Chapter 8

Chuck’s nose was mostly healed, but now there was a little bump on the bridge, courtesy of my fist. Instead of detracting from his looks, however, it made him even more handsome, which I despised myself for noticing.

The Friday night of the show, I cut my hair ruthlessly short and dressed in a plain white T-shirt and baggy jeans—no makeup. I even wore my glasses, though I usually preferred contacts. I erected all the barriers I could—physical and mental—so I could survive the evening with Caesar’s Flame, and Chuck Whistler in particular.

While I was busy with last-minute details on the computer, Laramie wandered into my office. “Hey Evan, do you have any tape…whoa! What’d you do to your hair, man? And since when do you wear glasses?” His reaction wasn’t exactly flattering, but it served my purpose.

“I’m sorry, since when do I need permission from you for my grooming choices?” I asked, my tone more indifferent than snarky.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just…has Chuck seen you?”