* * *

“Flabs, let me get a bite of that,” Mason said, his hand already extended across the table as he wiggled his fingers.

I didn’t even bother responding before passing my burger over in mid-chew. The Australian promoter had pointed out a restaurant on our drive to the hotel that was within walking distance. We’d all met up in the lobby and made the three-block trip like we were training for a marathon. Needless to say, the last time we’d eaten had been on the flight hours ago and everyone was starving.

Without bothering to ask for permission as usual, Eli took the opportunity to grab my glass and take a big gulp of water just as Gordo, who was sitting on my other side, snagged a few fries off my plate. In the seat across from my brother and next to Mase, Sacha raised his eyebrows as he watched Mason hand me back my food.

I smiled, taking another bite. “I’d offer you some…”

He snickered. “Yeah, thanks. It looks like everyone else is eating half your food anyway.”

I shrugged, popping a fry into my mouth. “It’s why they tell you not to feed stray animals—“

My brother pinched the back of my arm hard.

“Oww, E, you ass,” I cried, rubbing the spot where he’d gotten me.

From the other side, Gordo pinched my other arm.

“Damn it, Gordo,” I hissed.

Down the long table, some of the guys were turning around in their seats to look at something, but I was too busy trying to pinch Gordo in revenge to notice what it was.

I’d just got him back when I overheard one of them say, “Look at those monsters.”

It was Miles whose voice that I recognized that answered. “How big do you think those things are?”

There were murmurs as replies that I couldn’t hear clearly, but I wasn’t an idiot. I knew exactly what they were talking about. Which was why my spine went a little rigid without conscious prompting. I tried not to listen.

Then they started laughing, and I swear it was like reliving that moment two years ago when I’d overheard my loved ones talking to our tour mates about boobs—specifically mine.

“I’d motorboat them—”

“Motorboat? I’d love to—”

I scratched at my eyebrow and blew out a breath, telling myself to ignore the conversation. They weren’t doing it around me, technically. They weren’t talking to me. It also wasn’t like guys didn’t talk about women like that all the time either, because they did. Not to be a hypocrite, I’d willingly admit I ogled half-naked hot guys from time to time.

“They look fake. Don’t they look fake?” someone whose voice I couldn’t pinpoint asked, and that had me really sitting there uptight.

Eli nudged my hand with his, meeting my eyes. He had this weird little tilt to his lips, and I knew he was well aware of what was bothering me. He nudged me again.

“Every girl I’ve ever met with fake—”

I started shaking my leg beneath the table, telling myself to keep my mouth shut. Not your business, Gaby.

“—slut—“

I dropped my fork on the table, at the same time my face got hot. Really, really hot. Even my ears heated up enough that they began to ache a little.

When I was a kid, I grew up watching an actress on television with huge breasts and equally magnificent blonde hair, become a sex icon. While, on the other hand, magazines portrayed women with small chests, slim frames and narrow hips as a standard of beauty. But I was short, had wavy dark hair, a little chubby and had my poor, irregular-sized chest. I didn’t fall anywhere close to either of those body types.

I’d had an A-cup and a C-cup for almost ten years, from my final growth spurt at fourteen to my surgery at twenty-three. No one could ever understand what it was like for me to deal with that or the lengths I went to hide it. I only wore shirts made out of certain materials. Never anything even remotely low-cut despite how much I would have loved to if only because I knew I couldn’t. None of my tops had ever been tight.