Popping The Cherry. Aurelia Rowl B.

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      Chapter Three

       STRANDED

      It took me the rest of the week to come up with my own candidates, what with all the umming and ahing. Despite my reservations, I had to admit the list of candidates was looking dang fine. It was impossible to not feel even a teeny bit excited.

      ‘We’re off in a minute, love,’ Mum said, poking her head through the gap of the open door.

      ‘Oh, OK,’ I said, trying to sound natural and not burn myself as I straightened my hair. ‘Have fun. I hope you win.’

      ‘So do I. It’s been a few weeks and your dad’s poor ego’s getting dented.’

      I forced out a laugh. ‘I bet.’

      Mum’s smile faded and her brow creased into a frown. ‘So how do you know this Hayden again?’

      ‘He goes to my college, except he’s in Upper Sixth.’ My hand started to shake, so I put the straighteners down.

      ‘What time is he picking you up?’

      ‘The band are swinging by to pick me up on their way to the gig. They should be here in about ten minutes or so.’

      Mum’s lips pursed and her right eyebrow twitched. ‘The band?’

      Oops. I must have forgotten to mention that bit.

      ‘Yeah. Hayden’s the lead guitarist.’ Probably best not to mention the band was called, Screwed. ‘They’re quite good, apparently.’

      OK, so I’d never actually heard of them until that week, but Mum didn’t know that. I couldn’t even tell her what kind of music they played, let alone if they were any good or not, but it was safe to assume they were more likely to be a heavy-rock band than a boy band.

      Mum tried to give me the all-seeing-eye treatment and I had to fight the need to flinch. ‘And how long have you known him?’

      ‘Since September.’ I stretched the truth to get her off my case. ‘He even gets the same bus to college as me,’ I said, boldly meeting her gaze.

      ‘Hmm …’

      In the silence that followed, we both heard a car pull up outside the house.

      ‘Is that your taxi?’ I asked.

      She crossed to my window.

      ‘Yes it is,’ she said, looking out. ‘I’ve got to go. Just …’ Mum hesitated then let out a sigh. ‘Be careful,’ she said eventually. ‘And make sure you take your phone with you.’

      Too damn right.

      ‘Will do.’

      Going out with Hayden was one thing, but the prospect of getting into a van with a bunch of strangers was making me nervous enough without Mum adding to my paranoia. Not now I’d finally convinced myself it would be fine. That was before I knew I’d be crammed in the back of an old, beaten-up Ford Transit with Hayden, two other guys, a set of drums, two amplifiers, three guitars, a keyboard and some microphone stands.

      Every time the van screeched around a bend, we all slid from one side to the other, trying not to get crushed by the equipment falling and rolling everywhere. The pain didn’t end there, either. Once they started their set, my eardrums hurt, too. Appropriately named Max, the lead singer preferred shouting and hollering to actual singing, with the band thrashing out one song—ha!—after another with no respite.

      Just great.

      Heavy metal was so not my thing. I was in the minority, though—again—and the pub was full to bursting. The dance floor had become a writhing mosh pit and the only safe spot I could find to avoid being whipped and potentially blinded by all the flying hair was wedged in tight next to a speaker.

      Hayden played guitar brilliantly, his performance faultless. He looked the part, too, dressed in his uniform black, this time wearing leather trousers and a sleeveless vest, showing off the tattoos on his arms, his green eyes ringed with a heavy line of black. Sadly, this other side to him just didn’t do anything for me. I was more inclined to ask him for some tips on applying kohl eyeliner than try to discuss anything else. Thankfully, he was too caught up in the music to pay any attention to me; they didn’t even take a half-time interval, so I got away with playing Candy Crush and Angry Birds.

      By the time Screwed reached the end of their set and completed their second encore, I’d drained my phone battery and was convinced my ears were bleeding internally. More alarmingly, I hadn’t figured out how to politely decline if Hayden asked me out again. He stepped off the foot-high stage and came straight for me, his eyes wild, pumped from all the energy in the room. Trapped with no way out, I felt my pulse spike and my heels smacked into the speaker. He wasted no time in grabbing me and pulling me against his soaking wet body, dripping with sweat. I opened my mouth to protest but he took the opportunity to plunge his wet, slimy tongue inside, shoving it so far back he triggered my gag reflex.

      Hayden tasted of stale cigarettes and salt, and I barely controlled the urge to retch. A shudder ripped through me, which he immediately took the wrong way. He dropped his hands to grope my backside, pulling me even more firmly against him so I could feel something else stirring to life inside his leather trousers. It was exactly how I imagined being a groupie to be, all I needed was ‘property of …’ stamped somewhere on me. How long until he asked me to step outside, or to pop back to the van, or maybe he was happy to get it on right there under cover of the speaker. Losing my virginity with a guy I didn’t remotely fancy any more in a crowded room full of pissed-up metal-heads didn’t appeal. Neither did the kissing, or, rather, the gross tongue-thrusting.

      He had to notice I wasn’t joining in soon, surely.

      Apparently not.

      Hayden shoved his hand down the front of my jeans and roughly fumbled to get past the next barrier blocking his path. No way was he getting his fingers—or anything else, for that matter—inside my lacy hipsters. Not now, not ever. I raised my hands to his chest and shoved so hard he went flying backwards, tripped over some guy’s foot and ended up on his arse. His wide eyes narrowed and he closed his gaping mouth, then he sprang back onto his feet and lurched towards me, his whole body tense.

      ‘What the hell is your problem?’ he hissed.

      ‘My problem?’ I put my hands on my hips and matched his aggressive tone. ‘Do you make a habit of shoving your hand into a girl’s pants on the first date?’

      The last thing I expected him to do was laugh.

      ‘Oi, Hayden,’ Max called, his voice hoarse after all that shrieking. ‘Put your piece of arse down for five minutes and get over here, this stuff doesn’t pack itself away.’

       Piece of arse?

      ‘Be right there,’ Hayden shouted, not even attempting to put Max straight or stick up for me.

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