Be My Bad Boy

He kissed me and he changed my world forever, although I never would have dreamt it at the time. It was just a kiss, not even a particularly passionate kiss at that. But, in all my 22 years, I'd never been kissed so annoyingly, so teasingly, so spine-tinglingly arrogantly.

I hated Andy Biersack.

He'd grabbed me and pressed his lips against mine as if to say, "I could give you so very much more but I choose not to". Like, if he wanted, he could unleash a power that would annihilate my world and sweep away everything that had gone before him. The force of him could wrap my heart, squeeze it tight and draw out every desire, even the ones I kept hidden from myself.
He was an unstoppable force.

I tried to ignore the sparks tingling my skin where he touched me. His hand on the back of my neck, his fingers tangled in my hair. Bolts of pure electricity ran through me, making my toes curl and my back arch. My hands struggled at my sides, wanting to feel his skin and pull his face closer to mine. I splayed my fingers to control myself.

Even that wasn’t enough. My lips moved with his and my body leaned against him. I don’t know why. I didn’t want him kissing me. I didn’t want his flesh against mine.
I could've pulled away. Could've. Should've. But I didn't.
The soft leather of his thigh pressed between my legs and I pressed back without thinking. I was drowning and I wasn't sure if I liked it but I wanted more.

Then he stopped.

I pushed him away, willing my knees not to buckle and my legs not to shake. I was in control. I'm always in control. I'm the girl that everyone wants to make happy. I'm the girl that guys fall in love with at first sight then follow around, making complete idiots of themselves in the hopes that maybe, for a brief instant, I'd notice they existed. I definitely don’t lose control of myself because some thug forces his lips on mine.
But he'd not even given me a chance to say no.
I wanted to slap his face for daring to pounce on me like that but I also needed to keep my cool. I took a deep breath to calm myself and brushed my myself down, brushing every bit of him off me. I could handle this situation.

Then I gave him my best bitch look.

Andy Biersack, the kind of man I most despise. That slow, lazy arrogance, the black hair tumbling down into his deep blue eyes. Eyes that mocked me with a look that said he could take what he wanted from me any time. The sleazy face.

He wasn’t even that good looking; he just reeked of animal masculinity with an energy he could barely contain. It burst out of him like the “biceps bursting out of his t-shirt sleeves and the muscles straining out of the tight leather pants and the… I wasn’t even going to look at that.
People like me don’t even acknowledge the existence of people like him. He was the kind of people that wash my Mercedes or work in the garden. Not the kind of person who thrusts their tongue between my carefully painted lips.

"Like that, princess?" He spat out the word princess like it was an insult but I'd always been a princess. I took it as a compliment.
"I-I-I..."
Why couldn't I string a basic sentence together? What happened to my carefully prepared speech? I had to be tougher than anyone, that's what my dad said. You can be a princess but you have to be tough.
"You can buy CDs out the front if you want one signed."
He nodded at the table set up in the other room then grabbed the green-haired girl beside me. The girl I’d known for all of two minutes and already hated. Now his lips locked onto hers while she balanced on tip-top in those platform boots to reach him.

What the hell was this guy thinking? Why would I want his autograph? Heat rose through my face as it dawned on me what he'd meant. He thought I was some desperado groupie looking for a cheap grope like the rest of these skanks waiting in line. I'd make him regret that mistake. I'd come here on business, business I needed to discuss right now. I most definitely wasn't here for him to play stupid kissing games with his lips of death.

I’d arrived at the bar about a half hour earlier expecting there to some kind of office or room where we could speak in private.
"The band room’s at the back," the girl on the door had said. "But you still have to pay the cover charge if you aren’t on the list."
How could I be on a list? If I’d known any other way to contact the band, I wouldn’t have come here at all. This place reeked of stale beer and cheap cologne.

I pushed my through the mass of people, most of them sweaty and gross and drunk enough to be annoying.

A horrible grating sound came from the stage and I assumed that was them. Black Veil Brides. No matter. I didn’t have to like their music. The man at the front, Amdy Biersack, strutted around the stage like some kind of fancy man and the way he touched that guitar, it bordered on obscene. How could these people watch that? It was like looking through someone’s bedroom window and catching them in an act of disturbing intimacy.

And how did carpet get so sticky and gross? Didn’t these people ever clean? As I noticed a guy stumble from the bar trying to balance four beers in his hands, that question was answered.
He tottered near me and split some of it on my shoes. My very fabulous, very expensive shoes.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I yelled but my voice got lost in the screech of Andy and his band.

Notes