So I Married a Rockstar Read Free Page A

shots on the signing table, always careful not to look into Drax's Photoshopped, two-dimensional eyes. Or his three-dimensional ones, either, for that matter.  
    It's well past when the signing should have been over but Drax is still cheerfully signing for the stragglers that keep popping in -- well, as cheerfully as a heavy metal singer can be between the hours of ten and noon. The shop is bustling as people browse Raines Records's eclectic selection, and Dad's old-fashioned cash register never stops ringing up sales. This will be a good day for my dads, and that makes it all worth while.
    I have to say, I was really impressed watching Drax work the crowd. He was equal parts attentive and rude to every dreary demon-lover who approached the table, and they gobbled it up like candy.
    "Okay, you motherfuckers, let's do this shit!" he shouted after Dad opened the door to the crowd. The cheer inside and out was deafening.  
    When Fanboy#1 approached the table -- one of his fake tattoo sleeves wrinkling at the crook of his elbow -- Drax tipped a tiny wink my way and asked him, "How's my bike, asshole?"
    I nearly snorted out a laugh, and I swear the kid almost crapped his skinny black jeans. Here he'd spent hours waiting in line so he could be the first to get Drax's autograph and what does his idol do? Insults him! The funniest thing of all was that the moron couldn't speak, not even to spit out his name. Drax ended up signing the headshot Kiss my ass, kid. Drax .
    When the guy read it, he broke out into a grin a mile wide and ran out of the store. He's still visible through the window, standing guard over Drax's bike two hours later.  
    I'm leaning against a nearby table, watching Drax -- I'm helpless to do otherwise -- when Papi sidles up next to me and elbows me in the ribs.  
    "Lola- mami , you should..." He waggles his perfectly sculpted eyebrows at me, then very obviously jerks his head toward Drax. "I seen how you looked at him."
    "Saw."
    "Huh?"
    "You saw how I looked at him. Which you didn't, by the way. Whatever you think you saw , Papi, you didn't."
    He waves away my correction and claim like they were annoying gnats. "Don't try to confuse me with your silly English lessons, querida . I know what I seen. I seen him look at you da same."
    Part of me thrills at the very thought but I won't succumb to false hope. Maybe Drax had looked at me with lust behind that curtain, but at some point during the signing, I realized I was probably mistaken. Every single female who approached him swooned almost the exact same way I had. Maybe it's just a hazard of the job. You know, women dropping like horny flies all around you.
    "Whatever, Papi. I know you think he's hot--" he snorts, as if to say 'Duuuh'; I ignore him "--but I have a lot to do tonight and trying to seduce a devil-worshipping man-whore isn't on the list."
    "Mmm hmm." He raises an eyebrow at me and purses his lightly glossed lips. It's his 'The lady doth protest too much' look.
    Then he whirls away to help a gorgeous, statuesque blonde. She's dressed to the nines in a skin-tight pink Band Aid -- I mean, dress -- and sparkly pink stilettos. Poor thing. When she came in looking for an old out-of-print Donna Summer CD, she probably had no idea she was wading into a sea of angsty, father-hating post-adolescents.  
    I'm humming an old Sesame Street song as I approach the signing table. The last fanboy has scurried away, clutching his prize, and it's time to wrap up this shindig.
    "Hey, Lola ," Drax drawls, emphasizing my dads' nickname for me. Then he holds up a finger and says, "Wait, don't tell me."  
    I have no idea what he's talking about so I stay quiet.  
    "'One of These Things Is Not Like the Other', right?"
    I can't help but burst out laughing. "You watched Sesame Street?"
    "'Course. Who didn't?"
    "It's just funny to think of you as a Big Bird fan."
    His smile literally makes my knees go weak. No, I'm not even kidding. I nearly crumple.
    "Big Bird's the shit.