Girls Who Play Guitars

•well, hello there, sunshine•

~TWO DAYS LATER~

~CAMDEN, LONDON~

The ember heat of the rays seeped into Ellie's sun-deprived skin as she lay on the glowing, honey-coloured sand under the radiant blue, cloudless, sweeping sky. The pulsing waves sighed in surround-sound stereo in her ears. Daniel Armstrong's long, pale fingers caressed her ankle and moved along her calf as he leaned over her, blocking out the blazing disc of the sun. She felt the toughened skin of his guitar-string fingertips make their way further up her leg with meandering, teasing strokes.

The look in his seascape eyes was a combination of mischievousness, seriousness, and sincerity. As his hand moved past her knee, a growing pressure seeped through her body and she dared his hand higher with her eyes. His fingers swept the inside of her thigh and he bent towards her; his breath mingling with her own. He brought his lips to hers and she arched her back towards him —

What the fuck?

Ellie opened her eyes.

Where the fuck was she?

And was she having some kind of luscious dream about Daniel Armstrong?

Stretching out like a starfish across the cool sheets in her singlet top and undies, the dream-tingles dissipated away. Ellie remembered where she was. Not on tour any more. Her own bed in the townhouse in Camden she shared with Meg and Kim. These were her own sheets; her own doona with the familiar too-much-fabric-softener smell caught in her nose.

She caressed the mattress with her palms, dug her heels deep into its softness, and curled inside the feathery folds of the bedcovers.

After months of sleeping in hotels, this was pure heaven.

But what the bloody hell was that dream doing in her life?

It had been a day since she'd last seen Daniel.

She'd been on the tour bus the morning after their argument, ready to head home. He'd appeared out the front of the hotel under grey skies with his posse, cap pulled low over his eyebrows, round sunglasses, blue parka. Ellie thought she should jump down from the bus and apologise for her rash outburst - the right thing to do – as she had a tight sensation in her chest at the worry that maybe she'd made a mistake by refusing his help.

But when she saw Daniel outside, signing autographs for gawking, gushing teenage fans and hugging middle-aged women who pulled away from him looking like they'd orgasmed for the first time in ten years, she decided against it. As he moved through the crowd, she'd even seen him retrieve his Filofax from the depths of his puffy coat and, with a stubby, chewed pencil, he'd written something on a slip of paper that he'd torn out and handed to one of the hangers-on.

Ellie was glad she hadn't gone out.

She didn't owe him anything.

She didn't owe anyone anything.

But as she tightened her doona snugly around her ears, she tried not to think about how much his twinkling blue eyes and effortless, generous smile had brightened the drab morning light.

LIST OF REASONS TO STOP THINKING ABOUT DANIEL ARMSTRONG

1. He could have anyone in the entire world he wanted—models, actresses—and he most likely had them, whenever he wanted, at a snap of his long fingers. He had a separate address book—his Shag-o-fax—and maybe he liked to hand out a time and location for his next romp in the hay.

2.  He was a musician. He might have been at one point anyway. Whatever he was, Ellie knew musicians and anyone associated with them got up to all kinds of things. With all kinds of people. Especially groupies. But not Ellie Devine.