Seven Nights of Sin - Lacey Alexander [22]
“What do you think?” Damon asked in Brenna’s ear, now standing behind her.
She kept her eyes on the singer, afraid to look at Damon—in case she accidentally kissed him or something. Her whole body hummed with lust. “A little rough around the edges, but confident, and sexy as hell. In control of the audience and knows how to work them.” Despite the intoxication rushing through her veins, her brain continued to churn. “We could market them like a smarter, hipper, more modern Courtney Love.”
But then she did turn to look at him, because she had no idea if she was on the right track or if she, conversely, sounded like a total newbie, and she wanted his honest reaction.
His eyes shone warm on her. “Very good.”
But then his gaze dropped to her mouth.
And her cunt spasmed.
So she bit her lip and turned to face forward again, watching the band.
“Although,” she said, still speaking her thoughts aloud, “isn’t Blush too soft a name for them?”
She peeked over her shoulder to see Damon give his head a quick shake. “It’s ironic,” he said. “Or maybe it means they make you blush. But either way, it says something about them. Most band names these days are just words somebody thought sounded good together, but they don’t say anything about the music or the band. This says something about their image, and that makes it a built-in marketing tool.”
“Ah,” she said, getting it. “Cool.”
All around them, the mixed mainstream-and-gothic crowd moved to the music, and without thought or decision, Brenna found her hips beginning to sway back and forth, as well. She kept her eye on the blond singer, watching her seduce fans with her heavily outlined eyes and the way she thrust her breasts forward or swung her hair dramatically over one shoulder.
“What does the crowd tell you about this band?” Damon asked near her ear. But his voice came a little lower now, raspier. His breath on her skin made her tingle below.
She shifted her focus from the lead singer to the people around her, trying to think. But it was difficult because the room was still too full, keeping her close to Damon, and now that she was moving with the music, she was also moving slightly against him.
On one side of her stood a young couple who looked like they could live next door to her—average, middle-class—dancing wildly. On the other she found a girl with bright pink hair, shrouded in black from head to toe. And she knew the answer.
Only this time, instead of turning to face Damon, she merely leaned back, resting her head on his shoulder to speak up into his ear. “A cult following that’s gone mainstream. Crossover appeal.”
Again he said, “Very good,” but also again, his voice went lower, his eyes shaded as he peered down at her, and it would have been damn easy to kiss him because their faces, mouths, were so dangerously close.
So Brenna promptly lifted her head back up, watched the band. She didn’t want to talk anymore—talking, even about business, seemed perilous at the moment. She just wanted to be quiet now, listen to the music, soak up the atmosphere. And maybe dance the alcohol out of her system before she did something stupid.
Still observing the crowd, though, her gaze stuck on two girls kissing, passionately making out near the stage. Both were young, pretty, not particularly gothic, and, if she had to guess, not really lesbians. In fact, she suspected the two good-looking guys standing by watching lustfully were their boyfriends.
Their eyes were closed, their tongues meeting in languorous abandon as their hands ran caressingly over each other’s body. Brenna didn’t want to keep watching, but something about the sight hypnotized her. And despite her shock, she couldn’t help feeling a little excited by the blatant sexuality of the act. Just like those stupid moving billboards—she didn’t want