Baby I've Got My Eye On You
Twenty Five
I was on a mission to find Syn, I knew exactly where he would be right now; the hard part was being able to actually talk to him. Another day, another gig, another signing session. Today was one of the more organised events, if you can call a mile long queue of screeching females, twitching at my boyfriend’s every move organised. ‘An organised mess’ I thought to myself, though I knew it to be a lie: many of these girls could hardly be called a mess – some of them were model material. But I was passed the jealousy. All I needed was proof of Johnny’s observations.
He was stood in a devastating pose. Feet spread apart, his hands slung deep into his pockets, thus pulling down his jeans a half inch to reveal a thin line of the top of his boxers. He did it purposefully - I was sure of it. Cocky bastard that he was. Every few seconds he’d reveal his right hand, gliding his signature across each item in a way that seemed to be the metaphor of smooth.
“Syn?” I said quietly once Jeff the security guard had let me pass by the fans, their once excited eyes turning sour and blistering through the back of my head as I stood beside Brian. He looked a little startled and I could tell immediately that his inside thoughts didn’t match the happy expression he’d masked himself with.
“Sorry babe” he said apologetically as he scrawled his name over the surface of one kid’s copy of Waking the Fallen, “Kinda caught up at the mo”.
“I know,” I said, placing my hand on his shoulder slyly, watching the mouths of every girl there to witness become an ‘O’ shape. “It’s just I want to see something”
“I’ll show you something later” he grinned to himself: the blue haired girl who happened to be next in line blushed to a colour that I recognised all too well; I wasn’t cruel enough to tell her his sexual innuendo wasn’t aimed at her. Meanwhile, my eyes scoured across his exposed for arms for any sign of new ‘ink’. Nothing.
I let my hand slip from his shoulder and down to the hem of his sleeve, exposing more skin. I was aware of the daggers flying at me from the minds of every girl, but hell, they knew as much as I did that they were desperate to see more of him anyway!
“I demand to see something now” I muttered, pushing up the sleeve of his right arm now; his hand faltered slightly, very nearly spoiling the current autograph.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked in mild horror.
“Where is it?” I said growing impatient.
“Not now, Roz” he laughed slightly, “I’ll show you it later, I can’t believe Johnny told you.”
He pulled his sleeves back down and continued his task. But not for much longer.
“Take your shirt off” I said bluntly – loud enough for all the ladies present to take a baby step forward out of instinct.
“You what!?”
“I said ‘Take your shirt off’. Now”
“Do it!” a soprano voice cheered from the mass of faces. Laugher and screaming erupted.
“Can’t let them down can you?” I said smugly as a chorus of ‘take it off!’ sang through the air; I was aware of a portion of guys there that looked to be in similar anticipation.
But Synyster Gates suddenly flushed into Brian Haner and grew shy. His smile was of embarrassment – it was about time I got him back for all the times he’d made me beetroot coloured.
“Roz... I’m no- hey hey! What are you doing?!” he despaired as I pulled at his white T-shirt. We fought over the garment, him trying to conquer my weaker arms as to keep his body clothed, whilst I showed determination in ripping it off. Sure, he had the advantage – he had the height, the muscles, the ego – but I had the crowd. They cheered me on as I dug my nails into the fabric until eventually – and for the first time – I won.
I threw the now stretched clothing to a quartet of squealing girls for them too to fight over, listening in victory to the whistles coming from the queue of fans. Syn just stood there looking fucking hot as per usual. But, there it was, thin and script like, that ugly five-letter word that normally made my blood boil. But not this time. ‘Rosie’ didn’t seem to bad when it was tattooed on to skin so perfect, across a chest so perfect, on a man so perfect. I traced a finger over it; it was still red from the needle and hot to touch.
“You idiot” I gushed.
“It’s not that much of a big deal” he shrugged, looking down at all his other body art, “One of many”. Typical that he would think so or at least say so.
“It will be there forever,” I said disapprovingly but he nodded.
“It’s a good job I plan on keeping you that long isn’t it?” he joked, and after my playful slap of his arm, we would have kissed, and all the fans would have ‘awww’ed, jealous or otherwise. But that’s not what happened. Some one had made an entrance…
“Rosie, what the hell are you doing here?” She said. The embodiment of betrayal said. My mother said.
He was stood in a devastating pose. Feet spread apart, his hands slung deep into his pockets, thus pulling down his jeans a half inch to reveal a thin line of the top of his boxers. He did it purposefully - I was sure of it. Cocky bastard that he was. Every few seconds he’d reveal his right hand, gliding his signature across each item in a way that seemed to be the metaphor of smooth.
“Syn?” I said quietly once Jeff the security guard had let me pass by the fans, their once excited eyes turning sour and blistering through the back of my head as I stood beside Brian. He looked a little startled and I could tell immediately that his inside thoughts didn’t match the happy expression he’d masked himself with.
“Sorry babe” he said apologetically as he scrawled his name over the surface of one kid’s copy of Waking the Fallen, “Kinda caught up at the mo”.
“I know,” I said, placing my hand on his shoulder slyly, watching the mouths of every girl there to witness become an ‘O’ shape. “It’s just I want to see something”
“I’ll show you something later” he grinned to himself: the blue haired girl who happened to be next in line blushed to a colour that I recognised all too well; I wasn’t cruel enough to tell her his sexual innuendo wasn’t aimed at her. Meanwhile, my eyes scoured across his exposed for arms for any sign of new ‘ink’. Nothing.
I let my hand slip from his shoulder and down to the hem of his sleeve, exposing more skin. I was aware of the daggers flying at me from the minds of every girl, but hell, they knew as much as I did that they were desperate to see more of him anyway!
“I demand to see something now” I muttered, pushing up the sleeve of his right arm now; his hand faltered slightly, very nearly spoiling the current autograph.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked in mild horror.
“Where is it?” I said growing impatient.
“Not now, Roz” he laughed slightly, “I’ll show you it later, I can’t believe Johnny told you.”
He pulled his sleeves back down and continued his task. But not for much longer.
“Take your shirt off” I said bluntly – loud enough for all the ladies present to take a baby step forward out of instinct.
“You what!?”
“I said ‘Take your shirt off’. Now”
“Do it!” a soprano voice cheered from the mass of faces. Laugher and screaming erupted.
“Can’t let them down can you?” I said smugly as a chorus of ‘take it off!’ sang through the air; I was aware of a portion of guys there that looked to be in similar anticipation.
But Synyster Gates suddenly flushed into Brian Haner and grew shy. His smile was of embarrassment – it was about time I got him back for all the times he’d made me beetroot coloured.
“Roz... I’m no- hey hey! What are you doing?!” he despaired as I pulled at his white T-shirt. We fought over the garment, him trying to conquer my weaker arms as to keep his body clothed, whilst I showed determination in ripping it off. Sure, he had the advantage – he had the height, the muscles, the ego – but I had the crowd. They cheered me on as I dug my nails into the fabric until eventually – and for the first time – I won.
I threw the now stretched clothing to a quartet of squealing girls for them too to fight over, listening in victory to the whistles coming from the queue of fans. Syn just stood there looking fucking hot as per usual. But, there it was, thin and script like, that ugly five-letter word that normally made my blood boil. But not this time. ‘Rosie’ didn’t seem to bad when it was tattooed on to skin so perfect, across a chest so perfect, on a man so perfect. I traced a finger over it; it was still red from the needle and hot to touch.
“You idiot” I gushed.
“It’s not that much of a big deal” he shrugged, looking down at all his other body art, “One of many”. Typical that he would think so or at least say so.
“It will be there forever,” I said disapprovingly but he nodded.
“It’s a good job I plan on keeping you that long isn’t it?” he joked, and after my playful slap of his arm, we would have kissed, and all the fans would have ‘awww’ed, jealous or otherwise. But that’s not what happened. Some one had made an entrance…
“Rosie, what the hell are you doing here?” She said. The embodiment of betrayal said. My mother said.