reach the front counter and search for anything I can use in my defence.

I need a cover-up, immediately, he states. I snort as my hand curls around a ballpoint pen that I bring down to my side.

I’m failing to see how that’s an emergency, I utter sceptically, crossing my arms as I lean back against the counter.

"I can’t stand another minute of having her name on my skin. I need it gone, please?" he pleads before stumbling back and planting his butt ungracefully in the gothic armchair conveniently behind him. He bends forward, head clasped in his hands.

It’s a pitiful enough sight to make me feel sorry for him.

The guy may be a drunken mess, but he doesn’t seem dangerous.

I push off the counter with a sigh and move around the back of it to flick the main lights back on before facing him again.

Stop looking so damn sorry for yourself. Sit up, remove that hood that makes you look like you’re up to no good and tell me about this cover-up you need. I want to kick myself already for not pushing him back out the door. I’m not committing to doing his piece tonight, but I’m intrigued by his misery.

The guy sits back, slouching in the chair as he shoves the hood back, and I swear I almost swallow my tongue.

Zac freaking Miller is sitting in my shop. The lead guitarist, back up vocalist, and songwriter from one of my favourite bands, Manic Mayhem. The guy, whose posters are featured pretty heavily on my bedroom wall, is sitting before me with big, brown puppy dog eyes and wants my help.

Holy shit.

It gets even more unbelievable when he proceeds to remove the hoodie and his shirt.

Good God. I have to lean on the counter to keep upright at the sight. I’ve seen him shirtless in a lot of images, but nothing beats seeing it in person.

His dark hair is dishevelled. He’s got a few days growth of stubble along his sharp jawline that softens the definition of his high cheekbones that are flushed, and his pouty lips are just begging to be kissed. He’s tall and lean but with defined muscles in his ink-covered arms along with broad shoulders. Not to mention those ridiculous abs that are enough to strike any woman stupid at the sight of them.

I almost want to cry at the overload of perfection bestowed on one mere man.

I need this gone. I don’t care what with or how, so long as I never see any trace of it again, Zac urges, pointing to his chest where there’s flowing script right over his heart. I can’t really make out the letters from this distance, so I walk across the room and kneel before him, fighting to keep professional and focus on the ink he wants to be covered.

"I can add a D on the end so it says Jaded," I offer the simplest fix automatically, knowing he won’t go with it no matter how positive I make my tone, but a tired girl can hope. Until I look up to see his unimpressed glare.

Then I need something to work with that you actually want. The front door opens again, and I recognise the rest of the members of his band entering the shop. I bite my tongue against the urge to squeal like a fangirl, but a small squeak sneaks out that doesn’t fail to get Zac’s attention. I internally explode with giddiness, and my heart makes a funny flutter in my chest when he gives me a small knowing and amused smirk.

Lukas Rothburn and Jesse and Ethan Evans all take a moment to look between their bandmate and me, still crouched down at his knees before coming over.

Well. It didn’t take you long to move on, Lukas remarks dryly, and I spring back up to my feet.

Don’t be a dick. She’s going to help me with my cover-up, Zac admonishes and is about to continue when I interject.

I never actually agreed.

Zac smirks, reeking of self-assurance.

Not in so many words. But I know you won’t leave me hanging, because you’re a fan. What’s your name, sweetheart?

My hand still gripping the pen twitches with the urge to stab him for his cockiness, but I settle for an indignant glare his way.

Not sweetheart. You seemed unstable, so I was humouring you until I could get you out of here safely. But now you’re no longer a threat, and your buddies are here to carry you out if need be. So I’ll remind you, the shop is closed. Now please leave. If you really want a session, call tomorrow after nine, sober, and we’ll see what we can do for you, I order, pointing them to the door.

He may be hot, but I can’t stand his ego.

The Evan’s twins are identical but for the piercings through Ethan’s lip and Jesse’s nose and their hairstyles. Ethan has the top of his light blond hair long and can style it every which way, while Jesse’s is almost a buzz cut and a couple shades darker. They chuckle their blond heads off as Zac gets up out of the chair. He walks over to invade my space again, ignoring that I’m stepping back with my hand held out to ward him off until my back meets the counter and my hand is pressed flat against his bare, sweaty sternum.

No. I can’t leave until you fix this for me, Zac insists.

Lukas pulls him back, trying to talk sense into him, but Zac shoves his hands away in frustration.

You don’t understand what it’s like. The whole three years we were together, she was fucking cheating on me, and I only found out because the dude sent me a pic of an ultrasound because he’s knocked her up. Having that vile bitch’s name permanently on my skin makes me want to crawl out of it and set it on fire. I need it gone before I go insane.

Zac’s eyes are glassy, and it’s more than just from alcohol. I can see the pain and torment in his gaze as he stares at me beseechingly.

He’s right. I can’t say no to him. It would be like kicking a wounded puppy.

I close my eyes and huff out a breath of air before looking at him again.

Pick something quick before I change my mind, I concede. Zac’s head drops with a loud exhale of relief before he looks up again and his arms wrap around me.

Thank you, he murmurs against the side of my head, giving me a quick squeeze in his arms before releasing me. I stand there stiff with shock and awe for a long moment before shaking myself out of it.

He’s just another client, Indy. Be professional.

I step by him and retreat back behind the counter where I’m not so surrounded by all that beautiful, beautiful testosterone. I pull my work portfolios from the pile to hand Zac over the black stained wood.

Indy Black, huh? Zac shoots me a friendly smile after reading my name from the top folder, and I raise my brows sardonically.

That’s me. I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but I’d really rather not be here.

That came out bitchier than intended, but he takes my sarcasm with an unrelenting smile as he flicks through my designs.

I make myself busy with turning the stereo back on and the rest of the lights, then gather my sketchpad and pencil case before offering the guys something to drink—because I can’t sit still. Having Zac look through my work is making me more nervous than I’ve ever been showing someone my stuff. If after all the fuss, he decides my work isn’t up to scratch to the rest of his art and goes somewhere else, I may just die of embarrassment.

It annoys me that I’m even contemplating this. I know my work is great. I’ve trained with some of the best in the industry and the best in the country. I try to convince myself I won’t mind if he leaves. I even want him to so I can get out of here.

When I run out of reasons to avoid Zac, I reluctantly return to stand before him behind the counter and notice he seems stuck on an image. I peek over and recognise the acoustic guitar and floral side piece I did for a chart-topping country musician who had been touring this way two years ago that took me twelve hours to complete.

I know what I want. But you’re really going to hate me, Zac utters, meeting my gaze with a sheepish look. I ready myself for whatever bad news is coming my way.

I want my guitar head and fret incorporated into our logo and script saying ‘To love is to lose yourself to madness.’ I’ll pay triple your normal rate for inconveniencing you, Zac propositions, and I stare at him for a long, heavy moment.

I simultaneously want to beat him, kiss him and run away, but settle for a long stare until he fidgets uneasily, rubbing the back of his neck.

Jeez, don’t go easy on me now. Do you want this in grayscale or colour? I ask as my brain already starts picturing the placement of everything he wants.

Mostly grayscale but with a pop of colour, he states hopefully, and I nod my acceptance distractedly.

It’ll need to be a fair size for the amount of detail and to cover up the script. I say this, though I’m really only thinking out loud as I round the counter and start outlining the space I’ll need to take up over the left side of his chest with my fingertips.

Wow, you have pretty crazy eyes.

I break out of my mental planning to blink up at Zac with annoyance, and he rushes to amend his statement, tongue tripping over his words.

"I mean, crazily pretty—not crazy eyes. The green, blue, and gold, like, change colours in the light. Did you know that?" Zac asks, leaning closer as though he’s trying to get a better look. I nod as Lukas walks around us to take one of my portfolios, bumping Zac on the way, who places his hands on my hips to steady himself. I try to not let it affect me when I notice how close we are pressed together.

Uh, yeah. Give me a few minutes to draw something up, and we’ll go from there.

I retreat back behind the counter again and take up the stool as I lean over my sketchbook and let my hand fly over the page. I lose myself to the picture in my mind. I usually do this in the back room where I can zone out in peace, but there’s no way I’m about to leave these guys unattended.

The sketch is starting to take shape when a shadow blocks out my light on the page, and I look up to see Zac leaning over me.

I can’t work with you hovering over me and watching. Why don’t you guys take him to get something to eat and, hopefully, sober him up a little more for me? I suggest to the twins and Lukas who are poring over my portfolios with avid interest, ignoring Zac’s derisive snort.

I need to be less sober, not more.

I look up to level Zac with an impatient glare.

Give me at least ten minutes of peace, or I quit, I demand sternly and finally get a result.

Zac holds his hands up in surrender and backs away before Lukas gives him his shirt and jacket, and then throws an arm around him,

There’s a good-looking burger joint a couple doors down. Let’s go get one before you irrevocably piss Miss Black off and she butchers you with her tattoo gun. Lukas leads him to the door with Jesse following.

Ethan remains in his seat, so I give him a questioning look, and he raises his hands in supplication also.

I’m the quiet one. Don’t believe my onstage persona. I promise not to make a peep and to leave you alone while keeping an eye out for any other vagrants trying to get in to demand things from you.

I can’t help grinning at his words, because I’ve seen all there is to see of these guys, and Ethan is far from the quiet one of the bunch, but I let him stay. One sound and he’ll be out the door, though.

I put on my glasses I usually wear when I’m working to help against eye fatigue and headaches, and then get back to it.

I’m just adding finishing touches when the guys burst back in over twenty minutes later. Zac is thankfully looking sturdier on his feet than when I first encountered him as he resumes his spot before me.

I watch his eyes widen before his hand reaches out to touch the sketch.

Holy shit. It’s perfect, Zac mutters, and the other guys get up to swarm around and check it out, also.

Can we get started now? he asks eagerly, his eyes bright as they meet mine before he starts removing his shirt again, which makes me quietly laugh with amusement.

If you’re sure, I’ll get the stencil made and more coffee while you get in my chair. I point to the old refurbished barber’s chair I use. Zac nods adamantly then reaches over to place a plastic bag beside the drawing.

We couldn’t pick which one you might like because there are so many—if you even like them at all—so we grabbed a couple of each. We’ll have whatever you don’t want so don’t feel bad if you don’t like any. Zac talks really fast and looks adorably uncomfortable and endearing. I peek in the bag, trying to contain a laugh, but it escapes when I see how many cans are in there. They literally bought two of every drink available. I’m more of a coffee person, but I take one with gratitude because the gesture is sort of sweet.

Okay, let’s do this, I state with finality and get ready as Zac makes his way to my chair, making himself comfy as the other three settle into the two leather couches.

I take my time making sure I have everything ready before making my way over to Zac. I put my hair up in a clip to keep it out of the way, trying to ignore him watching my every move with a curious expression. I have to steel myself when it comes to prepping his skin, getting up close and personal to shave the guy’s chest and sanitise the area. I’m doing okay until he reaches out to touch a part of my hair that falls from the clip, and I pause to look at him.

Sorry. Just wanted to see if it was as soft as it looks, Zac murmurs, and I give him my best unimpressed look.

Settle down, Casanova. You’re supposed to be heartbroken, remember? He shrugs at what I said but then settles back into the chair.

I am, but I can’t say that looking at you isn’t making me feel better by the minute. Zac then leans his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes.

I stare at him for a long second. You’re still drunk.

I was being honest, but fine. I’ll keep it to myself until you’re done.

I take his words without comment, moving on to carefully position the stencil to flow with the lines of his shoulder, collarbone, and pec. I tell him to check it out in the mirror once I’m happy with it, but he waves me off.

I trust you. Get to it.

I bite the inside of my cheek in annoyance but start up my machine, kind of hoping the outline is a little askew, although I know it isn’t.

It takes me a while to zone out and to find my groove because he’s so distracting, even when he isn’t doing a damn thing.

It’s all me.

I feel my cheeks and neck flush when I lean over his bare chest, my free hand pressing into the skin to pull it taught where I can feel his heart beating sure and strong beneath my palm as his masculine, smoky, sweaty scent invades my senses and is inescapable.

I have no control over my body’s reactions no matter how hard I try to shake it. I resort to pausing to switch the music to my playlist, panic pressing buttons to change the song when Zac’s rumbling voice fills the room from one of their live sets, not at all helping matters.

I inhale deeply as I tilt my face away from Zac for some untainted air. Then I force myself to focus on one line at a time of the outline before me until I lose myself to the piece and to the music flowing from the speakers by The Pretty Reckless.

Hours go by, and I have to admit, Zac takes the four and a half hour sitting like a champ, refusing a break every time I offer.

My eyes are so dry and tired they feel like they’re on fire and my hand is cramping when I’m finally done and happy with it. We both look equally relieved as I take off my gloves and gesture for Zac to look in the mirror across the room.

The movement catches the rest of the band’s attention from where they’ve all kicked back, and they eagerly get up to check it out.

There’s a round of praise full of gobsmacked cursing, and I smile, but I’m focused on Zac’s reaction to really appreciate it. He stares at his new ink intently, face giving away no emotion as he moves his shoulder back and forth in the light before he looks up and meets my gaze with happy relief. His lips are lifted into a smile that just keeps growing until it couldn’t possibly get any bigger.

You’re amazing, Zac exclaims then turns, walking around his bandmates to invade my space again. He leans down to press a kiss to my forehead before lifting me up off my stool until I’m standing. Then pulls me into a rib-cracking hug I can’t reciprocate since my arms are trapped at my sides. I can’t break from it, or even breathe really. But I’m not about to protest.

Thank you so much. I can’t see any of the name. It’s like it was never there, he murmurs before releasing me, and I smile in appreciation of his enthusiasm.

You’re welcome, I return quietly once he releases me and my lungs can get some air.

We need to celebrate. Come have a drink with us, Zac demands as I start taping cling film over his new piece to protect it.

I peek up at him over the frame of my glasses since they’ve slid down my nose, giving him a look that’s sharp with rejection. I’m opening my mouth to turn him down when he continues with a beseeching look.

Please? I want to spend more time with you, get to know more about the talented, gorgeous, Aussie chick who created my piece, he urges as Lukas steps up, slinging his arm over Zac’s shoulder to intervene.

Come on. You can’t be that cold-hearted to turn down such a heartbroken, devastated, tragic mess of a man in his hour of need, Lukas implores while Zac puts on a rather pitiful look.

I have to purse my lips to hide a smile and fight the laughter bubbling the longer I look at him.

You are pretty pathetic, I agree, managing to keep a straight face as I put my hands on my hips. I blow out an exasperated sigh before giving them a small grin. While I’m beyond tired and just want to go home to my bed, I’m feeling reluctant to say goodbye just yet. It’s not every night you get to be around the members of your favourite band, and now that it’s happening, I’m not ready to let it end. It also doesn’t hurt that they’re so easy on the eyes, either.

Where to?

Zac and Ethan whoop as Jesse laughs.

Lukas gives me a knowing wink before Zac breaks away from him to swoop in and lift me up over his head, his arms wrapped tight around my thighs.

I panic and grab hold of his shoulders as I yell at him to put me down, worried he’s going to drop me on my head.

Zac laughs but carefully relents and steps back warily with hands held up and a playful grin. I give him a warning glare to never try it again.

The guys wait while I shut everything down then grab my bag and jacket before ushering them out of the shop.

The street is busy with people headed home or just somewhere else to continue their party since we’re passed the three o’clock shutout. Zac and I find ourselves lagging behind the others. Zac, who I’ve just noticed still hasn’t put his shirt back on—or even has it with him.

You know they have to stop letting people in after three a.m., and you’re not getting into any bar like that. Even your best sad face won’t work on a bouncer.

Zac chuckles while leading me to cross the road towards The Rev.

They’ll let me in so long as I have pants on. Zac then takes my hand and weaves our way through the people hanging out on the stone stairs, and through the gates, ignoring the complaints and murmurs of people who recognise him as he passes to the doors, where two burly bouncers block the entrance.

Welcome back, Mr Miller. One of the bouncers then steps aside. Zac nods to them in acknowledgment, patting their shoulders but barely slows as we pass.

Well, that was incredibly easy.

It must be nice to be famous, I mumble somewhat begrudgingly, not thinking Zac will hear over the music blaring from inside the club, but he turns to flash me a grin.

Not gonna lie, it has perks.

Zac doesn’t release my hand until we make it to where the rest of his bandmates have made themselves at home in an alcove of the VIP lounge on the second story. A group of girls notice our arrival and immediately abandon the small loveseat across from the guys since they aren’t getting any attention.

The twins are already occupied with three ladies sitting over their laps while Lukas is kicked back with a drink, deep in conversation with another group of guys I recognise as the opening band for their tour.

I’d feel bad for the ignored women if it weren’t for the bitchy glares my way when Zac gestures for me to take their spot. Instead, I give them a little a smirk as I make myself comfy with Zac joining me, sitting right up against my side while spreading his legs so there’s no available space beside him for them to get any ideas.

He leans forward to help himself to two beers taking up room on the coffee table, offering me one when he leans back. I’m not much into beer, but I take it then laugh as he gamely stretches his arm out behind me on the back of the couch, smiling shamelessly the whole time as I mock his lame old-school move.

I won’t admit to him that it actually works. Having Zac completely pressed against my side, wrapped up in the heady mouth-watering smell of whatever cologne he uses and the warmth of his body, it’s nice and gives me butterflies like a damn teenager. A feeling I haven’t felt since, well… since I was a teen.

Tell me, who is Indy Black? I want to know all about her and how she became an amazing artist. Zac sounds a little distracted because he’s occupied with a strand of my hair that he’s playing with.

Taking a sip of my beer, I pause with the bottle at my lips as I consider him and what I could possibly give him. I hate talking about myself. Unless it’s a specific question, I never know what to say. What does he want to hear? What’s worth telling?

"Indy doesn’t talk about Indy in the third person, for one. That’s weird. But… I don’t know what to say. I’m twenty-four, I’m a Taurus. Your flattery is sweet, but I don’t think I’m amazing. I’ve only been tattooing for five years, and I’m still trying to evolve my technique and mastered styles. I got into the industry thanks to a friend who knew my boss, Angie. He pushed me to apply to be her apprentice because I was always drawing, no matter where I was or what was going on around me. I didn’t really know what I wanted to do with my life at that point, so I figured, why not?

I got to see her work and meet her team, and it was like something inside of me connected. Like that was exactly where I was supposed to be, and I’ve never looked back.

I shrug after my explanation. Feeling a little awkward, I take a long draw from my drink before putting it down, and I smirk at him sheepishly.

I’d ask you the same thing but as you guessed earlier—I’m kind of a fan. I’ve shamelessly read all the interviews you guys have ever done, including the Japanese magazines I had a friend translate. I omit the part where I have his words etched into my skin.

That shit is personal to me, and I’m sure I’ve already said enough for him to dismiss me as just another crazy fan. I watch for his reaction, but all that happens is his smile gets a little bigger as he leans in even closer.

And yet, I had to beg to get you to agree to anything, and you weren’t at the show tonight? Zac asks doubtfully, and I shrug again, a little grin lifting my lips at his bemusement.

I had an insistent client book the night, so I gave my ticket away—which I’m pissed about because the client didn’t show up and the arena tickets for next week sold out before I could even get onto the website. And just because you’re talented and famous doesn’t mean you’re not a jerk. I’ve had plenty of experience thanks to some of Angie’s clients whose demands quickly jaded me from being star struck. I’m not in the habit of folding for jerks. As I ramble on, his grin just keeps growing until dimples hollow out his cheeks. Those damn dimples. They have their own dedicated fan page on Facebook. I know because I’m a member. Something I’ll never admit to. But damn if the spell of the sight of those things isn’t even more potent in real life. I think I emit a little sigh that he thankfully can’t hear over the music.

I like that. It’s a nice change. But don’t believe everything you’ve read. They make me seem much cooler than I am. Zac’s insistence makes me laugh, not at all believing him for a second.

So tell me something about you that I won’t find in any magazine? This causes Zac to go silently thoughtful for a long few seconds.

"You know our hit love song, ‘Tell Me What’s On Your Mind’ was written about my cat. We were all stoned at my place one night, and she just kept staring at me so strangely and making this weird meow, and I was trying to figure out what she wanted."

I laugh out loud because that song became one of their biggest hits and has been dubbed one of the most emotional, romantic punk rock songs of all time. And it was written about a damn cat.

I lose track of time as we talk through multiple shots and more drinks that just keep appearing before we’re interrupted by Ethan forcing his way between us. He wraps his arms around both our necks and pulls us in until the three of us are close enough to share a three way kiss if we were so inclined. Which—I’m just saying—I could be totally down with. These two are ridiculously easy on the eyes.

Things are looking awfully cosy over here. How’s it going? Are you in love with her yet? Ethan’s joking as his gaze flicks back and forth between the two of us. Zac rolls his eyes at his friend.

He hasn’t proposed yet, has he? I hate to miss them, Ethan continues.

I shake my head as Zac breaks free from Ethan’s hold and moves from beneath him so that Ethan slides off his legs and onto the seat cushion.

We’re just talking, I insist.

Ethan’s gaze turns to me imploringly, and he yanks me even closer to him, my face now squished into the chest of his sweat-dampened shirt.

He’s fallen deep for less before. My guy here is a hopeless romantic. Whatever happens—be nice and let him down easy. Don’t break his heart, okay, Indy?

Ethan pats the side of my head as he makes his request, ignoring my struggles to break from his hold. I have to grip his wrist with both hands then yank my head out from underneath it to be free. I smooth back the hair that’s been forced into my face as I lean back in the seat, finding Zac standing before me once my vision is clear.

You’re acting like a cock-waffle, Ethan, and I’m done sitting here. Come dance with me, Indy? Zac holds his hand out for me to take as he flips Ethan off with the other.

I baulk. There’s a poppy, techno-slash-hip-hop song playing that I would not be caught dead dancing to, no matter how good-looking the dance partner may be.

Fine. But I’ll be down there in the crowd, getting my jam on, and stunning people with my mad moves. Feel free to come join me if you can’t stand watching and need to get your hands on all of this. Zac dismisses my refusal to take his hand with a weird little wiggling, self-caressing move, and then turns his back on us and heads for the stairs.

Oh, you’ll get a kick out of this. Come, Ethan takes my hand eagerly, dragging me from the loveseat in his rush for the balcony off our little area that overlooks the main floor below. I look over and find Zac making his way down the stairs, head bopping along to the song about sober girls acting drunk. I lose him momentarily when he meets the crowded dancefloor as the lights flash on and off to the beat.

I grin when I find him again. It’s not hard when he’s somehow made people back up and give him his own space on the floor. The lighting changes so the white strobes frequently flash as he starts to move, and only a moment later, I burst into laughter.

The guy is crazy.

I don’t know what is funnier between his so-called dance moves that bare