Spring Fling

by Claudia Burgoa

  I cover my mouth, holding back my emotion as I watch his face change from extreme pleasure to relaxed bliss. He leans down over me, his hair tickling my face while he rubs his semen into my skin.

  “You left something here,” I whisper when he thumps down next to me. I form his hand around my breast.

  Peter laughs softly. “I shot it all the way up here?”

  I just nod, smiling.

  “This is what you do to me. You drive me crazy.”

  Hallmark

  * * *

  I have no problem getting to work on time. Thing is, Peter and I didn’t sleep much at the house. We had coffee together in the morning, and then we walked hand in hand from the Lemon House to Stadium Alley. He had to sound-check anyway, he said, and didn’t mind getting up early. Do they really sound-check at seven thirty for a show that starts twelve hours later?

  I haven’t slept in twenty-eight hours. The strange part is I’m not even tired. I’m here doing nothing, unless tolerating Mrs. Monaldo’s customary suspicion translates to “doing.” My main task is to dust off the birthday-card section (like I did yesterday). Apart from that, I daydream. It’s the oddest feeling to have someone shake you up so hard it’s like his touch lingers on you long after he leaves.

  “What school are you attending in the fall?” Peter asked this morning.

  “What does it matter?” I sent him a side-glance, instantly adding, “Syracaw College in Moretown.”

  “Cool. Listen, we leave Laguna Sands tomorrow morning.” He tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear, and those clear Levi’s eyes of his seemed sad. “Keep that ticket in case you change your mind about the show? I’d like to see you there.”

  It’s interesting what a shift full of daydreaming can do, because here I am deciding to go after all. He didn’t give me a phone number and didn’t ask for mine, so I don’t know how to get a hold of him once I’m inside. Maybe that’s the point: he had a great time last night and wants to show his appreciation with a free concert. Even so, I smile, recalling our early morning convo about concerts.

  “It’s different to see everything live.” He nibbled at the shell of my ear. “Imagine if you’ve always eaten fish sticks from the freezer, and then someone serves you fish and chips made with fresh catch straight from the ocean, breaded and tossed in the fryer. That’s what it’s like to watch a live concert in comparison to just seeing it on TV.”

  I force myself to take a nap, which lasts exactly sixteen minutes. Yeah, I’m not impressed. I shower, lather on war paint, wiggle my butt into a tight, lime-green miniskirt, and shazam! I’m off to the Evergreen Stadium.

  I feel jittery.

  Though I’m early, the stadium is filling up. The spring-breakers are all over this place, cheering each other on with Solo cups from the stands in the concession area. A guard uses his flashlight to show me the way (it’s not dark yet) to bright red plastic chair number B 52. It’s downstairs on the floor, second row from the front. An aisle runs down the middle, and as it turns out, I’m smack at the center, first seat on the left side. Scratching my elbow, I think that I couldn’t have dreamed up a better place if I tried.

  The lights slam off ten minutes later, leaving the stadium in total darkness. My fellow audiencers wooh and fire up their cellphones and their lighters—to see better, I assume. Me, I’m banking on the stage lights eventually doing their thing.

  A bassline saturates the air. Shards of purple ricochet around the stadium. They light up exhilarated faces, bounce over bucket seats, and land on a single man onstage.

  Strong fingers glide over heavy strings, the musician’s body rocking with the song. The rest of the band enters, setting off excited screams around me. A drummer, a front man, and a guitarist.

  But I can’t take my eyes off the first musician who entered, the man who got it all started. A man with flawless vampire features and a messy, platinum-blond ’do in fashionable chunks around a face that’s almost too beautiful. He stills onstage and focuses all his attention on me.

  I feel it as my face freezes in shocked folds, and even from ten, twenty yards away, his eyes smolder the way they did last night. He’s Peter. Peter Pan. Or not. This man is no roadie. He’s straight up the superstar bassist of Clown Irruption.

  I Google him on my phone and find him right there, Elias Mikaelsson. I sit through the concert, every beat, every slow glide of Elias’ bass, every sensual word from the singer’s mouth.

  The way his hips rock through the rhythm, the way his gaze floats to me, I can’t take my eyes off him. But once the show is over, I don’t go backstage. I give my pass to the girl next to me, and then I stalk out the door.

  Stadium Alley is quieter than usual. Thanks to the four guys signing autographs inside, I’m not jostled against the wall. I pass the doors where Elias pulled me in, saving me from Stan the Spring-breaker. The metal doors are locked, and no smirky vampire-roadie waits to inhale me with his eyes.

  Back at the Lemon House, Gmork stretches like he’s slept all day (he has). I pet him. Grab a carton of milk. Start downing it without a glass, the beauty of living alone.

  “I don’t know why I’m upset.” I pour a feline amount of whole milk on Gmork’s plate. “It was a fling, so who cares? Plus, if you were as famous as Elias Mikaelsson of Clown Irruption, wouldn’t you hide under a hat and use a fake name too?”

  I scrunch my eyes shut and nuzzle into Gmork’s fur. He straightens to give me an affectionate head-butt before ducking back into his milk. You know the best thing about cats? They’re okay with you not Googling stuff until it’s too late.

  My cell dings an hour later, lighting up my bedroom. Still wide awake, I grab it from the nightstand.

  Naomi. You left.

  Who’s this? I write back, feeling my pulse pick up. Just when it had calmed down after the events of the night.

  It’s Elias. I’m sorry.

  I know no Elias, I type out and hit “send.” Serves him right. And that’s when I realize I’m mad as hell. Spring fling, my ass.

  Peter, the jerk amends.

  Which is it, then???? Peter or Elias??? I send much too many question marks. My phone instantly rings.

  I count each ring. One thing’s for sure. Elias doesn’t give up easily. On the thirty-seventh ring, Gmork has climbed up on my chest. With his eyes hooded, he’s weighing me down, waiting for me to take action.

  “Okay, fine,” I tell him and pick up on the thirty-eight ring.

  “Naomi!” Elias sounds out of breath.

  “Yes, you have the right number. Good job,” I snap.

  “There’s only one Naomi Warwick in Laguna Sands,” he says. If he’s trying to be cute, it’s not working.

  “Well, congrats! Anyway, I need to sleep, so night-night, whoever you are.”

  “Naomi, hear me out. Please? I’m on my way to your house.”

  “No, you’re not,” I say too quickly. I look around and find all the blinds shut. We never bothered opening them again after last night. “I’m not home.”

  “Where are you, then?”

  “That’s none of your business. We had our one-night stand, done deal. You’re leaving tomorrow. Also, you’re a fucking liar.” I didn’t mean for the last part to come out. It did, though, giving away my mood. As in my absolutely pissy mood. “So yeah: bye. Have a good life, Roadie.”

  “Don’t! Hang up. Please? Just hear me out, and I won’t bother you again.”

  I’m breathing too fast, the air rushing in and out of my nostrils. Gmork’s stare flicks between my eyes and my nose.

  My chest constricts as I realize what I want. I want this superstar to say something that can make me feel better about myself, about what we did—hell, about the shitty lie he told me.

  “Okay, yes, I’m a liar. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m trying to piece it together myself, here.”

  “Whatever,” I say since my only other comebacks are expletives.

  “Listen, Naomi. We get a lot of attention as a band,
and I’m pretty noticeable when I don’t wear a hat and shit. It was fucking freeing that you never recognized me, that you were messing with me, even calling me a roadie.”

  “Oh nice, I’m getting points for being ignorant too, now?” I know. This isn’t my brightest moment.

  “You weren’t even impressed when you learned who Emil was. I was going to tell you then, but Emil and Zoe are total jokesters, and they had a blast making me into this in-demand bass-guitar tech.” He lets out a humorless chuckle. “Then you teased me, clearly not buying that Peter Pan was my real name. You didn’t ask for another name either, though, so I figured you liked the game.”

  “Who the hell likes being tricked?”

  “I don’t know.” He lets out a sad exhale. “Truth is I let it go, and soon we got too busy to worry about real names versus hotel names.”

  “Hotel names?”

  “We don’t use our real names for check-ins. I vary between a few, but Peter Pan is my most common one. I get called Peter a lot.”

  “Well, I don’t care,” I reply, sounding hurt and tired and like I care a lot.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I roll my eyes, feeling them brim with moisture. “You called to apologize for lying to me. That’s just ridiculous.”

  “I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t like you so damn much. Naomi?”

  “What?” I rub my eyes and turn on my side, tucking the phone under my ear.

  “I loved seeing you at the concert.”

  “Shouldn’t you be at some rock-star after-party? Also, I don’t get why you invited me to the concert in the first place. Unless it was to laugh at how surprised I looked when I saw you onstage.”

  He’s silent for a moment. “Can I come over?”

  “No. No, you can’t.”

  “Come to the hotel, then. You can bring Gmork.”

  I almost smile at the mention of my kitty-boy. “I think I’ve seen enough of you for today, Elias Mikaelsson.”

  Regrets

  * * *

  “You slept with Elias Mikaelsson of Clown Irruption?” Chloe screams into the phone. “I can’t freaking believe you, and then you didn’t let him come over for a second night! Seriously, it’s time I move down there. What am I doing in Anchorage again?”

  The good thing about Chloe is that she always makes me smile. “I know. If you were here, I probably wouldn’t have been in this mess.”

  “And what kind of mess are you in again? You enjoyed the crap out of sex with him, you shut him down good, and now he’s leaving. Ho-o-ly cray-cray, you’re afraid he’s going to be stalking you from all the corners of the world, aren’t you?”

  I burst out laughing, attracting one of Mrs. Monaldo’s infamous glares. “You’re nuts,” I whisper while giving my boss a thumbs-up. I’m dusting the back-to-school section this morning. So far, I haven’t discovered a grain of dust anywhere. “No, I just shouldn’t have brought him home with me at all.”

  “Sugar love, no comprendo. The sex blew your brains out, didn’t it?”

  “Funny way of putting it, but yeah… it was good.”

  “So why the cold feet all of a sudden? This is a story for your grandchildren! Wait… you used birth control, right? Or are you having Elias fucking Mikaelsson’s love child in nine months from now? Dibs on being the godmother.”

  Mrs. Monaldo has had it. With her lips thinned into a line of disgust, she strides toward me, and I’m narrowly saved by the bell… the doorbell. Plastering on a professional smile, she stops, swivels on her heel, and faces our visitor. Our only customer so far today doesn’t look at her. Instead, his stare finds me. The urge to bolt is overpowering. If only my feet obeyed.

  “Naomi.” Elias Mikaelsson says my name like he’s been running. He swallows the distance between us, and I feel Mrs. Monaldo’s eyes on us as he starts to talk. “So… we’re about to leave.”

  “Right.” I swallow thickly. The word “stunning” comes to mind at the way he looks this morning, lips pale and inviting, eyes glittering, bangs still wet at the tips.

  “The bus is waiting for me.” He clears his throat, searching for better words. Somehow, this soothes me.

  “You should go, then, right?”

  His gaze stills, pupils dilating with a sudden decision. I don’t have time to wonder about it before he cups my face and pulls my mouth to his. It’s so unexpected, a small gasp escapes me.

  “I just wanted to kiss you. I’m— I’m sorry about everything. If I’d used my head, I’d have handled shit differently.”

  “You would.” I lift a finger to my lip and touch it. A cautious smile appears on his face. Is it in my eyes that I’m not so mad anymore?

  “Have you ever been to London?” he asks.

  “Not exactly, no.”

  “Would you like to go some day?”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “How about next week? We have a show there, and I’d like to fly you out.” I must look as surprised as I feel, because he adds, “I’ve got a few things to make up to you.”

  “That you do.”

  “So-o-o… can you get away for a few days?” He scans my graveyard of a workplace and lingers for a second on Mrs. Monaldo.

  I lower my pitch to make sure she can’t hear me. “I don’t know if she can handle it here without me.”

  Elias snorts. I sorta-kinda end up giggling too. But as I study his beautiful face, my amusement fades. “We’ll see,” I murmur.

  He kisses me again, his tongue stroking mine in the same dizzying dance I remember. “I’ve got your cell,” he finally whispers.

  “You do.” I shut my eyes enjoying a last few soft pecks on my lips.

  Elias Mikaelsson straightens, his expression tender as my hands drop to my sides. With our pinkies entwined, I follow him to the exit, watch him step outside and into the early morning rays. Miraculously, he doesn’t burst into flames.

  “Hey, Naomi.”

  “What, Elias?”

  “How was your first real-life concert?” He tugs his hat down on his forehead, shadowing his face. Only the sexy smirk I thought of as insolent remains visible.

  A black tour bus chugs closer, the motor loud enough to make me raise my voice. “Funny story. It was as if I’d lived off of frozen fish sticks, never knowing that fresh catch is a hundred times better.”

  “Wow.” Elias’ smirk grows slowly until it widens in a breathtaking smile. “Who knew?”

  * * *

  The End

  About the Author

  Sunniva Dee is a bestselling author with an eclectic taste in books. Born and raised in Norway, Sunniva lived in the United States for 17 years before returning to the mothership. She currently dwells at the midst of a glittering Nordic winter, where she sucks inspiration from trolls and barn gnomes and cold little mermaids popping their heads out of the fjords. Oh, and Spotify. Always Spotify.

  Sunniva dabbles in literary romance, romantic comedy, contemporary romance, young adult fiction, new adult fiction, dark romance, and paranormal. Unlike some authors, she was not raised by fairies, and unlike others, she's not also a musician. But she boasts a ridiculous sense of humor and an obsession with furry mammals, both evident in the #1 bestseller, the rom-com Love by Pranks.

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  Also by Sunniva Dee

  Thank you for reading Accidental Fling with a Superstar, a taste of Elias Mikaelsson from the Rock Gods series. I
f you would like more Clown Irruption stories, the Rock God books can be read in any order. They are all standalones with interconnected characters and places. However, many readers prefer to read chronologically, and for you, this is the order:

  * * *

  Adrenaline Crush

  Ingela’s story. This novel isn’t in the Rock Gods series, but if you are interested in Bo’s past, this is it.

  Walking Heartbreak

  Bo, the lead guitarist’s book, standalone #1

  Broken In

  The after-epilogue of Walking Heartbreak

  In the Absence of You

  Emil’s book, standalone book #2

  Indiscretions of a God

  Not in the Rock Gods series, but Clown Irruption plays a big part in this book. What happens here has serious repercussions for standalone book #3.

  Seven Minutes ‘til Midnight

  Troy, the drummer’s story, book #3

  TBA (Elias’ book)

  The last in the Rock Gods series is expected to release some time toward the end of 2019 if all goes according to the plan.

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  Get on Sunniva’s special alert list for new releases to receive a single emailed alert when a new book goes live.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  About the Author

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  Jaxon

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