Evelyn Before long the small bar erupts with screams, whistles, and applause. Nolan appears on the stage, adjusting the microphone to his height and waiting as the noise dies down. “Thank you all for coming here tonight!” Sweat beads at his hairline as he brushes his fingers over the sides of his jeans. “It gives me great pleasure to bring to you one of Brooklyn’s own, a man who needs no introduction, the one and only Charlie Walker!” A man even bigger than Nolan with unruly dark hair swaggers across the small stage, black acoustic guitar in hand, and claps Nolan on the back. The decibel level increases until I worry I’ve popped an eardrum. In person, Charlie Walker is ten times more handsome—and built—than he appeared in the “Coney Island Kid” video, possessing the charisma of a movie star. There’s a golden glow to his skin like there was in the video, though his face doesn’t appear as flawless, mostly due in large part to a light stubble growing along his jawline and a small scar nestled inside one of his eyebrows. With his extraordinarily good looks and the sculpted body of a gym rat, he makes holey jeans, flip-flops, and a faded T-shirt look like something right off a runway. A confident flare ignites Charlie’s beautiful eyes, adding to the laid-back ease of his movements that must come with stardom. There’s a hint of something else to his dazzling smile that I can’t quite decipher, though it makes him all the more intriguing. I get the feeling that deep down, there’s something dangerous about him. He’s the worst kind of bad boy all wrapped up in a smoking hot body. My heart races when I recall the way he flirted with the camera and his deep voice rumbled from my computer’s speakers while I brought myself to a blissful climax. If he had been the one touching me, I would’ve combusted on the spot. Just the thought of tasting his pouting bottom lip has me suddenly wet. After casually settling on the wooden stool in the center, he sets the guitar in his lap and adjusts the microphone. When the women continue to holler like they’ve lost their minds, his full lips bend with a slow smile and his icy blue eyes spark to life. Laughing, he combs a hand through his hair, giving it that tousled look that only his type can perfect, before continuing to flash the crowd his million dollar smile. When the older blonde at my side blows him a kiss, Charlie answers with a wink that jars me from my fantasies. Then, as if drawn by a magnet, his icy blue eyes catch with mine and his smile slowly fades. Something deep inside my chest clicks into place as we stare at each other. Holy hell, the man is certifiably gorgeous. But why is he staring at me like he’s going to be sick? “Someone's made an impression,” Sharlo teases, elbowing me in the ribs. “Be careful or you’ll become one of his groupies. Before you know it you’ll be preggers with his love child and following him on tour.” Charlie’s eyes close and he shakes his head before his dazzling smile returns. His eyes avert away from me to the general crowd as he takes the microphone in his thick fingers. “Hello, Brooklyn!” he calls out in the same low, rumbling sound that brought me to orgasm when watching his video. Hello Brooklyn is right. The screaming resumes until there’s a dull ringing in my ears. Charlie knows the effect he has on every woman in the room, and he’s soaking it up. It’s a turn-off when I consider he’s probably slept with hundreds of groupies. Still, I can’t deny that I wouldn’t be able to turn down someone like him. My mouth waters as I envision my tongue licking the intricate design swirling down his monster-sized arms—some of which appears to involve a rosary and a woman praying. Amidst the obnoxious racket of women, I pretend to check my phone for messages. In reality, I’m completely unnerved by Charlie Walker. It’s ridiculous for me to think he showed any real interest in me, even if I wasn’t turned off by his smug attitude. If anything, maybe he was staring at me because he’s shocked that I didn’t dress up for him like all the other women. That would make perfect sense. As he starts strumming the guitar and crooning an easy-going, beautiful melody, I lose myself in the music, forgetting about the strange interaction between us. Damn, the guy can really sing. In “Coney Island Kid” there was so much background noise from the electric instruments that I wasn’t able to appreciate the deep, raw roll of his voice. Sharlo shimmies up into my side and I laugh, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and shaking my body along to the beat. A couple of months ago, I never would’ve pictured myself standing here instead of busting my butt for minimum wage in a town I despised for most of my life. I’m in New York with a friend I’ve been dying to meet for years, free to do whatever the hell I want. Things are stellar enough on their own. Who needs a gorgeous rockstar?
Jennifer Ann is the pen name used by Jen Naumann when writing steamy romance novels with complex love stories. Like her characters, she's in love with the city of New York and can often be found either there or at concerts, rocking with the best of them. On the rare occasions she realizes she's no longer a spring chicken, you can catch her driving a tractor alongside her husband in southern Minnesota while trying to keep up with the madness of their four active children. Jennifer also writes YA paranormal under Jen Naumann.
Connect with Jennifer: Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJenniferAnn Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/AuthorJenniferA Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8153868.Jennifer_Ann Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Jennifer-Ann/e/B00L3ISY5G/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1457481550&sr=8-2-ent Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/naumannbooks Website: http://jennaumann.net