For a second she imagined shouting, “Hands off. He’s mine,” before diving in there to haul him out, but she’d be hard pressed to be heard above the laughter and he wouldn’t be able to tell her touch from anyone else’s.
Except for the one touch that would tell him someone who understood was standing by. He might think she was Taylor, but that didn’t matter.
He wasn’t touching anyone, except to bat grabby hands away. Some woman had her hands over his butt, another was trying to smooth his hair. She tapped the nearest woman on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me.”
The blast of polite was shock enough to make the woman step away, with a quick, “Sorry,” and a hot blush. Georgia tapped another shoulder and did the same thing, and then she was close enough to put the back of her hand against the back of Damon’s.
That’s all it took. He flipped his hand and grasped hers, his head snapping around. “Georgia, baby.”
She didn’t know how he knew it was her, but it made the other women instantly invisible. “I’m here.”
He said, “Thank Christ. Get me out of here,” turning so he could take her arm. “Liz, Bron, ladies, glad you enjoyed the show. See you next time. No driving. Ask them at the bar to call you a ride home.”
They peeled away; satisfied they’d had their fun, their piece of him, cackling and calling goodnight.
“Love you, Damon.”
“Night, Captain Vox.”
“Sweet dreams.”
“I know mine’ll be dirty.”
Georgia got him off the stage and into the green room, giving Jamie a wave before they got inside. The whole episode had probably only taken five or six minutes. Another man would’ve simply disentangled himself and walked away, or turned it into something more.
She pushed the door closed and Damon hugged her from behind. “Georgia on my mind. You’re late.”
Trent was letting her sit in on production meetings for an all girl group who’d stumped up their own cash to record an album. It ran later than expected. She’d normally be here before Damon went on.
She could smell salt sweat and alcohol on him, it was rock hero appropriate. She turned into him; the heat coming off his torso was distracting. “You were being groped.” That came out half accusatory, half amused.
He cocked his head, trying to read her. “What can I say?”
“You’re sozzled.”
He grinned, it had swagger in it. “That I am.”
“What’s the occasion?”
A shrug that pulled her attention to the fact there were no buttons on his shirt. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“And now?” She slipped her arms under his shirt, around his back.
“Now it’s time you shut up and kissed me.”
She had something so much better in mind and he deserved to be tortured just a little. “No, I don’t think so.”
His swagger fell in a heap. “You’re mad with me.”
She pulled away, checked the door. No lock on it, just the latch. That might cramp her style; as confident as she’d become, she was no exhibitionist.
“Georgia.”
She left him standing there and pulled a chair out of a stack against the wall.
He spun around to follow the sound. “Babe?”
She scoffed. “Babe! You do know it’s me?” She set the chair in the middle of the room, facing away from the door.