So I Married a Rockstar

Chapter Thirty-Two

Ch.32: Rush

I'd hoped Elle would come with us the next night, so I had someone to sit with while Jude performed, but she was busy. Jude encouraged me to ask Tasha, but what had happened after the party had made me jittery enough that I wanted to keep my sister away from all this.

Don drove us to Soho, where the club, Rush, was located. As I'd expected, the media thronged outside, demanding smiles and poses, yelling the names of anyone they recognised, but this time I was prepared for it. Jude kept me tucked close to his side as we hurried from the car into the club, and reassured me that no photographers were allowed inside.

The exterior of Rush was painted black, with the name spelled out in silver curlicue above frosted glass windows that kept anyone on the street from seeing inside.

Once we were through the doors, we found ourselves in a large space dimly lit by industrial lights hanging on thick chains. It was probably meant to create mood lighting, but I just found it kind of dark. On our left was a long bar, with polished copper taps and glass shelves crammed with bottles, few of which I recognised. Judging by the clientele, the prices were probably eyewatering. To the right of the bar was a small, low stage, and arranged in front of it – leaving enough room for people to dance – were round tables and seats upholstered in blue velvet. The far wall was home to spacious booths, with padded benches instead of individual seats.

A table close to the stage had already been reserved for us, our names written on a small cream card, and my heart fluttered.

Mr and Mrs Scott.

It was the first time anyone had officially called me that.

Once everyone was in and drinks had been served in crystal glasses, Meagan Morgan took the stage. She hadn't been in the music circuit much since Nightrise had disbanded, but her deep, raspy voice hadn't changed, and even though the stage was small, she owned it like she had back when Nightrise was at their peak. It wasn't hard to see why Jude had found her inspirational.

After forty minutes of performing Nightrise hits and cover versions of other famous rock songs, Meagan bowed deeply and left the stage.

Jude leaned over and kissed my cheek. "That's my cue. You sure you're okay on your own?"

"I'm fine. Go do your thing," I said.

He kissed me again, on the lips this time, then he bounded out of his seat and headed for the stage, a chorus of claps and cheers following him. Jude flashed his rockstar grin to his audience, but his eyes were on me, and as he clasped the microphone stand, all I could think about was how good those tattooed hands felt when they were touching me.

Then he started to sing and all I could think was how fucking good he was. Even without the band, even without Franky Clark shredding riffs alongside him, even without Eric Ward pounding out a beat to the song, even without his leather pants and huge stages, Jude had an undeniable, raw magnetism.

I could have watched him forever.

Except . . .

There was a strange prickling feeling on the back of my neck, like on some primal level, I knew I was being watched. It wasn't the feeling of people sitting behind me, or checking me out because I was pretty or because I was Jude's new wife, but the feeling of being really watched. A couple of times I glanced around, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but I couldn't shake the image of my ruined underwear scattered around the bedroom, the angry words scrawled on the mirror.

Some of the people sitting at tables around me or leaning on the bar had been at Jude's party – I glimpsed China Rose's platinum mohawk at the back of the room, and Cole Roth lounged in a nearby seat, surrounded by groupies. Other people I vaguely recognised as actors or singers. Some I'd never seen before.