Fade Into You (Shaken Dirty 03) - Tracy Wolff ENG

She’s one addiction he can’t resist. Wyatt Jennings has been called a lot of things by the media. Bad-boy rocker. Intense drummer. Addict. Finally out of rehab and desperate for a fresh start, Wyatt rejoins his mega-platinum rock band Shaken Dirty as they prepare for their world tour. But Wyatt’s demons are never far behind, always nipping at his heels for one. More. Fix. Enter Poppy Germaine, the band’s new social media consultant. A beautiful bombshell who somehow manages to get underneath Wyatt’s skin, Poppy’s an addiction Wyatt can get behind. And even though she’s with the label—and therefore off-limits—he craves her. Needs her. Except Poppy isn’t actually a social media consultant. She’s the daughter of the label’s CEO, sent undercover to babysit Wyatt and keep him from falling off the wagon again. Proving herself to her father is Poppy’s only goal—until she finds herself in Wyatt’s bed. But if Wyatt discovers the truth, it could send him spiraling all over again…

Table of Contents Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Acknowledgments About the Author Discover the Shaken Dirty series… Crash Into Me Drive Me Crazy If you love sexy romance, one-click these steamy Brazen releases… Crashed Out Played Taking the Score Game for Tonight

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author ’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Copyright © 2016 by Tracy Wolff. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher. Entangled Publishing, LLC 2614 South Timberline Road Suite 109 Fort Collins, CO 80525 Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com. Brazen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC. For more information on our titles, visit www.brazenbooks.com. Edited by Stacy Abrams Cover design by Heather Howland Cover art from Shutterstock ISBN 978-1-63375-153-8 Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition February 2016

For Emily McKay, who is always, always, always there when I need her.

Chapter One Jesus, he needed a fix. He wasn’t supposed to want one. Had, in fact, just spent ten weeks he could ill afford and two hundred thousand dollars that he could, making sure that he wouldn’t want one. Nice to know that rehab shit was working out just about as well as he’d expected. Which was to say, not fucking at all. So much for third time being the charm. After flipping off the bathroom light, he bent over the sink and splashed cold water on his face. Ran a wet hand over the back of his neck. Rolled his shoulders. Stretched out his back. Concentrated on anything and everything but the three-ton elephant sharing the tiny bathroom with him. It was pretty fucking hard to do when the damn thing felt like it was sitting on his chest. Oh, yeah. That wasn’t an elephant. That was the fucking addiction. How could he forget? “Hey, Wyatt? You okay in there?” Shit. He hadn’t even been gone five minutes. What the fuck did they think he was doing? Shooting up with the liquid soap? Or just smoking the dried flowers in the arrangement hanging above the towel rack? Then again, if he got desperate enough, it was nice to know he had options. Which was probably what his friends were afraid of… Struggling to keep the resentment out of his voice—after all, it wasn’t Jamison’s fault he was such a fuck-up he couldn’t be trusted to go to the fucking bathroom by himself—he called to the woman who was half best friend, half little sister rolled into one, “Yeah. I’ll be out in a minute.” “Okay, sweetie. Let me know if you need anything.” He supposed asking for a couple of grams of heroin was out of the question. More was the fucking pity. Then again, with the way he was feeling, he’d settle for just a few points. Maybe even one or two. It wouldn’t get him to the nodding-out stage—his tolerance was too high for that—but it’d take the edge off. Right now, that was all he wanted. Something to ease the razor-sharp need slicing through his veins, through his lungs, through his head. Something to make it a little easier to turn the light on and face himself in the fucking mirror. It had been a long time since he’d faced the world stone-cold sober. And after being out of rehab for exactly six hours and twenty-seven minutes, he couldn’t say he recommended it.

Then again, there wasn’t a whole lot about his life that he would recommend right now. Even the music that had been playing in the back of his head since he walked out the front doors of the rehab center a free man seemed flat, the notes discordant and just plain off. But that didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. After all, it wasn’t like he could spend the rest of the night hiding in here like the total pussy he was rapidly becoming—they hadn’t snuck in the back door of this Fifth Street club for shits and giggles, after all. The guys had been auditioning bass players for the last few weeks, and it was time to test out one of their top picks at a surprise show. Time to test him out, too, time to see if he still had what it took now that he was a sniveling, sober mess. Not that any of the guys would put it that way—or even so much as mention that this was a kind of audition for him, too. But how could it not be? After the shit he’d put them through the last few years, it was a fucking miracle they hadn’t decided to replace him right along with Micah. God knew their management and label would probably have thrown a fucking parade if they had. But the remaining Shaken Dirty guys were nothing if not loyal—and since he had no plans to fuck either Ryder ’s or Quinn’s fiancée, like Micah had Jared’s—it didn’t look like they planned on turning their backs on him any time soon. He was grateful for that loyalty, even if he didn’t feel like he’d done anything to deserve it, especially in recent months… The noise in his head was getting too loud—the recriminations and the sorrow too clear—so he turned the faucet back on and splashed water on his face again. And noticed, for the first time, just how badly his hands were shaking. If he didn’t know better he’d think the DT’s had gotten ahold of him again. A second knock came at the door and…fuck it. Just fuck it. He was getting the hell out of this bathroom. Now. Before all of Shaken Dirty decided to take up residence in here with him. “I’m coming,” he said, grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser and dried off. Then he took a deep breath, put on his fucking game face, and yanked the door open with way more force than was warranted. There was a part of him that’d been expecting the whole band to be in the hallway waiting for him. Looking him over for new needle tracks or blown-out pupils. But in the end, it was just Jamison waiting, doing her level best to pretend she wasn’t checking up on him. “Sorry to rush you!” she said with a grin. “But I really have to pee.” “Oh, uh, right.” He stepped out of the doorway even as he held the bathroom door open for her. “Sorry I took so long, Jelly Bean.” “No problem.” She glanced into the dark bathroom curiously. “Is the lightbulb out?” “No.” “Oh.” This time her curious look was leveled at him. “Why didn’t you turn the light on? It’s pitch black in there.” Since he couldn’t tell her the truth—that it was easier in the dark because he didn’t have to look

himself in the mirror—he just shrugged. She seemed to get it anyway, her face softening as she pulled him in for a warm, tight hug. Then again, he’d never had to tell Jamison anything, had he? Little sister of Jared, Shaken Dirty’s lead guitarist, and now fiancée to their lead singer, Ryder, she’d been around since they’d been in high school, rehearsing cover songs in her and Jared’s parents’ garage, dreaming of writing their own songs and maybe even hitting the big time. Well, they’d hit the big time, all right. And everything had fallen to shit around them, including him. Maybe especially him. “It’s going to be okay,” Jamison whispered as she held him close. “You’ve got this, Wyatt. I know you do.” Well, that made one of them. Not that he could say that to her—she’d been there every step of the way through rehab and he didn’t want to disappoint her, didn’t want to let her down, not when he’d already done that so many other times through the years. It was why he was here, using every ounce of willpower he had not to walk into the front of the house and score some horse or molly or even some weed. Something, anything, to take the edge off. To make it easier to breathe in his own skin. “I’m all right,” he told her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before untangling himself from the hug. “Go pee. I’ll hang with the guys.” As he walked away, he pretended he was totally fine. Just like he pretended he couldn’t feel her worried eyes tracing his every step. It worked, too, at least until he walked into the communal dressing room that doubled as the green room, and every single person there turned to look at him like he was some kind of animal at the zoo that they’d paid twenty-five bucks to gawk at. Oh, they were more subtle than tourists at the zoo, but he knew they were watching. Knew they were worried. Ryder and Jared were arguing over the merits of Cap’n Crunch versus Coco Krispies (like there was even something to argue about—Crunch Berries obviously ruled) but they kept glancing over at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. Quinn, the band’s keyboardist, was cuddling his woman, Elise, on his lap, and though he was nodding along to whatever she was saying, his gaze was pinned to Wyatt. And finally, Li, the Austin bassist they were trying out tonight to see if their sounds meshed during a live show, just kept staring at him like he thought Wyatt was going to fuck up his one big chance. Which pretty much made Wyatt not like him on principle…but hey, who the fuck was he to judge anyone? Grinding his teeth, he pretended he didn’t notice his bandmates’ scrutiny as he moved deeper into the room. Yet another part of the program that was total bullshit. His shrink had spent much of the last ten weeks telling him he needed to be “authentic.” That his feelings had value. That he needed to share those feelings with the people closest to him even if it made him—or them—uncomfortable. What a total crock. The only thing he would accomplish by admitting to his best friends how badly he needed a fix was to freak them all out. Not to mention have them crawl even deeper up his ass. As

for Li, there was no way he was saying anything in front of a guy he was already pretty sure wouldn’t make the cut. It was a feeling that had nothing to do with how much he already disliked the guy—or at least, that’s what he was telling himself. Ducking his head, Wyatt made his way across the room to the small fridge in the corner. He pulled it open hoping there was something in it besides beer—he wasn’t thirsty, but a bottle of water would at least give him something to do with his hands until he got his sticks in them—and found that it was completely empty. There wasn’t so much as a can of Coke for him to grab. Fuck it. Just fuck it. He closed the fridge door extra carefully—because what he really wanted to do was slam it—and took a few seconds to just breathe before turning around. It wasn’t that the fridge was empty that bothered him. He wasn’t that kind of diva and never had been. But what bugged the shit out of him was that he knew it had been full when they’d gotten there. He’d seen Jared open it, had seen the bottles of beer lined up one after the other. Which meant they’d taken the opportunity to get rid of all the alcohol in the room while he was in the bathroom. They didn’t trust him, didn’t have any more faith in him—and the program that he’d just completed —than he did. Ten weeks, close to a quarter of a million dollars, and more bullshit than he could ever hope to shovel, and the program hadn’t worked worth a damn. He was still a junkie, still an alcoholic, still a failure who couldn’t get—or keep—his shit together. He knew it, had known it from the moment he’d walked out of that damn rehab center this morning. So why the fuck did it bother him so much that his friends knew it, too? “Hey, man,” Quinn said, like he had a clue what Wyatt was thinking. “They’re bringing us some soda from the FOH. Should be here any minute.” He didn’t have a chance in hell of forcing words past his clenched jaw or too-tight throat, so he just nodded. Then he headed for the closest door like hellhounds were nipping at his fucking heels. It turned out the closest door led outside, to the alley behind the club, thank Christ. He let the door slam behind him then took a deep breath of the thick, humid air that permeated all of Austin in early September. Pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, he lit one. Took a long, deep drag. And fought the urge to hit the brick wall behind him until his knuckles broke and his fists bled. The only thing that stopped him was the knowledge that if he did it—if he gave in and shattered his hands and his life wide open—then he couldn’t play tonight. And it would just be one more failure, one more fuck-up, one more way he let down the only people he gave a shit about in the whole fucking world.

Chapter Two Poppy Germaine slid into the waiting limo—and its very welcome air conditioning—with a sigh of relief. It had been an absolutely insane day, one that started with a flight from New York to L.A. for a whirlwind round of meetings that had been cut short when she’d gotten the call from Caleb telling her to catch a plane to Austin ASAP. Austin wasn’t in her itinerary for the week, but he’d said he needed her. And since being his older sister (by only four minutes, but still) was a responsibility she took very seriously, she’d dropped everything and run for the nearest airport. And now, here she was. But her relief at being out of Austin’s stifling heat was short-lived, considering Caleb was supposed to be meeting/picking her up at the airport and unless this limo had a couple of secret compartments, he was definitely not in it. Which was a problem, considering she had no idea what she was doing here. Pulling her cell phone out of her purse, she checked both her text messages and call log, but there was nothing from Caleb. A quick glance at her email told her there was nothing there either, though there was a fairly irate message from her father complaining about her “harebrained” penchant for running out on important meetings without notice. He didn’t, of course, mention the fact that she’d held the meeting via Telepresence as she’d raced to LAX. Or that she’d rocked the meeting, putting together a marketing plan that made both the artist’s management and the label’s accountants happy. But then, why should he when the only reason he’d given her control of marketing on this project was to see her fail? It was supposed to be his big, shining proof that women shouldn’t be record execs. That they were fine as admins and first- or second-level managers, but that they couldn’t hold their own when it came to sitting in on the labels’ top decisions. Not because he was inherently sexist or anything—at least that was his story and he was sticking to it—but because the talent didn’t take them seriously. Rockers and rappers weren’t going to take orders from a woman. She’d tried to tell him a million times that this wasn’t 1965. Or even 1995. The new generation of rock stars would take seriously whoever made them famous and filled their bank accounts. She wasn’t sure the guys she’d been dealing with today even knew she had a vagina. Her dad wasn’t buying it though. No daughter of his was ever going to run a record label. No, that was going to be Caleb’s job. The fact that Caleb didn’t want it—not to mention was hopelessly inept at

everything but the accounting/business side of things—didn’t seem to matter in the slightest. He was going to get it, and she—she was going to be stuck trying desperately to prove herself to her father for many, many more years. Since dwelling on it only depressed her, she shoved thoughts of her dad out of her mind and concentrated instead on trying to figure out what the hell was up with Caleb. Glancing around impatiently, she was just thinking about getting out of the limo—maybe she’d taken so long getting her luggage that he had gone into the airport looking for her—when the driver pulled smoothly away from the curb and into traffic. What the— Punching the intercom button, she told the driver, “Wait! We’re still missing one person. My brother is supposed to meet me here.” “According to my itinerary, you’re my only passenger.” That didn’t make sense. “That’s not possible. I don’t even know where we’re going.” She was so going to kill Caleb when she got her hands on him again. “I was told Antone’s on Fifth Street. Is that not right?” The driver didn’t sound particularly worried. Antone’s? They didn’t have anyone playing there tonight, did they? She checked the schedule of artists and gigs that she updated every week and checked it. Nope, nothing scheduled for Antone’s that she was aware of. Still, Caleb wasn’t known for sending her on wild goose chases… “No, Antone’s is fine,” she told the driver. “Thanks.” Then she pulled her messages back up again. Still no texts. And no phone calls. What the hell was Caleb up to? Googling Antone’s website on her phone, she scrolled through their appearances list. There were a couple of good bands on there this month—bands she’d been keeping an eye on—but she’d never heard of the one they had scheduled for tonight. Fly by Night. A quick Google search showed they didn’t even have a website. Weird. There were no reviews online. Nothing. She started to dig deeper, but then a text message from Caleb finally came in. The dick. Caleb: Hey, Soda Pop! Thanks for saving my ass Me: I haven’t saved anything yet :/ What’s going on? Caleb: This is your shot Me: Unless you mean tequila, I’m pretty sure I don’t know what you’re talking about Caleb: Shaken Dirty’s auditioning a new bassist at Antone’s tonight in a pick-up show that nobody knows about Me: Holy shit! Shaken Dirty????? They’re Fly by Night? Excitement roared through her, had her hands shaking and her heart pounding out of control. She’d been a fan of Shaken Dirty from the very beginning, had been the one to bring them to Caleb’s

attention when the two of them were still in college so that he could convince their dad to sign them (since she knew there was no way their father would take the recommendation from her). When they’d gone big, she’d celebrated with Caleb. And when they’d gone huge, he’d told her father that she’d been the one to pick them out. The one who’d insisted he listen to them. And her dad had still given all the praise to Caleb. No surprise there. Of course, when shit had gone bad and the band had nearly imploded a few months ago, he’d been right there ready to point the finger at her…he was great like that. Caleb had tried to stop the witch hunt, but no one talked Bill Germaine into—or out of—anything once his mind was made up. So she hadn’t protested the castigation or the bust in rank that came with it, because the last thing she’d wanted was their father ’s shit to land on Caleb. But it had been a bitter pill to swallow—Shaken Dirty was far from the first band to suffer from in-fighting and drug abuse. And it wasn’t like she’d been allowed to have anything to do with them once they were signed, anyway. That had been everyone else’s job but hers. And now Shaken Dirty was back, ready to play? Two and a half months didn’t seem long enough for them to really get their shit together. Or more precisely, for their drummer to get his shit together. Me: Wyatt’s out of rehab?!?! Caleb: Yeah. Got out this morning And he was playing tonight? God knew things moved fast in this industry, but this was supersonic. Me: How is he? Caleb: I don’t know. That’s kind of what today’s about. Gauging that and checking out the new bassist Me: They found a new bassist? Who is it? Caleb: They’re auditioning a new bassist. And it’s Li Marcos, from Firestarter Me: He’s good Caleb: Yeah… Me: But not right for them Caleb: You haven’t even heard how they sound together Me: Doesn’t matter. His fingerings aren’t good enough to keep up with Ryder. Or even Jared. He’s going to look like an amateur up there Caleb: Yeah, well. We’ll see Caleb: Also, this is the start of a three to six-month gig Me: For Li?

That was a disaster if ever she’d heard one. Caleb: No. For you Caleb: On top of my regular duties, Dad’s put me in charge of babysitting Wyatt for the next few months, making sure he stays out of trouble. My chance to prove I can handle the talent, he says. But since we both know I can’t… I’ll take over whatever duties of yours I can for a while and you take over Shaken Dirty At her brother ’s words, Poppy’s heart went from pounding too hard to nearly exploding. This was what she wanted, what she’d always wanted. A chance to work with the talent. To use the power of the record label to help them get everything they wanted while proving to the label—to her father—that intense cooperation with the artists could be profitable for everyone. But still… Me: You want me to babysit Wyatt Jennings?!?! Dad will flip Caleb: Not if he understands it’s the only way. Wyatt knows me and I guarantee he’ll figure out I’m a babysitter from the word go. And trust me, that’ll just mess him up more Me: So tell him you’re there for something else. He doesn’t have to know you’re babysitting him Caleb: He’s an addict, not an idiot. He’ll see right through it. But Dad keeps you away from the top-shelf talent. He doesn’t know you Me: Meaning what? You want me to lie to him about who I am? Caleb: That’s exactly what I want you to do. It’s the only way this will work. I don’t want him to think we as a label don’t have any faith in him, which is why I’ve set up a whole identity for you as their new social media consultant. You’ll be documenting Shaken Dirty’s journey from broken band to their first ever stadium tour, which kicks off at ACL in October. You’ll be with them at least until November. You can thank me later Me: Thank you?!?! I can’t be away from the office until November Caleb: Sure you can. I’ve got it handled Me: Again, Dad will freak Caleb: Let me handle Dad. This is the perfect shot for you to do what you’ve always wanted to do and to prove yourself to Dad. You need to take it. It’s a win-win He was right; she knew he was right. If she walked away from this right now, she’d never get another chance. Not with the way Dad was riding Caleb to take more responsibility. And not with the way he was trying so hard to railroad her from marketing over to the accounting side of the business, as far from the artists as she could get. But still, her mind was reeling. She had so much to do, so many things she was responsible for. Was she really supposed to just hang out in Austin for months on end? And if she actually agreed to do

this, how the hell was she supposed to keep one of rock’s baddest boys on the straight and narrow? Wyatt was known as a lot of things—smart, charismatic, sexy as hell. But a rule follower? Definitely not in any description of him she’d ever read. Not to mention that she couldn’t even tell him why she was there—the last thing they needed was for him or the other band members to think that the label didn’t trust him. They needed to keep the talent happy, not send them into a towering rage. She didn’t know if she could pull it off—she was a terrible liar. She couldn’t even tell a white lie without freaking out and looking totally guilty. And now she was supposed to lie to Wyatt for months? The guy was talented and brilliant and if his lyrics were anything to go by, really freaking observant. There was no way she could do this. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t— Her phone buzzed again, multiple times in quick succession. Caleb must have figured he’d given her enough time to freak out and was now ready to reel her back in. That was how their relationship worked—she was the one with the big ideas. He was the coolly pragmatic one who made sure all the i’s were dotted and the t’s were crossed. She swiped back to her messages and sure enough, his first text treated the whole situation like it was a done deal. Caleb: I’ve got the Monarch condo downtown all set up for you Caleb: I had it stocked with food, and you can pick up the keys at the front desk Caleb: There’s already a rental car in the parking spot Caleb: Keys for the car should also be at the front desk. You’ve got the limo for the rest of the night, so have the driver hold on to your stuff while you’re at Antone’s Me: Is there anything you didn’t think of? Caleb: Nope :) Caleb: You can do this, sis Me: Are you sure? It’s Wyatt Jennings!!!!!!! Wyatt Jennings. She’d had a million fantasies about him through the years, had spent more time than she cared to admit thinking about how his talented hands would feel sliding over her skin. And now she was supposed to babysit him? For months? It boggled the mind. Caleb: I wouldn’t have arranged this if I wasn’t sure Caleb: This is the chance for you to show Dad that you can totally handle the most badass of rockers. Don’t second-guess yourself. Just do it Me: Really? You’re quoting Nike to me at a time like this??????? Caleb: I was going for supportive

Caleb: But seriously, don’t fuck up. You won’t get a chance this good again And there went the excitement, sliding straight into terror. Her stomach started churning. Me: I think I’d rather go back to Nike. Thanks for the vote of confidence. And the added pressure Caleb: You live for pressure xx The kicker was, he was right…to a degree. In normal circumstances she loved the adrenaline rush of solving high-difficulty problems in high-pressure situations. Loved the creativity that came when her back was against the wall and she was staring down the barrel of a crazy deadline or a crazier mess. But this…this was different. This wasn’t pressure. This was a nightmare. A lie. A disaster waiting to happen. And thanks to Caleb, she was now right in the middle of it. Part of her wanted to text him back, to tell him to forget it. That he needed to get his ass down here to Austin right the fuck now. But there was another part of her that knew he was right, knew that him being here watching over Wyatt’s shoulder would send the reclusive drummer spinning out of control again. And that was the last thing she wanted to see happen. For the record label…and for Wyatt. He was too talented, had worked too hard to get clean, for her to just let him fall back into the abyss. And that wasn’t even taking into account what his falling off the wagon again would do to the label. Since Shaken Dirty had had to pull out of the last tour, the tour insurance for this new one was completely insane—Caleb had taken great pains this summer to impress on her just how insane it was —and they sure as hell couldn’t afford to eat the astronomical deductible on it a second time. If Wyatt fucked up again, it would tank Shaken Dirty for sure. And take a huge bite out of her father ’s bottom line as well. Plus, she was pissed. It infuriated her that the subterfuge was necessary. That she and Caleb had to pull a bait and switch like this just to do what was best for the company. And on that happy thought… She shoved her phone back in her purse with a groan, then closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the seat as she accepted the truth. She was going to do this. She was going to throw herself into the ring with Wyatt freaking Jennings and do her best to keep him on his game. She could only pray that it didn’t blow up in her face and ruin everything. Everything she had planned. Everything she’d ever wanted. Everything she’d worked so hard for. Her whole life she’d never wanted anything more than to run her own record label. She had an eye for talent, had a really good instinct for what the public wanted and who was going to break when. But since her father had made it pretty much impossible for her to get a job at any of the other labels—for her own good, he always said—she’d been stuck working for him since she got out of college four years ago. Unless she actually pulled this off. Unless she actually managed to keep Wyatt from falling off the

wagon and messing everything up again. If she could do that, if she could keep Shaken Dirty together, then everything would be different. Her father wouldn’t be able to doubt her anymore. He wouldn’t be able to pretend her contributions were less valuable just because she was a woman. And he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to tell her she couldn’t handle rock stars, not if she managed to keep one of the industry’s most notorious addicts from falling prey to his most dangerous addiction once again. Which meant she was going to have to put her big girl panties on and do this. She was going to have to lie to the band and figure out a way to keep Wyatt occupied and sober and out of trouble. Plus she was going to have to do all this while also spying on the bassist auditions, because there wasn’t a chance that Li was going to measure up to the talent the rest of Shaken Dirty displayed. And since there was no way in hell she was going to let them pick a subpar bassist, she would have to find a way to solve that problem, too. Yeah, no pressure at all. For a moment, she considered asking the driver to pull into the nearest convenience store so she could stock up on Cherry Garcia ice cream. If she was going to have to do this, she was going to do it fully fortified on Ben & Jerry’s. Otherwise, she didn’t have a chance of making it through. But before she could hit the intercom button again, the driver pulled over to the curb. “This is as close as I can get you tonight, ma’am. But if you walk a block up, you can’t miss it on the right.” “Thanks, I appreciate it.” She grabbed her purse and opened up the car door before the driver could make it around to her side and do it for her. “Here’s my card,” he told her as he shut the door behind her. “Text me when you leave the club and I’ll meet you here.” She nodded, shoving the card into the front pocket of her purse. “Thanks.” She smiled at him, hoping her nerves didn’t show. She’d been to this club many times since she’d turned twenty-one, but none of them seemed as important—or as terrifying—as this time. Refusing to dwell on that fact, or what she was going to do once she got to Antone’s, she gave the driver a little wave and then walked away. As she turned on to Fifth Street, she was giving herself the pep talk of a lifetime. By the time she got to Antone’s, she was calm, cool, in control. At least until she paid her cover at the door and started making her way into the belly of the club. Then, as the darkness and the noise of a band that was decidedly not Shaken Dirty closed around her, she couldn’t help freaking out. There was no way she could do this, no way she could play Wyatt like that. She’d screw everything up, get him super pissed at the record label, and then any chance she had of showing her dad she could do this job would go up in smoke. But did she have a choice? If there was a better, more reasonable option, she was all for it. But since she couldn’t come up with anything—and neither could Caleb or her dad—she was pretty sure she was stuck with this plan. Damn it. As she made her way through the club, the close, hot air made it hard to breathe. Then again, maybe

that was just her panic. Either way, she wasn’t about to have a meltdown in the middle of a show, so she pushed her way through the wall of bodies in front of her and slowly, painstakingly, made her way to the bathrooms. If nothing else, she’d spend a couple of minutes splashing water on her face and definitely not hyperventilating. She could do this. She would do this. Except when she got there, the bathroom was packed—which overshadowed any good her you-cando-it mantra had wrought. Bypassing the crowded room, she made her way down the hallway to the door at the end, clearly marked with a red EXIT sign. Seconds later she was in a dimly lit alley behind the club, hands braced on her hips as she pulled giant gulps of air into her lungs. She could do this, she repeated to herself. She had to do this. She could totally do this— “You look like you need this even more than I do.” The deep, rich voice came out of the dark, had her stifling a scream and whirling around, hand pressed to her heart. As she turned, she came face to face with a guy leaning back against the brick wall of the club, his face in the shadows and a lit cigarette in the hand he was currently extending out to her. She stared at the cigarette dumbly and willed her heart rate back under control. “I don’t smoke.” As soon as the words were out, she wanted to snatch them back. What the hell was wrong with her? The hottest sounding man she’d ever run across had just offered her a cigarette and she acted like queen of the Goody Two-shoes? Was she insane? He just laughed, though, and told her, “Smart move, that. Addiction’s a bitch.” Then he lifted the clove cigarette to his mouth for another drag. She watched, hypnotized, as his full lips closed around it. Watched, spellbound, while he inhaled the heavily spiced smoke then blew it out again in a series of perfect, concentric rings. As she watched the rings dissipate in the air around them, she was pretty sure the only thing holding her panties up at this point were the skinny jeans she’d changed into at the airport in L.A. She just wished she could see him better—she desperately wanted to know if the face matched the voice. “What are you doing out here?” he asked after a second, his voice even darker and more gravelly than it had been just a few seconds before. “Shouldn’t you be in there listening to the opening band? They’re pretty good.” “They are,” she agreed—because they were and because she was pretty sure he was with them. “I just needed some air.” “Yeah, I get that.” He laughed again, though this time there was no amusement in the sound. His eyes coasted over her then, lingered on the glow-in-the-dark words scrawled across her T-shirt—and her chest. “Hiding from a broken heart, huh?”

She glanced down at the shirt, too. I Heart Breakups. She’d picked it up when she was in Europe last summer, at the Museum for Broken Relationships in Croatia. She’d gone because she’d been fascinated by the concept of one of Europe’s most innovative museums, had figured she’d see a ton of stories about lovers gone wrong, maybe even pick up some ideas for marketing—or her secret songwriting hobby. What she’d found instead were stories that broke her heart. Shattered stories of lovers, yes, but also friends, siblings, parents and their children. It was the last that had resonated so deeply with her, that had had her sitting in the museum’s café, drinking tea and eating freshly baked lemon cookies as she tried to regain her equilibrium. Not that she was going to say all that to some guy she’d just met—no matter how intriguing or sexy he was. Instead, she said simply, “It wasn’t that kind of breakup.” He nodded before lifting the cigarette to his lips again. “I know how that goes.” “Is that why you’re out here? Hiding from a bad breakup?” He snorted. “More like hiding from myself.” She studied what little she could see of him—the lean chest, the chiseled jaw. “Oh, yeah? How’s that going for you?” “About as well as could be expected.” He took one last drag of the cigarette before dropping it to the ground and crushing it beneath the heel of his worn, brown Dingo boot. Then he reached for her. “Hey. Come here.” She was an intelligent woman, one who’d met thousands of musicians in her day. One who knew better than to fall for the line of some too-smooth roadie behind a club. One who had a job to do at this very club, a job that she really needed to get started on. But there was something in his voice, something in the way he held himself in the shadows—in the way he’d clutched that cigarette like a lifeline—that hit a nerve deep inside of her. Her own loneliness, maybe. Or the anger churning in her gut over this whole farce, and the father who had forced Caleb and her into it. She loved rock. Loved everything about it. The way it was a fist in her gut, an angry punch to her heart, a tug between her thighs. For so long she’d tamped that down, had ignored and hidden and been ashamed of that part of her, because that wasn’t how a label rep was supposed to respond to music. It wasn’t how Bill Germaine’s daughter was supposed to feel. But here, now, with the visceral beat of it pouring out of the club, she couldn’t ignore the need anymore. Tonight, when the show was over—when Shaken Dirty had played their set—she’d be her father ’s perfect little soldier again. Business-like, no-nonsense, the woman she needed to be to show him that she could do this job. More, that she deserved a chance to do it. But for now, for this moment, she was going to say to hell with all the “shoulds” and “had tos” and just enjoy the hell out of the music and this man. This beautiful, sexy man who seemed to embody everything she couldn’t be, everything she couldn’t have.

And so, she went when he reached for her. So she let him wrap his hand around her wrist and tug her gently toward him until she was standing between the deep V of his legs. So she let him put his other hand under her chin and tilt her face up to his. She couldn’t see his eyes. He was still in the shadows—they both were now—but that didn’t matter. Not when he was letting go of her wrist so that he could slide his hand from her hip to her waist to the sensitive spot on her lower back. And definitely not when he slid his fingers under her shirt and tickled the delicate skin of her back before dipping them slowly, inexorably, beneath the waistband of her jeans. She knew she should protest, knew she should step back—she didn’t know this guy at all—but his words echoed inside of her. Slammed up against her own walls and all the things she kept hidden deep inside of herself. Which was why, instead of protesting, she let him. Hell, she nearly begged him to do it, her head falling back to bare her neck to him even as her lower body arched against his. He accepted the invitation, a dark, rumbly sound coming from his chest as he leaned down and pressed his lips against her collarbone. It felt so good. He felt so good, and it had been so long since she’d done this. So long since she’d given in—to a man or to this side of herself. Sparks of desire caught fire inside of her at the first touch of his mouth, making her wet. Making her need. And that was before he licked his way to the hollow of her throat. Before he trailed hot kisses up the side of her neck to the delicate spot behind her ear. Before he nibbled softly at her earlobe, his breath hot and moist against her skin. She gasped then, at the pain and the pleasure of it, her hands clutching at him as she arched her back. Offered him more. Demanded more. “I like that sound,” he murmured, nipping sharply at her ear before lowering his mouth back to the point where her neck met her shoulder. “Let’s see if we can get you to make it again.” She was so, so, so totally on board with that plan. Especially when he started licking at the sensitive bend, his mouth hot and soft and just a little bit wet as he sucked her skin between his teeth and gently bit down. This time the sound she made was more moan than gasp—half arousal, half pained denial—and he laughed a little at her response, a stark, sexy sound that only made her wetter…and more desperate. She pulled at him then, sliding her hands into his shaggy blond hair and tugging, hard. She wanted —needed—to know what those lips felt like pressed against hers. He wouldn’t give in, though. Wouldn’t give her what she wanted. Instead he teased her until she gasped. Until she whimpered. Until she begged. For his mouth. For his touch. For the release she could feel building inside of her from just the press of his mouth on her skin. From just the tangle of his fingers in her hair. And then he was turning her, turning them. Pressing her back up against the wall and dropping to

his knees in front of her. Before she could even assimilate that, his mouth was on her breast, his teeth biting gently at her nipple through the thin layers of her T-shirt and bra. “Please,” she gasped, fingers grabbing on to his shoulders to steady herself. “Oh God. Please.” “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he told her as he unbuttoned her jeans, slid his hand inside. “I’ve got you.” As he lifted his mouth from her breast she remembered for a second, just one second, where she was. Remembered what she was there for and all the reasons why this was a really bad idea. But then his thumb was on her clit, his fingers stroking along her sex, and the only thing she could think about was how good it felt. How good he felt. She’d been so focused on her career—on proving herself—that it had been too long since she’d made love, too long since she’d had any part of a man inside of her. And the men she had had through the years—all three of them—had never made her feel like this. Had never even come close. “Where’d you go?” he asked, pressing his mouth against her navel. She opened her mouth to answer, to tell him she was right there, but before the words could form he was tugging her jeans down her hips, spreading her legs as far as the tight fabric would let him. And then he was leaning forward, burying his face in her sex, delivering one long, slow lick to her clit. She whimpered, her body arching against him. Her fingers clutching at—tangling in—the thin fabric of his T-shirt. Her knees trembling. He laughed a little at the breathless sounds she couldn’t stop herself from making, his tongue running back and forth against her slit over and over again, dipping inside just enough to make her crazy, licking her labia just firmly enough to have her gasping for breath and arching her hips against his face. “Please,” she pleaded, and any other time she’d be embarrassed by how desperate she sounded. How needy. Right now, though, all she could think about was his tongue—his wicked, wild, wonderful tongue—and how good it felt. How good he was making her feel. And how close she was. “Please, please, please—” “You want to come, baby?” he asked, his voice nothing but gravel. “Yes. Oh God, yes. Please.” He shifted a little so that he could slide first one finger and then a second deep inside her. At the same time, his tongue darted out, caressed her inner folds again and again. She spread her legs wider, made a desperate sound deep in her throat as she opened herself to everything—anything—he wanted to give her. It must have been what he was waiting for, because it was his turn to groan. His turn to clutch at her. He circled her clit, flicked at it with the tip of his tongue even as he hooked his fingers deep inside of her and found her G-spot. He started to stroke at the same time he sucked at her clit and she came,

screaming and bucking wildly against him. His free hand tightened on her hip, and he held her in place, his thumb digging into her skin in the best possible way as he licked and kissed and fingered her through one climax and into another. When it was over, when she was panting and shaking and trying desperately to pull herself together, he pressed soft kisses to her abdomen before pulling her jeans back up her hips. “Can I—” She reached for him, slid a hand down his chest to the waistband of his jeans. She wanted to give him at least a little of the pleasure he’d given her. But before she could so much as undo the top button, the door from the club into the alley swung open. As light poured out of the club and into the darkness, she turned her head and found herself staring into the amused eyes of Jared Matthews, lead guitarist for Shaken Dirty. He smirked at her a little before glancing down at the man still kneeling between her thighs. “Shake a leg, Wyatt,” he said after a second. “We go on in five.” “Be right there, man.” Panic tore through her as the truth hit her like a freight train, obliterating the last, lingering shocks of pleasure and making her feel as if her head was going to explode. Jared nodded before stepping back into the club and closing the door behind him. And then she was alone with him again. Alone with Wyatt Jennings—Wyatt Jennings—who had just tenderly kissed her abdomen before zipping her jeans back up. While she was still trying to wrap her head around the fact that the man who had just made her come—twice—was no other than the bad-boy drummer of Shaken Dirty and the man she was in Austin to babysit and lie to, he pushed himself to his feet. Then he was dropping a kiss on her cheek and murmuring, “Thank you, sweetheart,” before disappearing back into the club. Poppy stared after him, mouth open and pants unbuttoned, as she wondered what the fuck she was supposed to do now.

Chapter Three “All right, people. Listen up! You ready to have your socks knocked the fuck off?” Wyatt lined up behind Quinn as Sam, the bar ’s manager, started their introduction. When Ryder had booked the gig, he’d chosen Antone’s because it was live music in Austin—and had been for as long as Shaken Dirty had been playing. When they were young and green, they would have done anything for a gig here, and now that they were kicking off a whole new chapter, it seemed fitting that it start here, too. The manager had been more than happy to book them under a fake name as long as he was able to reveal who they were at the beginning of their set—with time for the news to go out on social media and get people flocking to his club. They’d gone with it, largely because it would be stupid to try to hide their identities once they got under the spotlight anyway. It wasn’t like they were a band on the brink of breaking out anymore. They’d already broken out, and Ryder and Jared’s faces were recognizable to anyone who followed the rock—or gossip—scenes. Plus, making sure everyone knew it was Shaken Dirty that was playing was also a good way to gauge the mood of their fans, to see how they felt about the band after the disastrous canceling of their last tour. “Because I’m about to let you in on a little secret,” Sam continued. “One nobody else in the whole world knows but the people in this club. Are you ready to hear it?” The crowd murmured an assent, the sound starting low but swelling by the end. Wyatt could feel the electricity building in the air, could feel it running along his arms and the back of his neck. The crowd was waking up, looking around as if they knew something big was about to happen. He closed his eyes, stretched out his neck, licked his lips. And tasted her on them. Fuck. She tasted good. He licked his lips again, savoring the taste of her even as he did his best to ignore the fact that his dick was rock hard and aching. Fuck Jared. If he’d waited five more minutes, Wyatt would have been buried balls deep in her as she made those strangled little sounds that drove him crazy. Fifteen minutes more, and they both would have been coming and he would have been thinking about that right now instead of how much he still wanted a fix. “I asked, are you motherfuckers ready to hear it?” Sam yelled into the mic. “Are. You. Ready?” The crowd grew louder, shouts ringing through the small space, bouncing off the walls and the relatively low ceiling.

For a second, just a second, he regretted not getting her name. Or her number. They could have ended the night the way they’d started it off—with his tongue deep inside of her as she came and came and came all around him. But that wasn’t what he was here for, he reminded himself as he tried to get his dick under control. To keep the demons at bay, he could fuck himself raw after the set. But right now it was about the music. About the show. He’d screwed up enough to last a lifetime—he needed to make this gig count. Needed to show the others that he could still do the job they needed him to do. “That’s what I’m talking about!” Sam screeched. “Now, get ready to scream, people, because the truth is, Fly by Night is just a cover name so tonight’s band could sneak in here under the radar and surprise you guys with the best fucking show you’ve ever seen down here. Are you ready for that?” The crowd got even louder, their screams echoing across the still empty stage and bouncing off the walls. The familiar nerves had his stomach clenching up. “All right, then! Let me hear you as you help me welcome back to the stage for the first time in over two months, one of the greatest bands I’ve ever had the privilege of hearing live. Shaken Motherfucking Dirty!” For a few seconds that just might have been the longest of his life, the audience was completely silent. No cheering, no screaming, nothing. Just crickets. Just quiet. Nerves getting worse—this wasn’t how he’d expected news of their first show since the forced hiatus to be received—Wyatt exchanged glances with the other guys as he tried to figure out if the crowd’s silence was good or bad. From the look on his bandmates’ faces, he wasn’t the only one confused, wasn’t the only one nervous about how the night was going to go. But then the crowd erupted. Screams rocked the club, people whistled and stomped and shouted their approval until it felt like the whole place was about to bust at the seams. Or go up in flames. Or both. Wyatt grinned at the others as relief swept through him. Now that was more like it. Definitely the reaction he’d been waiting—and praying—for. They all grinned back at him before Ryder threw back his head and laughed like a maniac. He punched a fist in the air, slammed his other hand down on first Jared’s back and then Quinn’s. Jared laughed, too, yelling, “Let’s tear this motherfucking place to the motherfucking ground!” “Hell, yeah!” Ryder shouted back just as loudly. Then he leaned over and pushed hard at Wyatt’s back, shoving him out into the spotlight before he knew what had hit him. The audience gasped when they saw him, then started cheering and chanting his name. Flashes exploded as picture after picture was taken and he knew it was only a matter of minutes before his comeback was all over social media. The crowd’s enthusiasm was exactly the response he needed to ease the tension that had had a stranglehold of his chest for the past hour, exactly what he needed to get past the craving for a fix that never quite went away, and just focus on the music and the crowd and the joy of once again making music with his friends.

This was what was real, he reminded himself. This was what mattered. He was here to play the fucking drums beside Quinn and Ryder and Jared. He was here to entertain the crowd. Everything else could wait. With that thought beating in his brain like a metronome on high, he smiled out at the crowd. Shoved his hands in the air and waved as they went crazy. Then tossed out a couple of the extra drumsticks he always kept in his back pocket during a show, making sure they made it to different corners of the club. The audience went wild for them, just like they always did. It made him relax just a little more, made this whole thing feel more familiar after two and a half months of being out of the loop. Which in turn had him grinning and tossing out a couple more sticks as a thank-you to the crowd for being so fucking cool. As the fans continued going nuts, he made his way toward his kit, securing his in-ears as he went. This was his shot to show the band he was worth the faith they’d put in him—his shot to show everyone that he wasn’t completely fucked up beyond repair—and he was going to take it. Just as he reached his drums at the back right of the stage, Ryder ran past him to take center stage. “Hello, Austin! How the fuck are you tonight?” the lead singer yelled into the mic as the rest of them found their places. Quinn came to the back of the stage to join Wyatt—his keyboard was set up left of center—while Jared and Li took their respective spots in front of them. Maybe it made him an ass, but he was glad that Jared was the one in front of him instead of Li. He didn’t want to spend the whole set watching the other guy’s every move, comparing himself to him and trying to make sure he came out on top. Plus, the familiarity of the formation chilled him out even more, helped him get into the headspace he hadn’t been able to find before coming out on stage. The crowd roared their response to Ryder, and Jared got in on the act, welcoming them all to the show and talking about how Austin was the greatest music city in the country. And then they were launching into “Realize, Real Lies,” one of their biggest hits to date and one of Wyatt’s favorite songs to perform ever. He’d written it with Quinn a couple of years back and the drum fills launching into the chorus and the bridge were some of the sickest he’d ever played. Definitely the sickest he’d ever written. It was a super-fast song, one guaranteed to get the crowd going, and Wyatt lost himself to it as he set the beat on the hi-hat cymbals all the while working the snare and bass drum like they were his whole world. When the first drum fill came up, he poured it all out—all the rage and pain and fear that ate at him like a parasite—slamming down on the tom-toms and the crash cymbals like his life fucking depended on it. In that moment, it sure as shit felt like it did. So he played, and as the song drew to an end, he threw in an angry, extended drum fill that rocked the club like an explosion and had his bandmates turning to stare at him with wide eyes and raised brows. They were smiling though, so he kept at it, building and building and building the line until he

was going so fast his hands were a blur even to him. And then he held it—held the beat, held the rhythm—for nearly three minutes as the crowd roared and Ryder and Jared egged him on. Only the knowledge that he had a whole show to play—and that the last thing he needed to be doing right now was showboating—had him bringing it down. It just felt so goddamn good to be back the fuck where he belonged. From that moment on, the night was magic. Or, more accurately, the night was music, pure and simple. Music flowing through him. Music washing over him. Music getting inside of him. Pulling him under. Pulling him deeper, deeper, deeper, until all he could feel was the rhythm. Until all he could feel was the beat. It was in his veins, in his blood, in the crazy wild pounding of his heart. Fuck, he’d missed this shit. It felt like so much longer than ten weeks since he’d played. It felt like forever. Maybe because it had been such a long time since he’d done this stone-cold sober. So long, in fact, that he’d almost forgotten what it felt like when there was nothing to come between him and the beat. Nothing to mute the thrum in his veins. The vibration in his fingers. The sweet burn in his shoulders that only came when he wailed away, full-throttle, on his kit. It was the best feeling in the fucking world. Better than nodding out. Better than flying. Better, even, than sex, though there was a tiny, distracted part of him that wondered if that would still hold true if he’d had the time to get that cute little brunette he’d met in back of the club into bed. Eating her out had been one of the hottest things he’d ever done, and something told him it wasn’t just because he’d gone two and a half months with only his hand to get him off. No, there was something about the way she’d felt under his fingers, the noises she’d made as he’d taken her higher and higher, that was sticking with him way longer than an anonymous encounter before a show warranted. Hell, her gasps and whimpers were still playing in the back of his head, adding a sexy-as-fuck baseline to the music he was playing. Each pump of the bass drum, each crash of the ride cymbals, sounded like her in his head. And it made the playing so much sweeter. In between songs, Jared and Ryder pandered to the ever-growing crowd. Asking them how Li was doing, which they answered with whistles and shouts. Teasing them. Working them up even higher so that they were in a frenzy by the time they were winding up for the last couple of songs. Every time he had a break, he searched the crowd for the brunette, wondering if she was still around. Hoping she was. It was hard to see past the first few rows because of the lights, but he kept looking anyway. Ending the night inside her seemed like a pretty good finish to him. But the movement of the now-capacity crowd made it impossible for him to focus on any one face. They were so into the music, clapping and stomping and singing along like this was a stadium show

instead of a cramped club on Fifth Street. It reminded him of the early days, before things had gotten so fucked up. Before the drugs took hold of him and he ruined everything. So he played. He played and played and played, going so hard that sweat was dripping off of him and pooling on the floor at his feet. So hard that his shoulders and back and arms screamed at him to stop. So hard that he broke half a dozen drumsticks before the show hit the three-quarters mark. And he loved every fucking second of it. More than once, he caught Jared or Quinn or Ryder looking at him, eyes wide and mouths open. He didn’t care, wouldn’t let himself get bogged down in worrying about what was wrong. He knew he was playing well, knew he was on point, and whatever it was that had them looking at him like that could wait ’til they were off-stage. This feeling was too fucking good to waste. He was riding it all the way home.

Chapter Four He was on fire. There was no other way to describe it, no other words to do justice to what she was seeing. What she was hearing. Wyatt was in the back right corner of the stage, but it was like he was the only one out there. Like there was a giant spotlight focused right on him while everyone else was just standing around in the dark. Obviously, that wasn’t true. The whole band sounded amazing. Ryder ’s vocals were right on, Jared’s guitar playing was phenomenal as usual, and Quinn was as close to perfect on the keyboards as a human could get. It was crazy. More, it was like it had been two days since they’d played together instead of two months. That’s how well they blended together, how well their styles meshed. Sure, Li was a little off, just as she’d known he would be—he was good, but his skills weren’t up to their level and his style was too removed to work with what the others were throwing out. Plus, he wasn’t coming close to keeping up with the drum line Wyatt was laying down, which was a problem considering bass and drums worked hand in hand in most Shaken Dirty songs. But then again, it wasn’t like keeping up with Wyatt was easy at the best of times. And now, when he was mounting a full-on assault on those drums? Even Jared and Quinn were struggling to stay with him and this was their music. He was their drummer. But hell, she didn’t think any musician in the world could be on that stage tonight and be anything but overshadowed by what Wyatt was doing. His stick work was so fast, so precise, so fucking brilliant, she wouldn’t be surprised if his whole kit burst into flames right in front of him. There was a part of her that wondered how it hadn’t already. Music was her life, and rock was the genre she was most passionate about. She could name every member of every halfway decent rock group in the world, could list off the best singers, best guitarists, best drummers and bassists and keyboardists to ever live, along with their best performances. And she would swear that at this moment, no drummer she’d ever heard—not Keith Moon, not Dave Grohl, not Josh Freese, not even Charlie Watts—could hold a candle to Wyatt Jennings. He’d always been amazing, had always been brilliant at making the drums the creative backbone of every Shaken Dirty song, but right now, in this club after two and a half months of rehab, stone-cold sober and wailing away on the tom-toms, he was the best she’d ever seen. The best she’d ever heard.

And she wasn’t just thinking that because it had only been an hour since he’d given her the two most intense orgasms of her life… Which she still couldn’t believe she’d let happen. Not with Wyatt. Not when she had a job to do that so specifically revolved around him. Not when she’d worked so hard and for so long to prove her father wrong…one slipup, one moment of giving in to the fire she worked so hard to keep tamped down, and she might have fucked it all up. If her dad found out what she’d done, it was more than enough ammunition for him to cut her out of this side of the business once and for all. More than enough ammunition to make him think that his archaic views about her had been right all along. Then again, maybe he had been right. Not about women and rock stars in general, but about her. About her response. Because, God knew, her panties hadn’t stood a chance against Wyatt’s charisma, and neither had the rest of her. The fact that she hadn’t known it was him at the time didn’t make her feel any better about the whole situation. She’d still let the man she was here to babysit go down on her behind a Fifth Street bar. She’d still clutched his shoulders and begged him to make her come. There was no getting around that, no pretending it hadn’t happened. And if she didn’t have a clue what she was going to do about it now, then it was nobody’s fault but her own. Besides, that wasn’t strictly true. She knew what she should do. After forty-five minutes of trying to wrap her head around the fact that she’d just let Wyatt Jennings get her off behind a bar, she knew she should call her brother back and come clean. Tell him everything and convince him to hightail his ass down here to Austin before things got any worse. Hopefully he’d have better luck keeping his jeans on around Wyatt than she had… But knowing it and doing it were two different things, because no matter how many times she’d told herself to make the call, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Couldn’t even bring herself to text him that there was a problem. And it wasn’t just because she didn’t want to blow this chance—though she’d be lying if she said that didn’t play a small part in it. But the real truth was—orgasms notwithstanding—she really was the best person for this job. Besides the four men on stage, nobody knew this band better than she did. Not their management, not her brother, definitely not her father. From the moment Caleb had convinced her dad to sign them at her behest, she’d been there, behind the scenes. Listening, watching, learning all she could about them. Strategizing about how best to break them out in today’s pop-heavy market. Their dad thought Caleb was behind the bold publicity and social media moves Shaken Dirty had made over the last few years, thought her brother was the one who’d finalized the song choices for the album. But the truth was, it was all her. She’d spent weeks, months, years of her life figuring out a plan to blow Shaken Dirty up, and when it had succeeded—when they’d broken wide open and started

selling out stadiums—she’d sat down in the middle of her office and cried with joy. She’d tried her hardest to help this band get what they deserved that the idea of backing away now, of trusting anyone else—even Caleb—to make sure that they held together, was anathema to her. At the moment, things were so delicate with them, the line they were walking between being rock gods or screw-ups who were just a footnote in rock and roll history was so thin that they couldn’t afford to blow this chance. The next steps they made didn’t just have to be right. They had to be perfect. Now that she knew they weren’t just laying low for the next couple of months, she wasn’t ready to trust Caleb or their management with them. Not when so many mistakes had already been made. No, she was sticking around. Sticking this out. There was no other option. Not when she was standing here in the audience of this too-small club watching every single person in the room melt for them. Not when she was watching the show of a lifetime unfold right in front of her eyes. Shaken Dirty was on the brink of making history—she could feel it in her bones—and there was no way she was going to miss it. No way she wasn’t going to do everything in her power to make that happen. And so she didn’t call her brother, even though her phone was burning a hole in her pocket. She didn’t mosey over to the bar where Richard and Gus from their management team were currently watching the show with eagle eyes. She didn’t even strategize about what to do to keep the post-show meet-and-greet from becoming one big humiliation for her. Instead, she said to hell with all of it and settled back to finish the best club show she’d ever seen. And if at the end of Shaken Dirty’s set, she snuck out of the club without ever introducing herself to the guys, well then, there was no one but herself around to blame her. Besides, tomorrow morning was soon enough to start fixing the mess she’d made with Wyatt. Or at least, that was her story and she was sticking to it.

… Of course, as it turned out, the next morning she was no more ready to deal with the mess she’d made than she’d been the night before. The only difference was, today she didn’t have a choice. Not if she was going to do the job Caleb had entrusted her with. As her alarm went off for the third time that morning, Poppy threw back the luxurious duvet she was cowering under and crawled out of bed. According to the schedule Caleb had given her, the guys of Shaken Dirty were meeting at Quinn’s house at noon today to write on the new album. And, she assumed, to discuss the bassist they’d auditioned the night before. There was no way she was going to miss that, no matter how embarrassed she was. Not when Li had been so wrong for the group. On the off chance that they didn’t recognize how bad a fit he was, she wanted to be there to steer the conversation. Or more likely—since she was going to be undercover as the new social media consultant—to call Caleb and demand he refuse to accept the former Firestarter bassist as the new fifth member of Shaken Dirty. The fact that she still didn’t know what she was going to do about the whole alley/losing her panties

thing from last night was something she refused to dwell on. At least until two hours later, after she’d spent the morning drowning in work emails, and she was standing under a hot shower with nothing else to think about. How the hell was she going to pull this off? How the hell was she going to face Wyatt after she’d let him do all those wicked things to her in that alley? Or Jared, for that matter, when he’d seen her pressed up against that wall, jeans unbuttoned and Wyatt on his knees in front of her. She could just brazen it out, could pretend that this was something she did all the time. The only problem was, she didn’t think she was a good enough liar to carry it off. The vibes she normally gave off didn’t exactly scream groupie… Then again, they were rock stars. They probably did do this kind of thing all the time. What were the odds that they’d even remember it today—or, at least, remember her? The alley had been dark, so dark that she hadn’t recognized Wyatt even when he was on his knees in front of her. Admittedly, he’d cut his hair and grown a short beard while in rehab, plus his trademark tattoos had been covered up by the long-sleeve black T-shirt he’d been wearing. Not to mention the fact that he’d stuck to the shadows while she hadn’t bothered to. But still, it had been dark. And it wasn’t like she’d introduced herself. Maybe if she wore her hair differently and acted uber-professional, they wouldn’t put today’s Poppy together with the girl who had let Wyatt do whatever he wanted to her last night. She figured it was the best bet she had. Was it perfect? Not even close. Was it better than going in there and admitting she’d behaved completely unprofessionally? Abso-fucking-lutely. She would if she had to, but if she didn’t…well, what was one more lie at this point? She was already screwed … After finishing her shower, she dried her hair and straightened it to within an inch of its life. Then she wound it into a super tight, super high bun that was about as far from the loose curls she’d worn last night as she could get. A quick stop at the mall yielded a gypsy-looking maxi skirt and peasant blouse that were so not her normal style, and a pair of glasses distinctive enough that she hoped they’d keep the attention off her features. Which left her just enough time to stop by a local bakery for a dozen cupcakes—she was a big believer in never approaching a band empty handed—before driving to the Island, the small, exclusive peninsula where Quinn Bradford and Ryder Montgomery owned houses. Caleb, genius planner that he was, had left her credentials at the gatehouse to the exclusive neighborhood, and then it was just a matter of following the trails around until she found Quinn’s house. She pulled up his long, winding driveway slowly, promising herself that everything was going to be fine. Telling herself that her “disguise” would totally work. Reminding herself to breathe. She’d brought cupcakes, after all. They’d probably be so blinded by the chocolate frosting that they’d barely even look at her. After pulling into one of the guest parking spaces to the left of the main house, she gathered her

cupcakes and her courage and made her way to the small guesthouse (and by small she meant a couple thousand square feet) that Caleb had told her served as Quinn’s recording studio. If she was lucky, maybe they’d already be hard at work and have no time to deal with her at all right now. Except no one answered her first knock or her second or even her third. She was about to try the door—maybe they were all in headphones or something—when a hot pink, totally bedazzled Harley Davidson pulled up the driveway and stopped right in front of the door to the main house. A woman wearing tight jeans and a leather jacket the same color as the Harley slowly climbed down. As she pulled her helmet off, she stared straight at Poppy, her long dark hair flying in the breeze behind her. She was wearing motorcycle gloves, but as she took them off, Poppy saw that one of her wrists was tightly wrapped in an ace bandage. So this was Elise McKinney, piano maestro and Quinn’s fiancée. She had to admit, the pink Harley and leather jacket were so not what she’d been expecting of the former child prodigy. Then again, she’d lost nearly everything a couple of months ago in the car crash that had left her wrist damaged and her unable to perform. Maybe all these changes were part of learning to live with the nightmare of that. “Is there something I can help you with?” Elise asked, and Poppy couldn’t help but notice she kept the motorcycle between them. Not that she blamed her—fans could be crazy, especially when you reached the status Shaken Dirty had. “My name is Poppy G—” She froze right before she blurted out her last name and ruined all of the morning’s hard work before she even had a chance to test out her disguise. In her defense, she’d warned her brother she was a terrible liar. Not that that would matter. He’d still kill her. She gave a quick cough to cover, then cleared her throat. “The label and management sent me. I’m the new social media person. I was supposed to stop by today and meet the guys.” “Oh, right.” Elise’s whole face relaxed when she smiled, her reserve melting into a quiet friendliness that was hard not to respond to. “I don’t think they’ve started yet. Come on in the house.” She took the steps up to the front door two at a time, gesturing with her good hand for Poppy to follow her. They made their way through the fancy marble foyer, down a winding hallway past what might be the most beautiful music room she’d ever seen, and into a kitchen filled with natural light. And gorgeous, tattooed men. The four remaining members of Shaken Dirty were sitting around the big, round kitchen table, boxes of pizza spread out before them. Four bright shiny bottles of soda open in front of them. Soda. Not beer. Not scotch. Not even wine coolers. Not that she expected wine coolers, but she sure as hell didn’t expect Cherry Cokes either. Maybe she wasn’t the only one worried about Wyatt falling off the wagon… They were also talking over and around one another, and laughing while doing it. Jared was telling Wyatt about a Rolling Stones concert he’d attended a few months before, while Quinn and Ryder were arguing about the season premiere of some TV show she’d never heard of. Except both pairs also

seemed to be paying attention to what the other pair was talking about because they would interject comments at random moments, which often led to debate and more laughter. The whole thing was both chaotic and also delightful to watch, the friendship and camaraderie between them more than obvious. At least until Quinn spotted Elise and reached over, mid-sentence, to drag her into his lap so that he could plant a kiss on her. A very deep, very thorough kiss. “Geez, man, she’s only been gone an hour,” Jared ribbed him. “I’m pretty sure her tonsils are still intact.” Quinn flipped him off, keeping his mouth planted firmly on Elise’s. He only glanced up when Ryder looked over at Poppy and raised his brows. “Who are you?” Suddenly, every guy in the room was looking at her. And while Poppy had had a lot of experience with rock stars through the years, she still wasn’t anywhere close to being prepared for the powerful wave of sexual magnetism that hit her as four of the sexiest alpha males in existence leveled their attention at her. “Oh, that’s Poppy,” Elise said. “The label sent her over. She’s your new social media director.” “Oh, really? Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Jared asked right before he burst out laughing. “I’m pretty sure Wyatt’s got a different name for it. Right, man?” So much for disguises. Poppy’s cheeks burned at Jared’s amusement—and the dark, wicked look Wyatt was giving her that said he saw right through her attempted disguise. Biting her lip to keep from whimpering, she closed her eyes and prayed that the ground would open up and swallow her down.

Chapter Five Sadly, the universe had other plans for her, and none of them included an earthquake or hurricane or any other major natural disaster hitting Austin, Texas, at that exact moment. More was the fucking pity. Jared wasn’t being obnoxious as he grinned at her—he looked more amused than anything else— but still it mortified her. Still it had her wanting to run or hide or at least bury her head like an ostrich and pretend if she couldn’t see them, then they couldn’t see her either. But that old song by Martha and the Vandellas was playing in her head—“Nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide”—and so she just stood there like a deer in the headlights as Jared smirked at her and Wyatt studied her, his eyes roaming over her from head to toe like he owned her. Or like he wanted to… She shut that thought down fast, shoved it deep inside of herself where she didn’t have to examine it. Where she didn’t have to admit that a part of her was more than a little intrigued by the idea of belonging to Wyatt, even for a short while. “You’re our new social media director?” Ryder asked with a smile. “That’s cool.” He got up from the table, extended his hand. “I’m Ryder. It’s nice to meet you.” She almost laughed at the idea that he thought he had to introduce himself to her. Like she didn’t know who he was? Like most of the Western World didn’t know who he was? Then again, she’d always heard the guys from Shaken Dirty were really nice, really down-to-earth, and not overly affected by the fame that had skyrocketed them so quickly to the top of the charts. It was nice to know some of the rumors in this industry were actually true…and not just the bad ones. She took his hand, ignoring the instinctive nervousness that came from having all that lead singer sexual magnetism focused directly on her. “Nice to meet you, too, Ryder.” “Thanks for helping us out with the social media stuff. Caleb was telling me the label had a plan to change up how we relate to fans on Twitter and stuff. You must be it.” “I am,” she agreed, mouth dry and pulse pounding at the half-lie. Lying didn’t come easy to her. And betraying these guys’ trust right out of the gate, when they’d been so welcoming? Her stomach churned with discomfort. “I’m really excited to get to work on the new campaign.” “We like excited around here.” His grin turned just a little wild. “Don’t we, guys?” The others made muted sounds of agreement, and she found herself blushing for the second time in

as many minutes as her eyes met Wyatt’s once again. “So, introductions,” Ryder continued. “That’s Quinn over there, attached at the tongue to Elise.” Quinn flipped him off a second time, but he got up to shake her hand as well. As he did, she noticed that his nails were painted the same hot pink as Elise’s motorcycle. He caught her looking and just grinned. “My woman likes to mess with me when I’m asleep. Turns out there’s no nail polish remover in the house.” Elise snorted. “Sure, play the victim. Like you didn’t spend half the night before cutting up my underwear.” He shrugged, did the best he could to look innocent despite the bedroom eyes and tattoos that made him seem anything but. “Crotchless panties. It’s a thing. Right, guys?” “Absolutely,” Ryder agreed, totally deadpan, and even Jared and Wyatt nodded along. “I always say, a girl can never have too many pairs of crotchless panties.” “Exactly what I tried to tell her. In fact—” Elise narrowed her eyes at her fiancé as she cut him off. “If you think I don’t know where the new hiding spot for your Twinkies is, you would be mistaken.” “As I was saying,” Quinn told the room in general, looking as innocent as a tattooed rock god could. “My credit card’s upstairs in my wallet. Feel free to buy as many panties with full crotches intact as you would like, my love.” “And Jared says you’re stubborn,” she teased, patting the guitarist on the cheek before sauntering toward the door. “He just doesn’t know you like I do.” As soon as she left, the other three guys cracked up. “Wow,” Wyatt said, totally deadpan. “I go to rehab for a couple of months and come back to find you totally whipped.” “You only say that because you didn’t live through what she did to Quinn’s Twinkies the last time he really pissed her off,” Jared told him. “It was ugly.” “So, so ugly,” Ryder concurred with a shudder. As the good-natured ribbing continued, Poppy’s fingers itched with the need to be recording this for Snapchat. This was the kind of thing the band’s fans would love, the kind of interaction that would have them glued to social media for hours talking about the guys of Shaken Dirty and who they really were. The fact that she wasn’t actually here to revamp their social media didn’t matter. Marketing was her second love—right behind rock and roll—and just watching these guys for five minutes had given her a million and one ideas about how she could use this to garner them more social media reach and, in turn, more fans. Get them a head start on the road to being legends… “So that’s Quinn,” Ryder said, interrupting her train of thought and dragging her right back to the embarrassment of her current predicament. “Jared’s the one who can’t stop grinning like an idiot, and Wyatt’s got that ridiculous excuse for facial hair—” “It’s called a beard,” Wyatt interjected.

“It’s called ridiculous,” Ryder shot back. “Now pretend you have manners and say hello to Poppy, will you?” “I’m pretty sure Poppy won’t complain about his manners,” Jared said slyly. “And they’ve already said a lot more than hello.” “Oh, yeah?” Ryder looked concerned. “Have you been around before? I’m usually pretty good with faces, but did I—” “Oh, no. We’ve never met before,” she rushed to reassure him. “I actually came to the club last night to see you play. I’d planned to introduce myself after your set, but…” She trailed off, unsure of how to finish. What was it about this band that had her constantly feeling like an idiot? “But she met Wyatt first and forgot all about the rest of us. Isn’t that right, Wyatt?” Jared continued to poke at the both of them. “In fact—” “That’s enough, Jare,” Wyatt said, pushing back from the table and crossing the room to take her hand. “It’s nice to see you again.” Fuck. She went weak at the first touch of his palm against hers, at the first look from those crazy, electric-blue eyes of his. The last time he’d stood this close to her, those eyes had been hidden by shadows, as had most of the rest of him. And still it had taken him less than five minutes to have her coming against his mouth. Here, now, in the bright light of day, he was even more overwhelming. Even more enticing. Despite her best intentions, and the very stern talking-to she’d given herself in the shower that morning, she could feel her knees tremble and her panties grow damp just from the look in his eyes. Just from the promise of dark sex and darker pleasure that rolled off him in waves. He was too sexy for his own good. Definitely too sexy for the good of her mental health. Oh, she’d always known he was hot—it was pretty hard to miss it, after all. But since he’d gone to rehab, he looked different. Sure, his height was the same—all six feet, two inches of it—as were his razor-sharp cheekbones and long, lean build. But everything else had changed. His perennially long, caramel-colored hair had been cut into a shaggy fringe that almost completely covered one of those Pacific Ocean blue eyes. His usual irregular scruff had been trimmed into a neat beard and the ring he normally wore on the right-hand corner of his bottom lip was long gone. Was it any wonder she hadn’t recognized him in the shadows last night? Without a clear look at his face, and with his black and white tattoo sleeves covered, there was nothing about him that screamed Wyatt Jennings. At least not the Wyatt Jennings she and the public were used to. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t still the hottest thing she’d ever seen. Because he was. Oh God, he was. And when she added in the ripped jeans and tight black T-shirt that showed off both his model’s build and his spooky and spectacular tattoos to their best advantage, was it any wonder she was practically salivating? Any wonder that for long seconds all she could think about was what it felt like to have his mouth on her clit and his fingers inside of her?

Not what you’re here for, she reminded herself a little desperately. Not what you’re supposed to be thinking about. But how could she not think about it when Wyatt was standing right in front of her, looking like that? Looking at her like that? Then again, everyone in the room was currently looking at her expectantly, like she was supposed to say something. She wracked her brain, tried to remember the one sentence Wyatt had said to her. But he’d said it after he’d taken her hand, and since her entire body had turned into a live electrical wire at the first brush of his skin against hers, she had no idea what that one, simple sentence had been. Finally Quinn—who was definitely the most social of the group—took pity on her. “So, you guys met at Antone’s last night?” “Yeah. We did.” Wyatt still didn’t drop her hand. “Although I didn’t realize who Poppy was at the time.” “I didn’t know who Wyatt was, either,” she blurted out as she fought her way through the sensual haze his proximity put her in. “At least not until Jared came looking for him. It was dark and he looks different than he used to and I totally feel like an idiot. If I’d known—” She cut herself off when she realized she was babbling. “Hey, don’t worry about it,” Wyatt told her, half-amused and half-soothing. “I’m just the drummer. Nobody ever recognizes me.” “Right,” Jared agreed, and though his words dripped with sarcasm she couldn’t help noticing that his eyes—and his smile—had warmed considerably when he looked at her. “You’re such a wallflower I’m surprised anyone even knows you’re in the band.” “Yeah, well, we can’t all be fame-whore lead guitarists,” Wyatt shot back. “Fame is the burden I have to bear,” Jared answered primly. “It’s not my fault I’m the pretty one.” Poppy burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it. The whole group was a lot funnier than their badboy images led people to believe, and she loved it. Loved pretty much everything about them. Jared lifted a brow at her, pretended to look injured. “Excuse me, but is all that laughter supposed to imply I’m not the pretty one?” “No, of course not! You’re totally the pretty one. You’re the prettiest, absolutely.” “Oh, yeah?” Wyatt’s brows shot up. “Excuse you,” Ryder chimed in, all twinkling eyes and mock-offense. “I’m the lead singer. I’m supposed to be the pretty one.” “Yes, but you’re the too-hot-to-be-human sex god,” she explained, tongue firmly in cheek. “You can’t be both—that’s the rule. So sorry you have to settle.” “Sex god?” Ryder stroked his chin like he was thinking it over. “I like it. Make sure to mention that to Jamison when you meet her, will you? I mean, not that she doesn’t know that already, of course, but still—” Jared threw a piece of pizza crust straight at his face. “Dude, that’s my sister.”

“Yeah, well, I try not to hold that against her.” Ryder grabbed the crust before it could hit him, immediately shooting it back at Jared. It bounced off the guitarist’s forehead before landing on the floor by his feet. “So what am I, then?” Quinn asked as he stepped between them in an effort to keep the peace. “Definitely the sexy one,” Elise called from the next room. Quinn grinned as he pretended to buff his nails on his shirt before blowing on them. “Do you guys seriously never go online and read what the fans have to say about you?” Poppy asked, incredulous. “We interact with them on Twitter sometimes,” Quinn told her. “And do online Q and A’s or webcasts.” “A few podcasts here and there,” Jared added. “I tweet about shows and new songs we’re working on,” Ryder volunteered. “Yeah, but do you check and see what the fans say after you tweet? And what about Tumblr? Instagram? Fan fic? You don’t look at any of that stuff at all?” They stared at her blankly, and she knew she was going to have her work cut out for her. Someone obviously needed to take these guys in hand or the pop machine that ruled music today was going to roll right over them. “Oh my God,” she told them, settling her briefcase and the cupcakes on the table. “I have so much to teach you. And the first thing is that you should be in touch with your fan base. You should know— good or bad—what they’re saying about you so you can effectively counter it if you need to.” “What if we don’t want to know?” Wyatt asked. “I mean, right now we’re not exactly in the best of shape, thanks to me.” “Stop,” Quinn told him, delivering a sharp shove to his shoulder. “The mess we’re in now has way more to do with Micah than it does you.” “We didn’t cancel the tour because of Micah—” “Pretty hard to play stadiums without a bass player,” Ryder told him. “Harder to play them without a drummer,” Wyatt countered. “Well, then we’re damn lucky we’ve got the best drummer around, aren’t we?” “That’s debatable.” “No, it really isn’t,” Quinn said quietly. “He’s right. And you’d see that if you went on social media more,” Poppy said, jumping in with a desperate attempt to divert the conversation back to the original topic. She hated the look on Wyatt’s face, the tenseness in his shoulders. The way the teasing light had gone out of his eyes. “The fans would love to hear from you, love to know how well you’re doing. Plus it’d be a chance to get more buzz going about the upcoming tour.” “So the fans really pay that close of attention to our tweets?” Jared asked a little incredulously. She laughed. “You really never have been on Tumblr, have you? They pretty much dissect

everything you do. Everything you say. Everything you tweet… Plus, like I said before, they’ve totally got descriptions for each of you.” “You mean you weren’t making that up?” Jared demanded. “They actually think I’m the pretty one?” He did not look impressed. “Definitely,” she answered with an apologetic shrug. “You’re the really pretty, really nice one. Ryder is the dark sex god. Quinn is the hot, funny one with the great ass—” “I second that!” Elise once again called in from the other room. “Me, too,” Poppy agreed wholeheartedly. Quinn glanced over his shoulder and down, a contemplative frown on his face. “I don’t think my ass is any better than anybody else’s in the band.” “Then you’d be wrong.” This time she and Elise said it at the same time. “Hey!” Ryder pretended to be offended. “You didn’t have to say that quite so enthusiastically. Sex gods have feelings, too, you know.” “So, what about Wyatt?” Quinn asked in an obvious ploy to get the conversation away from the merits of his ass. “What do the fans call him?” “You mean you really can’t guess?” Wyatt said with a laugh. “I’m the fucked up basket case who can’t keep his shit together. I don’t think any of us need to go on Tumblr to know that.”

Chapter Six The room grew silent around him, the good-natured bantering evaporating into thin air. And fuck. Just fuck. He couldn’t believe he’d said that, couldn’t believe he’d fucking blurted that shit out. Everyone had been joking around, having a good time, and he’d busted it wide open. As usual. He should have just kept his mouth shut, should have just grinned and borne whatever Poppy was going to come up with. But he couldn’t stand the idea of her fumbling around trying to figure out what to say in an effort to keep him from feeling bad. Better to just get that shit out there than try to keep it buried under the rug. After all, facing the truth about himself instead of running from it was one of the twelve steps… Still, he felt like a total ass. Or, worse, like the basket case everyone considered him. But he couldn’t say all that, couldn’t get it out when his friends were looking at him with a mix of exasperation and pity and trepidation. So instead he started to apologize, but before he could do much more than open his mouth, Poppy jumped in with a roll of her eyes. “Actually, Micah’s always been considered the fuck-up—even before we started spinning him that way two months ago. You’re the dark and brooding one.” “Wow.” Quinn’s brows shot up. “The fans know us better than I thought they did.” He looked impressed, which did nothing to make Wyatt feel better. “I told you,” Poppy continued. “They analyze your every move. They spend a lot of time trying to figure out who you really are when you aren’t onstage.” “Huh.” Jared ran a hand across the back of his neck, “Am I the only one creeped out by that idea?” “No, no you’re not,” Ryder answered quietly. “I mean, I’m sure it’s harmless, but—” “They’re wrong.” While the others were busy discussing the problems with fans who paid too close of attention to them, Wyatt reached past Poppy and picked up his bottle of soda from the table. “I don’t brood.” Turned out the others weren’t as distracted as he thought, because the whole room cracked up at his words, including Poppy. Or maybe, especially Poppy. “Certainly not,” she agreed easily. “There’s absolutely nothing broody or tortured about that scowl you’re wearing at this very moment.” He jerked his chin up, tried his best to smooth out his expression. “I’m not scowling!”

“Seriously, dude, your entire being is one big, tortured scowl,” she shot back, trailing a soft hand down his arm. “Even your tats are broody. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. It definitely works.” “You make it sound like it’s all an act. I’m not trying to be that guy.” “Of course you aren’t. I know that.” She slipped past him and grabbed a piece of pizza out of the box before batting her eyes in his direction. “And so do the fans. It’s why they respond. Because you are that guy. You don’t have to try. And the fact that you have the second best ass in the band definitely doesn’t hurt.” He still didn’t like the way she made it sound, still wanted to argue with her about her perception of him. But the more he argued, the more of an issue it became, and the last thing he wanted was to have to actually explain anything. And he definitely didn’t want to let the woman in charge of the band’s social media—and could he ask how the fuck that was even a real job—into his head even superficially. He was trying to be subtle about his discomfort, trying not to let her or the others see just how freaked out this whole conversation was making him, but it must not have worked because the next thing he knew, Ryder was totally throwing himself in front of the bus for him. “Second best ass?” he demanded, deflecting her attention off of Wyatt and back on to him. “Really? If his is second, where exactly does mine rank? I mean, at this rate you’re going to give me a complex.” “Your ass is very nice,” she soothed. “In fact, if we’re ranking, I’d definitely put it—” “Can we move away from the topic of who has the best and worst asses in the band, please?” Jared demanded, shaking his head grumpily. “Aw, come on. You’re just afraid you’re going to come in last,” Ryder told him. “How did you guess,” he deadpanned back. “That’s it, exactly. I lie awake every night afraid that my ass isn’t as good as the great Ryder Montgomery’s. How ever will I go on now that I know my fears are justified?” “It will be hard,” Poppy told him. “But I’m sure you’ll find a way.” “I don’t know. I could be traumatized.” He leaned forward, got in Poppy’s space. Focused on her all the intensity and charm he was known for. “Maybe you could help me get over the trauma?” Poppy laughed, and before he even knew he was going to do it, Wyatt slammed his bottle down on the table between them. Hard. The others all turned to look at him in surprise. Except Jared, who smirked a little before backing off. Not that Wyatt needed him to back off or anything. One quick encounter behind a club didn’t mean anything. Especially when Poppy hadn’t even bothered to stick around until the end of the gig so they could meet properly. And still he found himself glaring at Jared. Still he found himself crowding closer to Poppy than he had any right to. Maybe the fact that he still wanted her was reason enough. She must not think so, though, because she shot him a surprised glance, before turning back to

Jared and pulling out her phone. “Go ahead and turn around. I’ll take shots of your ass and post them all over social media. I’m sure the comments we get will boost your self-esteem right back where it belongs.” Jared couldn’t scoot back far or fast enough, even as he made sure to keep his ass planted firmly in the chair. “You know, I’m feeling better already.” Poppy grinned. “Somehow I knew you would be.” Then she turned back to the others. “Can we please talk about your social media presence now?” “Now?” Ryder looked surprised. “Yes, now,” she huffed, exasperated. “I know you want to get down to work and that’s great. It’ll show really well on Snapchat and Tumblr. But I want to lay things out for you first so there are no surprises. At this point in time, my job is to get you on every important social media platform there is —and to document your time leading back to tour so we can show the world that you guys are in great shape and ready to rock. To do that, we need content. Lots and lots of content.” “You want us to tweet more?” Quinn sounded aggrieved. “Fine, we’ll tweet more. But we have an album to finish writing and to record, a tour to plan for and a bassist to find. So excuse us if tweets aren’t our first priority.” “That’s the point. Social media should always be one of your top priorities. And, for a while anyway, you don’t have to do anything. That’s what you have me for. I just need access and I’ll—” “Exactly what kind of access are you talking about?” Wyatt interrupted, an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He already had his bandmates looking over his shoulder, watching his every move. The last thing he needed or wanted was Poppy doing the same thing. If he screwed up—which he wasn’t planning on doing, but still—he sure as shit didn’t want it to be documented on Twitter. Or Tumblr. Or whatever the hell other platforms she was talking about. “I want access to your rehearsals. Your song writing sessions, like today. Your nights out, if you do anything as a band. I can Snapchat it or Vine it, get your Tumblr working for you, call the paparazzi and get some HQ photos of you circulating—” “We don’t call the paps,” Ryder told her, looking incredulous. “We’re not some pop act. The last thing we want is that kind of attention.” “That kind of attention, when focused properly, is what’s going to sell more records for you, to people who don’t necessarily listen to Shaken Dirty. It’s what’s going to help sell out the seats in this stadium tour you’ve got planned. You need exposure right now. Lots and lots of exposure, so it looks like you guys are in high demand.” Poppy grabbed one of the unopened sodas and twisted the cap off before taking a long swig. “Which you are,” she continued. “But we want everyone to know just how popular you are so we can take you to the next level and make you guys a household name. And we want to reward your fans by giving them more access to you and your private times.” “They aren’t exactly private if we give the world access to them,” Wyatt countered. “I don’t want to constantly have to worry about what’s going to get posted and what isn’t. I already have enough of

that with the whole drug rehab scandal.” Just the thought of that kind of publicity—that kind of access—made his skin crawl. He knew it was ridiculous to feel that way. After all, he’d spent the last few years working right along with the rest of them to ensure that Shaken Dirty was successful, was recognized. But being famous for making music was one thing, especially when he got to hide behind his drum kit at the back of the stage. It was another thing altogether to make his life front and center the way Poppy was suggesting. “Yeah. We’re not reality TV stars,” Quinn said quietly, the unease in his voice echoing perfectly the concern Wyatt was feeling. “We’re musicians.” “Of course you are, I know that. Which is why we’re not actually going to give them twenty-fourseven access. We’re just going to give your fans the illusion of that access.” “Wait. You want us to lie to them? Pretend to be something we’re not?” Suddenly, he felt even more uncomfortable. He’d spent too much of the last few years lying—about the drugs, about his feelings, about the past. The last thing he wanted was to get out of rehab and just add to the pile of lies. Not when everything his counselors had preached to him had been about being honest with himself and his world. And since telling the world about his past was out of the question—he wasn’t going there, ever—he’d kind of counted on being able to be honest about everything else. “No! That’s the last thing I want! If you aren’t honest with the fans, they’ll know—with social media and Google the way they are today, it’s really easy for the fans to catch you in a lie. And if we’re going to rebuild Shaken Dirty’s brand, we definitely don’t want that.” “Well, then, I’m confused,” Jared said, kicking his feet onto the empty chair next to him. “What exactly do you want from us?” Poppy leaned forward, her eyes wide and earnest as she looked from one member of Shaken Dirty to another. When it was his turn—when her gaze met his—Wyatt felt himself falling into them, falling into her, despite his best intentions not to. But her eyes were big and brown, with little gold flecks, and he could feel the warmth of them. What the hell was the matter with him? he wondered furiously. And what kind of power did she have over him that he found himself thinking about fucking her—about sliding his cock between those lush pink lips of hers—when what he should be thinking about was what was best for Shaken Dirty? As she started talking, he forced himself to focus on her words and not the many, many things he wanted to do to her. “Your fans are digging for stuff about you right now. They’re reblogging every picture, every tweet, every piece of you they can get their hands on, analyzing everything you’ve ever done, coming up with conspiracy theories about Micah and Wyatt and everything else under the sun. “So, what we want to do is control the narrative. Give them other stuff to talk about besides Wyatt’s addiction and Micah’s douchebag behavior.” “I’m okay with them talking about Micah being a douchebag as long as they want to,” Jared

interjected drily. “I bet.” She shot him a sympathetic smile. “But the longer they’re focusing on that, the harder it will be to get them to focus on what’s really important. Which is buying your music and getting tickets for the upcoming tour.” “So, the money, in other words,” Wyatt said. She laughed. “I’m from the label. So, yes, the money is very important. But to me, the music—and your legacy—is just as important. I want to do everything I can to help you on both fronts.” Wyatt didn’t know whether to believe her—she was from the label, after all. But at the same time, she looked so determined, so sincere, that it was hard not to buy what she was selling. A glance at his friends told him they pretty much felt the same way. Which meant, like it or not, she was going to be underfoot for the next little while. He decided to focus on the positive. Sure, her being with the label might be awkward after what they’d gotten up to the night before. But the damage had already been done, so he didn’t see why it couldn’t happen again. And again. In fact, the longer Poppy stuck around, the better his chances were of getting his mouth on her again… Suddenly, embracing social media didn’t seem like such a bad idea after all.

Chapter Seven She’d never felt so guilty in her life. Poppy told herself she was just doing her job, told herself that—to make it up to them—she was going to do everything with their social media that she’d promised. Told herself, even, that by babysitting Wyatt she was actually helping him and Shaken Dirty. But no matter how true all that was, it didn’t matter. She still felt guilty as hell. Especially since the guys were all working so hard to let her in, to do what she asked and give her the access she needed. It had been two days since she’d shown up at Quinn’s house with cupcakes and an agenda a mile long. In that time, she’d sat in on band rehearsals and song writing sessions, had gone out to the Sixth Street clubs with them, had even been allowed to hire a couple of paps to shadow Ryder and Jamison when they’d visited three bakeries yesterday to pick out their wedding cake. She’d started an official Shaken Dirty Tumblr blog and filled it with behind-the-scenes pictures of the guys working in Quinn’s music room and recording studio. She’d published numerous Vines and Snaps of them singing and joking around with one another. She’d even tweeted lyrics from a couple of the songs they were working on. And still they hadn’t complained once. They’d watched her warily at times, had even been a bit hesitant about letting her record the Snaps of their songwriting sessions, but in the end they’d done everything she’d asked of them. Hell, they’d even invited her to hang out with them during non-working hours, since they knew she didn’t know anyone in town—like they were getting to be friends. And the whole time she was lying straight to their faces about her real reason for being here¸ and about how deep her connection to the label really ran. She hated it. Just like she hated having to keep an eye on Wyatt, hated poking around about his intentions when he ran out to the store or to pick up lunch for the guys, or coming up with excuses to watch him when he ducked outside for a smoke. So far she’d seen no evidence that he was using or drinking and that only made things worse. The longer he went without even trying to score drugs, the more traitorous she felt. Like she was here, lying to him and the others, for no reason at all. But staying clean three days out of rehab wasn’t staying clean for good, and if she didn’t do her job

—if she didn’t do her best to keep him out of trouble—and he relapsed? She knew her father would lose his shit completely. Then Micah wouldn’t be the only member of Shaken Dirty being replaced… She was stuck between a rock and a hard place with nothing to do but suck in her stomach and pray like hell they didn’t all get crushed. It wasn’t comfortable, it didn’t feel good, but right now it was all she could do. And even though they didn’t know—even though she hoped they’d never know—she was determined to make up for her duplicity. Determined to give Shaken Dirty the best social media game in the business, and to help the band out as much as she could at the label, even if it meant standing up to her father about what was best for them. They deserved that much from her. With that thought in mind—and because she was more than half an hour early for rehearsal and had time to kill—she fired off a quick email to Caleb, telling him for the third time in as many days why she didn’t like any of the bassists the label had brought forward to audition for Shaken Dirty. While Li was the only one they’d done a full set with, they’d jammed with two other bassists yesterday— including Owen Torres from Wisdom. Neither of them had fit any better than Li had, and while they still had other auditions set up, she could tell her father was growing impatient. She was afraid he’d start pressuring them to accept Li or Owen any second now and she didn’t want that to happen. She’d fight her father on it herself if she had to, but she knew he’d take Caleb’s opinion much more seriously than he’d ever take hers—even though she was the one here in Austin with them. She could only hope her brother took her email seriously and could convince their father to give the search a little more time to yield results, no matter how tight their timetable was. She hit send on the email, then texted Caleb a quick message to underscore her point before climbing out of her car and making her way to the recording studio. Wyatt was early, too—the only one of the guys who ever was, she’d come to notice—and he was hanging on the side patio of the recording studio with a clove cigarette dangling from his fingertips and a far off look in his eyes—a look that had become very familiar to her over the last couple of days. Quick and easy, she reached out and grabbed the cigarette from between his fingers before he even knew it was happening. Then she dropped it on the ground and stomped on it with her rainbow flipflops. “Hey!” His eyes narrowed to slits. “I wasn’t done with that.” “Haven’t you heard? Smoking will kill you and your voice.” She reached into her purse and pulled out one of the lollipops she’d picked up at Target earlier. Held it out to him. “Try this instead.” He looked between her and the strawberry flavored candy. “Are you serious?” “That lung cancer is a terrible way to die? Yes, I am.” When he still made no move to take the sucker, she tucked a few of them into the front pocket of his jeans and went to move past him into the studio. She didn’t make it two steps before he was snaking his arm around her waist and pulling her against

him. Her back to his front. His breath hot against her ear. His hand soft against her breast as his thumb flicked back and forth across her suddenly hard nipple. “If you’re serious about me quitting smoking, I can think of something a hell of a lot more enticing than a lollipop to keep my mouth busy.” “Oh, really?” Her breath hitched in her throat before she could say any more, and for a second she feared she might actually strangle on her own desire. It had been three days since he’d gone down on her in that alley behind Antone’s, three days since he’d touched her in any but the most casual way. She knew it was a good thing, knew the last thing she should be doing right now was sleeping with Wyatt Jennings. And yet she’d wanted him to touch her. Had wanted him to press his mouth to her throat, her navel, her sex, just like he had that first night. Had wanted to do the same—and more—to him. Had wanted it all so badly that every look from him—no matter how innocuous—had lit her up like a concert stage and sent need thrumming through her. She didn’t know what had made him reach for her today, and right now she didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was finally touching her again. “Yeah, really.” His mouth skimmed slowly, slowly, slowly down her throat, lips soft and breath ohso-warm, before fastening on the tender spot where her neck and shoulder met. She gasped then, cried out, her body arching back into his, her ass pressing tight against his cock. He groaned in response, the sound sending little vibrations across her skin, which had her knees trembling and her body melting into his. “Fuck,” he whispered, sliding his hand down to rest on her abdomen as his fingers pressed against her denim-covered sex. “I love the sounds you make.” He pressed harder and she cried out more loudly this time, her hand coming up to grab his arm for support even as she let herself rest more fully against him. “That’s it,” he murmured as he continued to stroke her. His finger pressed right up against the seam of her jeans, while the seam pressed right up against her clit. And just that easily she was close, so very close. A little desperate now, her body on fire, she rocked her hips up and used her own fingers to press his down more firmly against her sex. He gave in easily, his laugh dark and just a little bit dangerous as he followed her lead and gave her the friction she demanded. At the same time, though, he slid his free hand up her stomach to her breast. Found her nipple through the thin lace of her bra. Flicked his finger over it once, twice, before suddenly squeezing it between his thumb and forefinger hard enough to have light exploding behind her closed lids. She bit her lip against the pleasure, tried her best to stifle her cries. But Wyatt was having none of it.

Instead, he squeezed her nipple even harder as he blew a stream of warm, wet air against the sensitive skin behind her ear. “Oh, God—” Her voice broke on a moan. “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he told her, his finger moving harder and faster against her clit. “I’ve got you.” It was too much. His lean, hard body crowded up against hers. His hot breath streaming against the nape of her neck. His fingers simultaneously working over her nipple, her clit. And him, right there, always right there. Tormenting her. Taking her over. Demanding so, so many wicked, wild, wonderful things of her. Too many. She came with her hands clenching his arm. With her body jerking against his. With his name a broken cry on her lips. And then she was flying, flying, flying into a pleasure both brutal and beautiful in its intensity. It went on and on and on and all she could do was hold tight to Wyatt and embrace the ecstasy. He was her port in the storm, the only solid thing she had while the world around her turned into a molten kaleidoscope of pleasure. When it was over—when she could manage to do something more than whimper and hang on tight —she turned and wrapped her arms around his waist, rested her cheek against his chest. Beneath her ear, his heartbeat was as bold and steady as his drumming, and for long seconds she just stood there, listening. Catching her breath. Recovering. When her breathing finally got back to normal, she pulled his T-shirt from his jeans, pressed one hand against his tautly muscled back while she slid her other hand around to his rock hard abs. “That makes three,” she murmured as her fingers traced along the top edges of his V-cut. “Three of what?” he asked, tucking a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. “Three orgasms.” She started to unbutton his jeans. “You’ve gotten me off three times now. I think it’s past time I reciprocated.” He stopped her with a hand, his calloused fingers wrapping around her palm and pulling it away from his zipper. She froze, wondering what was going on. Wondering why he didn’t want her to pleasure him when she had felt him, hard and ready, beneath her hand. “Don’t you want me?” The question escaped without her permission, and as soon as it was out, she wanted to kick herself. The last thing this little game—or whatever it was between them—needed was her turning all vulnerable and needy. Soft, romantic feelings were so not what this was about. Especially considering there was no future for them—no way for them to be together when she was the daughter of the label head and he was one of the label’s most problematic stars. With that thought in mind, she pushed away from him even as she let her hair swing down into her face to cover her eyes. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked—”

“You have no idea how much I want you,” he interrupted, pressing her hand back against his dick. His very long, very hard dick. “Then why—” She cut herself off, refused to ask any more than she already had. “Because the guys are already inside and I’m supposed to be on a very important call with the label execs that started about five minutes ago.” She reared back, color flooding her cheeks. “They’re already in there?” she squeaked. He nodded. “Have been for about half an hour.” “Oh my God. Oh. My. God. Ohmygod!” She was so embarrassed she could barely string a coherent thought together. “If they’re already in there… You just made me…we just… Why did you do that? Why did you make me come on the freaking porch if they were right inside?” “Notice all your clothes are still in place,” he said with a grin. “Why do you think that is?” “I didn’t think about it.” She glared at him. “Not a mistake I plan on making again. Why did you do that?” she asked a second time. Her cheeks were on fire, and she pressed her hands against them in a futile attempt to cool them down. He raised his brows incredulously. “You didn’t actually expect me to pass up a chance to make you come, did you? When you melt so sweetly and make those incredible noises—” “Oh my God!” She clapped a hand over his mouth even as she cast a surreptitious glance over her shoulder. “Do you think they heard me?” “Sweetheart, I’m pretty sure downtown Austin heard you. Besides, they better have. The last thing I want is for them to think rehab left me unable to make a woman scream.” “Shut up!” This time it was her own ears she clapped her hands over. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” “What’s the big deal?” he asked, prying her hands away from her head. “It’s not the first or the last time one of us has gone at it with the others in the next room. We spend most of the year on a tour bus or charter plane going from concert to concert. What do you think happens? You should have heard Ryder and Jamison when they first got together. I thought Jared was going to kill someone.” “I’m going to kill you if you don’t stop talking. I’m supposed to be a professional here.” “Baby, we’re rock stars. Making girls come is pretty much part of the job description.” He straightened her blouse a little, then swept her hair back from her face. “Now, come on. I really need to catch at least part of this call.” “Of course you do!” Her eyes widened at the thought of her father being on the other end of the line, fuming at the insult of Wyatt’s absence. “Go!” She pushed him toward the door. “Come with me.” He wrapped a hand around her wrist and tugged. “No.” “Yes.” For the first time, his tone was firm. “You’ve been in on everything else since you got here, so why not this? Besides, the last thing I’m going to do is get you off and then leave you out here on the damn porch. You deserve better than that.” She started to argue more—she really, really didn’t want to face any of the men on the other side of

that door—but Wyatt was serious. He wasn’t letting go, and she knew he couldn’t afford to miss any more of the meeting than he already had. Which was why she let him tug her through the door even as she damned him and all rocks stars straight to hell. She was so going to make him pay for this before the day was over.

Chapter Eight The second they got inside she realized she’d made a huge miscalculation. Because it wasn’t just a conference call going on in there—it was a videoconference call. Her father was on the big monitor set up in the center of Quinn’s desk, and he was staring straight out of it. Straight at her. Oh shit. She shoved Wyatt forward into the camera’s range and started to duck back outside—anything was better than seeing her father right now. Partly because it was the first time she’d seen him since Caleb had pushed her into taking his place in Austin, and partly because she was pretty sure she looked like she had just come. Her dad so didn’t need to see that and neither did her brother, who was lurking at the corner of the screen. But Wyatt grabbed her hand before she could so much as open the door. “I already told you, you can totally be here for this.” “Yeah,” Ryder seconded. “We’re just talking about the bassist auditions and the show at Antone’s. Maybe you’ll come up with some cool ideas for social media for the second show.” “The second— There’s going to be another one?” Seriously? Li had done enough damage to Shaken Dirty’s sound the other night. Letting him loose on another club for another gig was a very bad idea. “Yeah. Probably a couple more,” Quinn said. “So we can audition—” “You were there, Poppy,” Caleb interrupted Quinn as his face became the large one on the screen and her dad’s stern countenance shrank down to one of the smaller boxes. Thank God. “You know music. Give us a non–band member opinion. What did you think of Li?” “I, umm…” Suddenly, every eye in the room was on her, including her father ’s, since he had once again taken over the main screen in the teleconferencing app. He was looking her over and—she was sure—cataloging every hair out of place. Unable to meet his disapproving gaze, she kept her eyes on the small box at the top of the screen, where Caleb was waiting. “Go ahead,” he urged. “I’d like your opinion.” Him wanting her opinion wasn’t the problem—it was everyone else in the room she was worried about, especially considering how unimpressed she actually was with Li. She wished she’d walked in a few minutes earlier so she could have heard what the others thought of him, could have gauged the feel of the room. After all, the last thing she wanted to do was bash the guy if everyone else loved

him. At the same time, though, she was positive that Li wasn’t right for the band. And though she was currently just a social media director—or a glorified babysitter, depending on who you spoke to at the label—she knew this band. She knew their sound. She knew their songs. And she knew Li wasn’t it for them. Which meant she didn’t have a choice. If she didn’t speak up when she was specifically asked, and he ended up getting the job, she’d regret it forever. So she took a deep breath as everyone looked on—as Wyatt and her father and Shaken Dirty’s manager all stared her down—and told herself to be honest about this even when she couldn’t be honest about anything else. “He’s not right. I mean, he’s a good bassist and his fingerings are really good. But he’s not in Shaken Dirty’s league. He couldn’t keep up with Jared or Ryder and he definitely couldn’t keep up with the drum fills Wyatt laid down. Plus, his style just doesn’t fit. When they were doing ‘Closer ’ and ‘Mastermind,’ he couldn’t get the feel. And his work on the two new songs was a disaster. He came in way too heavy and it threw off the whole sound.” She glanced at Wyatt as she finished, saw him watching her with brows raised. It was the only sign that he was surprised by her summation. The same couldn’t be said for the other guys, all of whom were looking at her like she’d grown a second head. For the first time she wondered if her father was right—if the new generation of musicians was just as sexist about women and music as the last one was. Why else would they be so shocked that she understood the nuances of their music so well? But Jared’s surprise turned quickly to satisfaction. “She’s right,” he told her father and brother and whoever else was on the call with them. “That’s exactly what we were saying when she and Wyatt came in. Li sounded sloppy on the new stuff. He blurred the notes, and bass for us has to be super clean, super tight.” “You don’t think he can learn it?” her father countered, just as she expected him to. God forbid the man take her word on something or believe, for one second, that she actually knew what she was talking about. “He didn’t have much time with the songs.” “He had more time with the new songs than Wyatt did,” Quinn told him, adding his voice to the discussion for the first time. “And Wyatt nailed both without breaking a sweat.” “Oh, I broke a sweat,” Wyatt interjected, but she could tell by the look in his eyes that he was pleased his bandmates were happy with his work. “Still, he did it,” their manager agreed from the box at the bottom right of the screen. “Wyatt fit in seamlessly. It was Li who was the problem.” “Yes, but the argument can be made that Wyatt knows your style,” her father pressed. “I don’t think he’s any more talented than Li. Just more prepared.” It took every ounce of self-control she had not to disagree. But this wasn’t her meeting and she wasn’t in charge of this band. So she gritted her teeth and metaphorically sat on her hands.

In the end, she didn’t have to say anything, though, because Ryder spoke up. “I beg to differ. Wyatt’s on a whole different level than Li. But either way, we’re not arguing that the guy isn’t talented. We’re just saying he doesn’t fit in with us. And neither did Owen or James.” “So we keep looking,” Caleb slid in, smooth as silk. “You’ve still got two more bassists lined up to try—” “Both who come with their own problems,” her father interrupted. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t Marc have a massive ego that makes him prone to temper tantrums? And Johnny’s bipolar.” “That doesn’t mean they aren’t good musicians,” the management guy said. “Personally, I think Marc is going to work out well—” Poppy winced, because she disagreed. Marc Roundhouse was a dick, pure and simple, and he refused to adjust his playing style to fit in with anyone. There was no way he and Shaken Dirty were going to mesh. No way. And Johnny was a good bassist…when he decided to take his meds. Which, unfortunately, wasn’t nearly often enough. A fact that her father was very much aware of, considering he’d been a part of one of Johnny’s other bands for years. Right up until they had dropped him at her father ’s behest… “Marc isn’t going to work out at all,” her father told the now silent room. “And neither is Johnny. They are entirely too high drama and”—he gave a hard stare she was sure was directed at Wyatt —“you’ve got more than enough drama in this band already. So I say you take Li. He won’t cause any trouble, and frankly that matters a hell of a lot more to me right now than whether or not his bass playing meshes perfectly the first time out of the gate.” “With all due respect,” Wyatt jumped in before the others could say anything. “It’s not about him not meshing perfectly. It’s about him not meshing at all.” “Yeah, well, they’ve got a month to fix that,” her dad said. “Because this band already has one liability. It can’t afford another.” “First of all,” Quinn interjected. “You can’t force us to take on a bassist we don’t want. It’s in our contracts. And secondly, we don’t have any more liabilities. Micah’s gone—” “And Wyatt’s still there.” Her father ’s voice sliced through the sudden silence in the kitchen like a razor blade through skin. “Wyatt’s not a liability,” Jared grated out. “Of course he’s not—” Caleb started to soothe, but her father cut him off. “I have an empty bank account that says otherwise,” her dad said. “And an insurance company that is making me pay through the nose to keep him. If we add in someone else unreliable, the cost of this tour is going to be prohibitive.” Poppy’s stomach hurt, and she crowded a little closer to the camera, met Caleb’s eyes. He looked as sick and unprepared as she felt, which meant her father was blindsiding him with this, too. She couldn’t help thinking it was because she was here instead of her brother, couldn’t help thinking their father was taking such a hard line because he expected her to fail at keeping Wyatt in line.

The bastard. “All I’m saying,” her father continued, “is Li doesn’t have a drug problem. He’s as sane as any rocker gets, and he wants this job. He isn’t going to screw it up. So if you want to keep Wyatt, you take Li, too. Frankly, one addict is all any band needs for street cred.” Poppy gasped at her father ’s callous words, and it took every ounce of strength she had not to hurl something back at him. But she wasn’t here as the label’s marketing director—or as Bill Germaine’s daughter. She was here as a lowly social media expert who needed to keep her mouth shut. Still, she couldn’t help easing forward some, as if putting her body between Wyatt and the computer screen would somehow shield him from her father ’s attack. Jared must have had the same thought, because suddenly he was there, too. “Wyatt doesn’t do drugs,” he grated out. “Not anymore.” “Fuck this shit,” Quinn snarled at the same time, yanking out his cell phone. “I’m calling our lawyers.” “He just got out of rehab,” Ryder said, as Quinn started scrolling through his contacts. “You need to give him a chance, Bill. He can handle this—” “Let me be very clear here. I don’t need to do anything,” her father said. “I have lawyers of my own, and we’ve already let a huge breach of contract slide because Caleb wanted to show you guys that we believed in you. But Wyatt’s addiction is a liability. It cost this label a lot of money and it can’t be allowed to happen again. The insurance company and I both need some reassurances—” “You already got your reassurances,” Quinn told him, and he looked colder and more frightening than she had ever seen him. Even in concert, he was the jokester. The one who kept things light. But as he stared down her father there was none of that lightness in him. Instead, there was only rage. “And you’ll get triple whatever money you lost with this tour.” “Yeah,” Jared agreed. “We settled this nearly two months ago. Nothing has changed.” Her father didn’t back down. Instead he lowered his eyebrows in that way that told her he was digging in his heels and preparing to be a total jerk. Not that he had to try very hard at either—the stubborn jackass gene was strong in him. “I’ll only get my money back if this tour actually goes ahead as scheduled.” He shifted his gaze to Wyatt. “And so far I have to say I’ve seen nothing that encourages me to believe that will be the case. Everything about Wyatt Jennings is a construct or a lie. Why should this whole rehab thing—his third time in rehab, by the way—be any different?” “You want me to quit?” Wyatt asked, his voice hoarse but steady. “Of course not—” Caleb started, but again her father interrupted him. “That’s exactly what I want you to do.” He stared Wyatt down. “It’s what you’re good at, isn’t it? Better you quit now than in two months when it costs me tens of millions of dollars.” “The fuck is going on here?” Ryder demanded, his face livid. “Look,” their manager interjected. “This is getting out of control. Let’s everybody cool off and we can reschedule—”

“Fine.” Wyatt interrupted him with a shrug. “If that’s what you want, then I’m out.” Poppy turned to stare at him in open-mouthed horror. As did the guys in the band. Wyatt couldn’t quit—he just couldn’t. His playing was the backbone of the whole band. He set the rhythm, created the drum fills that had helped make them famous. Their sound would be totally off without him. It would be— “Fuck you,” Quinn roared. “You aren’t quitting.” “This is total bullshit.” Jared slammed his fist down on the kitchen table. “And it isn’t happening.” “If you quit, we all quit,” Ryder told him. “And then Bill will never get his lost revenue back.” It was exactly what Poppy had expected them to say—she knew this band. Knew how they felt and knew how they operated. They had kicked Micah out because he had betrayed them. But Wyatt’s addiction was something else entirely. They’d stood by him the last three months, and they would stand by him now, no matter what. Her father wasn’t loyal to anything but his bottom line, so he didn’t understand that kind of allegiance. Even after the guys had ponied up fifty percent of the insurance deductible themselves, he still thought strong-arming them was going to work. Sure enough, her father started blustering as soon as the guys lost their shit, going on about contracts and lawyers and ruining them. Their manager was talking just as fast, threatening legal action against the label if they forced Wyatt to quit. And Wyatt…Wyatt just stood there, shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Looking for all the world like a guy who had just lost everything. Like a guy who’d thought he didn’t have anything left to lose. Taking matters into her own hands, since she and Caleb were the ones who were going to have to fix this mess, she walked over to the laptop and tried to once again catch her brother ’s eye. She couldn’t end this farce of a meeting and still keep her cover, but he could. More, he needed to. He must have seen the look on her face, because he responded with a quick, “Let’s take a few minutes and then reconvene after everyone’s had a chance to cool off a little.” Then he was logging off the call and taking her father with him. As the teleconference dropped, the sudden silence was overwhelming. At least until Jared turned to Wyatt and demanded, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Chapter Nine He didn’t know what he was doing. Didn’t have a fucking clue, in fact. He just knew that it felt like what was left of his world had just come crashing down around his ears. Had he really just quit the band? Had he really just quit the only thing in his life that made any fucking sense at all? His gut churned like he’d been on a week-long bender, and for a second he was sure he was going to be sick all over Quinn’s cherry wood floor. But in the end, he managed to swallow the sick down as he stared blankly at his feet and tried to figure out what the fuck he was supposed to do now. The only problem was, he didn’t even know where to start. He was lost. Completely fucking lost without the band. Without his identity as the drummer of Shaken Dirty. Without these guys who had stood by him through so fucking much. And so, in the end, he didn’t answer Jared’s question. He didn’t say anything at all, in fact, except for a mumbled “Sorry.” And then he was out the door before he lost it completely. He walked in a quick, straight line away from the studio, beating a hasty retreat until he’d put some distance between himself and the back of the main house. When he got to the beginning of the large copse of trees that shielded the back acre of Quinn’s property from the dwellings—and the dwellings from curious fans who’d managed to sneak or talk their way onto the island—he leaned against the closest tree and reached for his cigarettes. He needed something—anything—to concentrate on besides the craving crawling through his veins like poison. Or salvation. He found Poppy’s lollipop instead and that—that was what finally made him lose it. That was what finally put a crack in the composure he’d been trying so fucking hard to hold on to. He hurled the damn candy away from him as hard as he could, watched as it slammed into a tree about a hundred feet away before falling harmlessly to the forest floor. It wasn’t enough, wasn’t close to being enough. He whirled around, started to pound his fist into the nearest tree. Only the thought of the damage it would do to his hands—to his ability to play music— had him pulling his punch at the last minute. But then he remembered that it didn’t matter, that he wasn’t Shaken Dirty’s drummer anymore. And he slammed his fist straight into the tree’s trunk. Pain reverberated though his hand and up his arm as his knuckles split open under the force of the impact. He didn’t give a shit. In fact he relished the pain because it took the place of the cravings—and

the anguish that was slowly ripping him apart. Desperate for the emotional numbness, he pulled his arm back, prepared to hit the tree again. Except this time, he didn’t get the chance. Because suddenly Poppy was there, her cool hands wrapping around his arm. Staying the punch. Freezing him in place. “Stop!” she told him, her voice low, firm, and more compassionate than he deserved. “You’ll destroy your hands if you keep that up.” “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said with a shrug, pulling his arm from her grasp and turning away. “It does matter,” she answered. “It will always matter. You’re a drummer—” “I was a drummer. Now I’m—” He broke off, not knowing what to say or how to even complete the sentence. Being a drummer was everything to him. It was his whole identity, his whole life, and if he wasn’t one anymore, then he didn’t know what the fuck he was. Except an addict. He’d always be one of those, wouldn’t he? He wanted to deny it, wanted to pretend it wasn’t true. But it was. He knew it was. Just like he knew if he could get his hands on a gram of smack right now, he’d do it all. Smoke it, shoot it, fuck, at this point he’d snort the shit up his fucking nose. Anything to get away from himself for a while—to get out of the skin that hadn’t fit right for as long as he could remember. He closed his eyes at the thought, flexed his hand, tried to concentrate on the pain. On the cravings. On anything, on everything, but the past he couldn’t take back. The mistakes he couldn’t get away from unless he was so far gone on drugs and booze that he barely knew his own name. It didn’t work. Then again, no fucking surprise there. He’d been trying to perfect that trick since he was a kid and it had never fucking worked. Would never work. He was stuck in his own head until all the bullshit he couldn’t leave behind finally destroyed him once and for all. He pulled back his arm, determined to hit the tree again and again—to break himself against it until there was nothing else to concentrate on but the pain. But in the end, he couldn’t do it, not in front of Poppy. Not when she was standing right in front of him, her face pale and her big, brown eyes wide and worried. He couldn’t stand it—couldn’t stand the way she was looking at him, like she was afraid he was going to fall to pieces at any moment. Couldn’t stand the idea of losing it in front of her and looking totally pathetic. And he definitely, definitely couldn’t stand her pity—or the fear he saw lurking deep in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he told her, finally breaking the long moments of silence that stretched out between them. “I didn’t mean to lose it like that.” “You didn’t,” she answered. As one they looked down at his bruised and swollen knuckles. “Yeah. Right.” She took his hand then, rubbed her thumb gently over the back of it. “It’s okay,” she soothed. Her voice was soft—gentle—and he could tell she was trying her best not to spook him. Almost like he was the deer and she the hunter.

Because he didn’t like that analogy—or the kernel of truth to be found in it—he reached forward and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her toward him. She came, but it was obvious she was wary. Nervous. He wondered if she regretted coming after him. If she wished she’d sent someone else. He wouldn’t blame her if she did. God knew, even he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t have to be. He’d spent most of his life wanting to shed his skin like a snake. To leave behind who he was and start over as someone new. Someone better. Someone who hadn’t fucked up everything he’d ever touched. No way would he pick himself if he had the choice. Not in a million years. And yet, even as he told himself that, he didn’t let her go. He couldn’t, not yet. Not when her body felt so soft and warm against his arm. And not when her chest was rising and falling so rapidly, her full breasts straining against the soft cotton of her hot pink tank top. If he moved, just a little, her nipples would brush against his chest. Because he couldn’t resist the temptation of that, he did, taking that last little step that closed the gap between them completely. She gasped, her eyes growing even wider as his body pressed against hers from chest to thigh. “You okay?” he asked, his thumb burrowing under her shirt to stroke the silky smooth skin of her waist. “Me?” She sounded breathless and incredulous all at once. “I came out here to ask you the same question.” He forced a grin he was far from feeling. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I’m always fine.” “You sure about that? Because you don’t look fine.” Once again her fingers ghosted over his battered hand. He shrugged. “Just trying to do what’s good for the band.” “You’re what’s good for the band, Wyatt. Anyone with a brain or any musical knowledge whatsoever knows that much.” “Not Bill Germaine, obviously, and he’s one of the smartest guys in the business.” “Bill Germaine is an asshole who can’t see past his bottom line to save his life.” Her response was much more adamant—and vicious—than he’d expected. “He’s so wrapped up in what happened three months ago that he’s not looking down the road to three months, or three years, from now.” “He is looking down the road—to however long it’s going to be before I fuck up and fall off the wagon again.” “Is that what you’re planning on doing? Falling off the wagon?” “I’m not planning on it, but I’ve spent my whole life being a fuck-up. I can’t blame him for being concerned that I’m going to do it again.” “You should blame him. It’s his job to be behind you right now.”

Her voice rang with conviction, and he appreciated the support, he really did. But she didn’t know what she was talking about. Not when it came to this. “It’s his job to sell Shaken Dirty albums and tour seats. Coddling me isn’t in his job description.” “Coddling you, no. But he should have your back.” He shook his head, grinned indulgently. “You’re a lot more naive than you look.” “It’s not naive to expect a little human decency from a guy you’ve made tens of millions of dollars for.” He wasn’t sure what it said about him that, despite everything going on, watching her get all worked up was turning him on. Then again, from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, everything about this woman had made him hot. “It is when I’ve also lost him millions of dollars. Besides, all label guys are the same.” “No, they aren’t,” she insisted. “And you shouldn’t have to put up with what he just pulled on you.” “Whatever. He was just saying what needed to be said. It’s all good. No big deal.” He forced the words out when all he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and howl. He’d quit the band because it was the right thing to do, because it would protect the people who mattered most to him in the whole fucking world. But that didn’t mean losing Shaken Dirty hadn’t just ripped a giant hole right through the center of him. Because it had. Fuck, had it ever. “Are you serious right now?” She grabbed his arm, got in his face. “It’s a huge deal. This is your career! You need to get on the phone with your lawyer and your manager right now and figure out what your options are. Then you need to go back to Germaine from a position of strength. He wants Shaken Dirty, and he wants you guys bad. It’s obvious today was just a fishing expedition. He wanted to see how far he could push before you fought back. You need to show him—” He stopped her with a kiss. He knew he shouldn’t, knew that touching her was a bad idea when he was this screwed up. He was spiraling down again, his life getting out of control, and the last thing he wanted was to mess her up, too. To drag her down with him when all she was doing was trying to support him. But what he’d done in there was still too new—the wound too fucking raw—to just sit here and listen as she went over it. Besides, when confronted with unsavory business stuff or kissing Poppy…let’s just say it was a no brainer. Still, for a second he thought she was going to keep talking. Her hands came up to his shoulders as if to push him away, and the look in her eyes told him she had a lot more to say, that she wasn’t going to be so easily derailed. But when he wrapped both arms around her waist and pulled her body flush against his, she let her eyes flutter closed and melted against him. She felt good pressed against him like this, soft and warm and perfect. He nipped at her lower lip, sucked it between his teeth. She gasped, her hands tightening in his shirt, and he took instant advantage, licking inside her mouth to stroke his tongue around and along her own. It was their first kiss, he realized as he delved deep. Despite what had happened in that alley a few

nights ago and on the porch a little while ago, this was the first time he’d actually kissed her. Fuck. He was an even bigger dick than he thought. Determined to make up for his callousness, he tangled his hand in her hair and tugged her head back. Then he slowly stroked his tongue along her full lower lip, loving the sounds she made. Loving even more the way her hands greedily clutched at him. She felt so good, tasted so good—like cream and honey and sun-warmed summer peaches—that a part of him wanted to stay right here, like this, forever. He’d been wanting to get his hands—and his mouth—on her again ever since he’d walked out of that alley to go on stage the other night. So much so that when he’d seen her on that porch this morning, he hadn’t been able to resist touching her. Even knowing it was the worst thing he could be doing right now—his counselors had warned him about trying for even a casual relationship until he’d been out of rehab at least six months—he couldn’t let her go. Not right now, when every single cell in his body was calling out for her. Craving her. She turned him on like nothing had in a long time, her sweetness and honesty and concern going a long way to soothe the demons inside of him. He didn’t know what it was about her that silenced the noise in his head, that beat back the cravings and the pain, that gave him the opportunity to just be. He didn’t know, but in that moment he was grateful for it—grateful for her—and he was going with it. Savoring it—and her—as he deepened the kiss and explored her like he rarely bothered to explore anything anymore. She tasted like honey mixed with the spiciness of cinnamon, and he couldn’t get enough of the taste. Couldn’t get enough of her. Especially when she made those little noises deep in her throat, noises that were half moan, half desperate plea. They went straight to his cock—straight to his head—and he knew getting her off wasn’t going to be enough this time. He had to have more of her. Had to have all of her. Keeping one hand on her ass, he slid his other hand up her back to the nape of her neck and tangled his fingers in her hair, then gently twisted until the pins holding it up started to loosen. It didn’t take long—there was so much of the stuff, and it was so heavy and full of body that it only took a few tugs before her hair was slipping its restraints and tumbling down over his fingers and her shoulders like a waterfall of rich brown silk. He pulled away then, just a little, so that he could get a good look at her. She was breathtaking, her lips swollen with his kisses, her skin flushed, her eyes glazed. And her hair was a tangled, tousled mess falling in waves nearly to her ass. Her very round, very inviting ass. “You’re so beautiful,” he told her, sliding his hands inside her jeans. He wanted to feel that ass under his hands, with no fabric to get in the way. Wanted to slip her jeans and panties off so that he could see her in the light of day. And then he wanted to bury his face right between her thighs and fuck his tongue deep inside of her. At that moment, he wanted it more than he wanted heroin—more, even, than he wanted things to work out with the label. The need to taste her was a razor scraping away at his insides, the need to watch and listen to her fall apart even more so.

But her hand was on his as he started to pull on her panties, her fingers tangling around his and stilling them even as her body arched toward him. “We shouldn’t,” she told him, her lips moving against his. “We should,” he countered, skimming his mouth down the slender column of her throat and over the top of her chest to press hot, open-mouthed kisses against the nipples he could feel pebbling beneath the thin fabric of her tank top. “I’ll make you feel so good.” She moaned as his lips closed around one nipple and he started to suck. “We need to talk about the band,” she finally managed to choke out. But her hands were tangling in his hair to hold him in place as she arched her back and thrust her nipple more firmly into his mouth. “We will.” He bit down gently on her nipple, relishing the soft, broken sound she made. “Later.” “This is your career. You need—” Her protests were broken and her body hot as it arched against him. That, combined with her hands—which were clutching at him like a lifeline—was all it took to convince him she wanted him as badly as he did her. “I need you,” he said, pressing his advantage as he dropped to his knees in front of her. “Please, Poppy. I need…” He broke off, clamping his jaw shut on the words that were swimming around in his head, just waiting to tumble out. He couldn’t say them, not now. Not ever. Not when what he’d already said had made him more vulnerable than he’d allowed himself to be in months. Years. Fuck, maybe even forever. As the thought washed over him, he closed his eyes, tilted his face down so Poppy couldn’t see. She wasn’t having it, though, her hands tangling in his hair and tugging at the stuff, hard, until he had no choice but to once again look up at her. As their gazes met, locked, he tried to cover up all the shit he was feeling, tried to keep his face blank and his eyes veiled. But he could tell it wasn’t working, could tell she could see right through him, and for a moment, just a moment, he wished for a hit. For a drink. For something, anything, to keep him from feeling all the emotions currently battering around inside of him. The shrinks at rehab had warned him about that, had told him if he kept using avoidance as a coping mechanism he was going to find himself right back where he’d started. But they didn’t get it. He didn’t want to feel, didn’t want to face everything that had happened all those years ago. If he did, he was afraid he’d unravel so completely that he’d never be sober again. He waited for Poppy to turn him away, told himself the last thing he needed to be doing was using her to hide from his other, darker cravings. It wasn’t fair to her, or himself. Besides, hadn’t he learned his lesson yet? Trust him to kick heroin only to turn around and get hooked on a whole different kind of poppy. He really was a fucking moron. He started to apologize, to tell her to forget the whole thing. But then she was stroking a hand over his cheek, her thumb rubbing back and forth across his mouth, each swipe a little harder. A little more insistent. A little hotter. Even as he called himself every name he could think of, he parted his lips and nipped at the fleshy part of her thumb before sucking it inside of his mouth.

She gasped, shivered, but she never looked away from him. Never took her eyes off of his. Watching her pupils dilate with arousal, watching those golden brown eyes of hers turn almost completely black, was the last fucking straw. It broke his control, broke him wide open, until all he could think about was tasting her, having her. Fucking her. And then he was pulling her pants down, ripping her panties off and tossing them to the ground by her feet as he buried his face in her sex and just breathed her in for several long, perfect seconds. She cried out then, a loud, desperate sound that made him want nothing more than to hear it again. And again. And again. That made him want nothing more than to spend the rest of the afternoon getting her off any and every way she would let him. Starting with her pussy against his mouth. He darted his tongue out, swiped it back and forth across her clit until her breath broke and her knees trembled. They fucking trembled, and she fell into him, her hands clutching at his shoulder, her nails digging into his upper back. He grabbed on to her, tried to hold her close, to steady her. But her hands were back in his hair and she was tugging at him, urging him to his feet even as he licked his way along her slit. “My turn,” she told him, her voice husky but determined. “I know,” he answered, pressing the words into the soft skin of her jaw as he licked his way toward her mouth. “I’ll take care of you.” He started to undo the delicate buttons of her blouse. “No.” Her fingers were fumbling with his belt. “It’s my turn to take care of you.” And then his jeans were open and she was on her knees in front of him. It was so unexpected that for long seconds, he didn’t say anything. He just stared down at her, completely wrapped up in how goddamn beautiful she was with her flushed skin, her sparkling eyes, her kiss-swollen lips. In that moment, he wanted her mouth on him more than he’d ever wanted anything—even smack. And still he cupped her cheek in his hand. Still he said, voice hoarse and more than a little strained, “You don’t have to.” She grinned up at him then, and slid her tongue along the perfect bow of her upper lip. “Oh, I have to all right,” she told him, leaning forward to press a kiss against the tip of his very hard, very aroused dick. “I really, really do.” And then she was pulling him inside her mouth, her tongue running along the underside of his cock. This time, his knees were the ones that shook.

Chapter Ten She shouldn’t be doing this. She absolutely shouldn’t be doing this. Every argument Poppy had given herself in the last three days—and especially the last thirty minutes, since Wyatt quit the band—went round and round in her head as she slid her hands around to cup Wyatt’s ass so that she could take him deeper. She ignored them all—every argument, every worry, every consequence she knew would come from this—and concentrated instead on giving him as much pleasure as he’d given her. On making him feel as good as he made her feel. Doing this was stupid; she knew it with every fiber of her being. Bad for her job, bad for her future, and—she was beginning to be more than a little afraid—bad for her heart. But how could she not give him this after seeing the vulnerability in his eyes? How could she not take him inside of herself when that one glimpse had let her see just how lost he felt? How desperately he wanted, needed, to connect with someone? She would be that someone. Not because of her job, not because of her ambitions or the label or any of the reasons why she’d come here. But because of Wyatt. Because of the way he touched her, the way he held her, the way— three times now—he was so determined to give her pleasure when the other guys she’d known had always only been out for themselves. She wanted to make him feel good so badly, to get him outside of his head for a little while and show him that he was worth it. That after the hell he’d been through he deserved all the pleasure he could take. All the pleasure she could give him. And so she sucked him deeper still, and as she did, she scratched her nails over the flat¸ muscled plane of his abdomen. Down his perfectly defined V-cut. Along the light happy trail that led from his navel to his groin. He was beautiful, so fucking beautiful, his skin pale, his hair soft and silky, his muscles long and lean. For a moment, just a moment, she thought about how he’d gotten this lean, this toned, this hard. Thought of the drugs and the horrors of withdrawal and the hours he must have spent exercising just to keep from going out of his mind. It didn’t turn her off, didn’t make her feel sorry for him, though it did make her feel for him. As did the still fading track marks she could see ghosting along the veins that ran on the outside of his hips.

She wanted to touch them, to lick her way along them in an effort to soothe away all the hurt and ugliness they represented. But something deep inside warned her it would ruin everything if she did, and so she settled on letting him slip out of her mouth so she could press hot, open-mouthed kisses on first one hip and then the other. And if her heart broke just a little at all the pain he had suffered, well then, nobody had to know that but her. Wyatt groaned, his hands fisting in her hair as she pushed his T-shirt up and out of the way so that she could see, touch, taste more of him. She skimmed her way across his stomach, kissing every inch of exposed skin she could get her lips on. But then the shirt fell down, covering him up again, and she made a sound of frustration deep in her throat. She hadn’t been able to see him in that alley the other night. She wasn’t about to let that happen here. He must have recognized the source of her frustration—or maybe he just wanted the shirt gone as much as she did. Either way, it took only a second for Wyatt to rip the offending garment over his head and drop it on the ground next to her torn panties. As he did, the muscles of his chest and stomach flexed and bunched, and it was all she could do to keep her tongue in her mouth. Because, dear God, the man was sporting the first ten pack she had ever seen up close and personal. Hell, it was the only ten pack she’d ever seen, period. She knew drummers were ripped, knew they used their core more than pretty much any other musicians out there, but still. Wyatt had been toned when he’d gone to rehab. Now…now he looked like a god. The marketing expert in her couldn’t wait to see what Tumblr had to say about this new development, while the rest of her just wanted to get her hands—and mouth—on him. So she did, petting his chest and stomach even as she licked her way up the center of his torso as far as she could reach while on her knees. He groaned a little, his hand cupping the back of her head to hold her to him as she kissed and licked and sucked her way back down his stomach and abdomen to his cock. She paused right below his navel, sucked a small, round bruise into the skin to the left of his happy trail. Then she licked her way over and around it a few times, relishing the way his muscles jumped and flexed under her tongue. He smelled so good, tasted so good—like lemon and sandalwood and dark, hot sex. She wanted to roll around in his scent, to pull it over her like a blanket. To wrap it, and him, around herself for long, lust-filled nights. But they didn’t have nights, didn’t have anything but this one, sun-drenched afternoon, and she was determined to take advantage of it—and the freedom she had to touch him, to taste him, to take him. To let him take her. And so she kissed and licked and sucked her way back down his abdomen as a late summer breeze whistled through the trees above them. When she got to his cock, she paused, her mouth hovering inches above his tip. He was big, long, and thick, and heavily aroused, and she was pretty sure if she pressed his dick against his abdomen the head would stretch past his belly button.

He was an arousing sight, no doubt about that, but she wasn’t sure she could take all of him—in her mouth or her body. So instead of swallowing him down as she longed to do, she chose instead to kiss just the very tip before pulling the head into her mouth and licking around and around it, her tongue flat and firm against the sensitive crown. He shivered, his back arching a little in a desperate bid for more. He looked hot, so hot, his eyes hyper focused and electric blue as he put a little pressure on her head in an attempt to urge her closer. To get her to take more of him—and to give him more of herself in return. Because she couldn’t resist the way he asked—any more than she could resist the way he looked at her—she gave in, widening her circles until she was licking halfway down his shaft. As she did, she made sure to pay attention to the sensitive area at the bottom of the tip, spiking her tongue and flicking against the spot. “Fuck, Poppy.” Wyatt’s fingers tightened in her hair, holding her in place as he thrust his hips forward, forced his cock deeper into her mouth. “Baby, please…it’s been so long… I need…I need —” His voice, already low and gravelly and so, so sexy, broke on a groan as he pulled her into him at the same time he slammed his hips forward. The movement caught her by surprise, but he felt so good and she was so turned on that it only made her hotter. Stretching her jaw wide, she took him deep. Took him all the way to the back of her throat and still that wasn’t enough. Still there was more of him. She’d never done this before, never opened herself up to a guy like this. Never let him use her mouth—use her—the way she was letting Wyatt. But then she hadn’t understood how powerful her surrender made her, hadn’t understood that in yielding to him she got at least as much as she gave. Maybe more. Because even as tears sprang to her eyes, even as she struggled to breathe, she realized this summer afternoon fuck wasn’t just about him. About what he needed. It was about her too. Because the more he took, the more she wanted to give him. Considering the job she was here to do, it was a terrifying thought. Terrifying, and so, so arousing. Her nipples peaked. Her breath came faster and faster. Her sex throbbed. “Fuck, baby,” Wyatt groaned, his hands tugging her back this time instead of pulling her forward. “That’s so good. That’s so—” She moaned and the vibrations had him breaking off, had his hips thrusting forward fast and hard. Suddenly she was taking all of him, his cock in her throat. Her nose buried against his skin. It was a lot—he was a lot. Almost too much, really. But she wanted this for him, wanted it for herself, so she concentrated on breathing through her nose. On relaxing her jaw. On tamping down her instinctive need to panic at the dominance of his position. On one hand, it wasn’t easy—she was a control freak who liked to be in charge of everything—and

her heart was beating fast, her skin prickling with awareness, her body half-frightened, halfenthralled by the sensation of yielding control to him. But on the other hand, it was the easiest thing she’d ever done. Giving herself over to Wyatt, taking what he gave her in return. It had been a long time since anything had felt this right. Because the knowledge scared her—she had to remember how wrong this was on so many levels— she shoved it away, ignored it. Concentrated instead on giving him as much pleasure as she possibly could. Lifting her hands to his hips, she tugged his jeans down a little more. She wanted to touch the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, to hold his balls in her hands, to scratch her nails down his ass, his hips, the back of his thighs. She wanted to experiment, to figure out what turned him on and what brought him the same kind of immeasurable pleasure he’d given her the night before. With that goal in mind, she slipped a hand between his thighs, brushed her fingers over his testicles and then moved back, behind them, to rub softly at his taint. Wyatt stiffened, his fists going lax, and she pulled off of him slowly. She spent a minute sucking at just the tip of his cock, her tongue sliding over and around the slit as his breathing grew labored. Then she turned her head and rested her cheek against his hip as she pressed soft, sweet kisses to his abdomen. His navel. His V-line. Wyatt relaxed slowly under her ministrations, his legs opening just a little bit wider in order to give her better access. As he did, his cock brushed against her cheek and she rewarded his gradual surrender by licking her way from tip to base and then back again. Her name shattered on his lips, the pieces of it hanging in the air around them like stars as she began a slow, steady stroking of his taint that had sweat rolling down his abdomen and broken curses falling from his lips. It was a really good sound, nearly musical in its depth and intensity, and it had heat shimmering through her all over again, had her sex clenching emptily. “Poppy, sweetheart, please—” The way he called her name, all needy and desperate, did it for her like few things ever had. As a reward—and because, suddenly, she felt as anxious as he obviously was—she swallowed him down, sucking so hard that her cheeks hollowed out and her throat ached. Again and again she took him, relishing the broken sounds he made with each pull of her mouth. Relishing the urgent grip of his hands in her hair and the desperate way his hips moved against her. He’d lost his rhythm now, lost the smooth, sexual confidence that had been such a part of him last night. Now he was all about sensation, all about pleasure, all about the drive for release. As was she. She could feel the sting of his nails scraping against her scalp, the ache of the hard ground beneath her knees, the burn of his cock stretching out her throat. She’d never had any desire to mix pain with pleasure, but this moment—on her knees in front of Wyatt as he used her, as he thrust into her mouth again and again and again and took what he wanted—was, by far, the most erotic

experience of her life. And she wasn’t ready for it to end, even though she was nearly as strung out on sexual pleasure as he was. Slipping one hand under his swollen balls, she cupped him, rubbing and squeezing and stroking until he was panting like an animal. Until his fingers were twisting hard in her hair and he was calling out her name with each thrust of his cock into her mouth. Tears leaked from her eyes, ran down her cheeks—a by-product of having him so deep for so long —and still she didn’t let up. Her jaw ached, her lips and mouth and tongue threatening to go numb under the fast, brutal pace of his hips jacking against them, and still she didn’t finish him. If this was all he was ever willing to give her—all he would ever be willing to take from her—she was going to make it last, going to relish every second of it. But then he was reaching between them, cupping her breast in his hand. Stroking and pinching and pulling at first one nipple and then the other through her blouse and bra. It was too much stimulation, too much pleasure, and for a moment she forgot how to breathe. “That’s it, sweetheart,” Wyatt grated out as he pinched her nipple between two fingers and then flicked his thumbnail across the very tip of it. “I’ll get you there, too.” She was already there, and would have told him so if her mouth weren’t still stuffed with his cock. Her clit burned, her pussy throbbed, and her whole body felt like it was on the verge of shattering into a million jagged pieces. Desperate to stop the ache, desperate to hold herself together, she slipped a hand between her thighs. Pressed her palm flat against her clit. But that only made it worse, as did the deep rumble of Wyatt’s voice urging her on. “That’s it, sweetheart. That’s it. Spread your thighs for me. Let me see you touch yourself.” Any other time she would have been embarrassed, but right now she was too needy, too frantic, to do anything but follow his instructions. “Fuck yeah, baby. Let me see you. You’re so pretty,” he crooned even as he started thrusting harder, faster, into her mouth. “So. Fucking. Pretty.” Each word punctuated another thrust into her mouth, another squeeze of her nipple, another step up the precarious ladder of her own pleasure. “You’re so good, baby,” he told her as he clamped down on her left nipple hard enough to have her gasping around his cock as a quick shock of pain shot through her. It was immediately followed by a very pleasurable heat, though, so she went with it, arching against him, into him, as shocked and needy tears slid down her cheeks. “So good,” he repeated. “You take it so well.” His hand slipped from her hair, and then he was cupping her cheek. Tilting her head up so that she was looking directly into his eyes. What she saw there had her nearly gasping again. Dominance, yes. A need for control, absolutely. But there was tenderness, too. And just a hint of the vulnerability she’d seen earlier. She was giving

herself to Wyatt here, letting him take from her what he needed. But as she looked up at him, as she saw the openness on his face as he gazed down at her, she couldn’t help thinking that he really was giving just as much of himself to her. It was terrifying and exhilarating and arousing, all at the same time. Her pleasure ratcheted up another notch, and she knew she was close. Knew it wouldn’t take much to send her careening over the edge into oblivion. Wyatt must have sensed it, too, because his eyes darkened to a wild, dangerous blue that just might be the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. “You like that, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice taut as a circus tightrope. “Does that feel good?” She nodded as much as she could considering his hand was on her jaw and his cock was down her throat. But the wicked grin he flashed her told her he got the message. As did the hoarseness of his voice as he instructed, “Now slip a finger inside that sweet pussy of yours.” He watched, avidly, as she followed his instructions. “That’s good. Fuck, that’s perfect. Spread your thighs a little more so I can see. I want to watch you finger fuck yourself. I want—” He broke off as she did what he asked, spreading her thighs so wide they burned. And then she was thrusting her finger in and out of herself, fucking herself the way she wanted him to fuck her. “Fuck, yes. God, baby, you look so fucking hot. Fuck. Now add another one.” She whimpered as she did what he asked, sliding her fingers in and out of her drenched sex in the same rhythm he was sliding in and out of her mouth. “Does that feel good, sweetheart? Do you like that?” Her only answer was a high-pitched whine that came from the very heart of her. He was deep in her throat and she felt the cry go through him like an electric shock, his body stiffening and eyes going wide. In response, he thrust even deeper, faster, harder. She sucked at him as best she could, but his hand was back in her hair and he was in control now, fucking her mouth with a blazing intensity that she knew would leave her sore later. Not that she cared about being sore. How could she when she was on the brink of an orgasm that threatened to consume her whole? “That’s it, baby. Oh, fuck, that’s it. You’ve got the best mouth, sweetheart. You take my dick so good.” As he spoke, he never took his eyes off her wet, swollen sex. “I just want you to do one more thing for me, sweetheart. Can you do that?” She didn’t know. She was drowning in sensation, drowning in a razor-sharp pleasure that was unlike anything she’d ever felt before. But she nodded anyway, determined to give Wyatt whatever he wanted. Whatever he needed. “Good girl,” he told her as he tightened his fingers around her nipple just a little more. A shock of electricity slammed through her and she jumped. Squeaked. He laughed a little, a low, dark sound that had her eyes falling shut and her body climbing even higher. “Now pinch your clit between your thumb and index finger like I’m pinching your nipple. Squeeze a little harder, a little harder… Fuck!”

He broke off as she whimpered, a high pitched, broken sound that resonated all the way through his cock. And then he was thrusting wildly, fucking her mouth, his rhythm shot to hell as he drove himself closer and closer to orgasm. She was right there with him, though, ecstasy sparking at the very heart of her. Pleasure shooting along her every nerve ending. Fire racing down her spine, tearing through her limbs, engulfing her every sense. “Fuck, baby, I need you to come with me. I’m coming. Fuck, I’m—” Wyatt groaned, his fingers tightening in her hair as he tried to pull her off. But she was teetering on the edge of her own orgasm, and there was no way she was going to deny herself the feel and taste of him on her tongue. So she sucked him hard, sucked him deep, one more time. And then he was going over the edge, his release shooting onto her tongue and down her throat in a series of powerful pulses that had her own climax rising up like a wave to swamp her. To pull her under. Her last coherent thought was that she wanted to see, and she blinked her eyes open just in time to watch Wyatt’s skin flush and his sharp eyes turn blurry as he gave himself over to a pleasure so intense that for a moment she feared it would tear them both to shreds.

Chapter Eleven When it was over, Wyatt dropped to his knees in front of her. Wrapped his arms around her. Rested his forehead against her own. And then they just breathed, their exhalations mingling in the hot summer air. Poppy counted his breaths and his heartbeats, reveling in the sound of them, the feel of them. Reveling in the knowledge that she had brought this sexy, beautiful man to his knees—in the most delicious way. He was wrapped around her now, their limbs tangled together, and though she knew it wouldn’t last —knew it couldn’t last when his life was such a mess, when she was lying to him every minute they spent together—she let herself sink into him, too. Let herself enjoy these last few moments before real life intruded on fantasy. Before all the reasons this was a bad idea once again reared their ugly heads. It didn’t take nearly long enough for Wyatt to recover—or for the real world to intrude—and when he finally stirred, Poppy expected it to be like the night in the alley. For him to just pull his pants up and go back to the mess he’d made with the band like none of this had ever happened. Or, more accurately, like it didn’t matter that it had. And why would it? He was a rock star, for God’s sake. He probably couldn’t even count how many women had gone down on him in his life. And she was okay with being just one more, she assured herself. She really was. After all, sleeping with Wyatt was the worst possible thing she could have done for her own career, so the less fuss anyone made about it, the better. Especially when they had much bigger things to deal with—like figuring out how to keep him in the band. That wasn’t to say she regretted what had happened, because she didn’t. First off, because who in her right mind could ever regret that kind of pleasure? And two, if being with her helped Wyatt fight his demons for even a little bit, then the way she’d screwed up her own plans was worth it. Because he was worth it. Except Wyatt didn’t give her a chance to play it cool, didn’t give her a chance to show how okay she was with things going down that way. Because he didn’t walk away. Instead, he pulled up his jeans, then steadied her as she yanked on her own jeans, sans the underwear

that lay in tatters at their feet. She tried to straighten herself up, but there wasn’t much she could do, considering she was certain her hair looked like a rat had nested in it after a bomb had gone off. Still, once her jeans were more or less back where they belonged and her blouse was buttoned again, Wyatt settled back against the trunk of one of the nearby trees and lifted her into his lap. She went because she didn’t know what else to do—he’d caught her off guard and she wasn’t prepared to resist—and because there was a part of her that really, truly wanted to be cuddled after the most spectacular orgasm of her life. A part of her that wanted to be held and stroked and comforted. The fact that Wyatt Jennings—one of the baddest of rock’s bad boys—seemed to understand that even more than she did, destroyed the last of her preconceptions about him. “Are you all right?” he asked, nuzzling against her cheek. “I was really rough.” “You were perfect,” she answered. Because he had been rough—she had the swollen lips and aching jaw to prove it—but he’d also been exactly what she’d wanted. She only hoped he felt the same way about her. He laughed then, and it was a harsh, rusty sound. “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard that word in reference to me before.” “That’s because you haven’t been listening hard enough. It’s out there.” “Do you always see the world through rose colored glasses?” “Do you always see the world through gray ones?” she countered. He cocked a brow at her. “You realize, right, that half the sunglasses on sale have gray shaded lenses?” “Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the best analogy,” she admitted with a grin. “But my point still stands.” “Does it? Does it really?” She rolled her eyes in response then stuck her tongue out at him. His eyes darkened and for a few moments she was sure he was going to kiss her again, but in the end he settled for tucking a few of the more riotous strands of her hair behind her ear. Then he dug around in the pocket of his jeans for his clove cigarettes and lighter. He offered her one, smiling a little ruefully when she wrinkled her nose and pulled another lollipop out of her pocket. He stared at it for long seconds before taking it from her and pulling the paper off. “No vices at all?” he asked before shoving his cigarettes back in his pocket and popping the sucker into his mouth instead. “Tons of vices,” she countered. “Those just don’t happen to be one of them.” “Oh, yeah?” He looked interested as he settled back against the tree. “Tell me one.” “And why, exactly, should I give you information you can use against me?” “It only seems fair. You know all of my vices. I should at least get to know one of yours.” “Yes, but also to be fair, much of the world knows about your vices. Mine are a bit more private, thank you.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth she wanted to take them back. Nothing like throwing

his past failures in his face just as he was trying to get over them. He didn’t take offense, though. And a quick glance at his eyes told her he hadn’t gone to the dark place she’d already seen him in at least twice. Instead, he just laughed, and this time it sounded a little more natural, a little less rusty. “With a name like Poppy, a guy could be excused for thinking your vices aren’t any better hidden than mine.” “My mother had issues, okay? My half-sister ’s name is Belladonna.” He cracked up at that. “You so got the better end of that deal.” “You’re only saying that because…” She trailed off, not sure she should say what she was thinking. Not when it came to this. “I’m only saying that because Poppy suits you. Despite the fact that you don’t have red hair. And, for the record, I have no desire to snort you up my nose.” It was her turn to laugh. “I’ll try not to be offended that you don’t.” “Why would I, when there are so many better things to do with you?” He slid a hand down inside her jeans, traced a finger along her still wet sex. “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure you already did a bunch of those things.” And still she spread her thighs. Still she arched into his touch. “Did I?” He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth before licking his way along her bottom lip. “I don’t remember. We should try a couple of them again, just to jog my memory.” “Oh, yeah?” she murmured against his lips. “And what is it you think we should try again?” “I’m sure I’ll think of something.” He flicked his thumb across her clit and she gasped, her legs falling open as wide as her skinny jeans would let them. He took instant advantage, his tongue sliding inside her mouth at the same time his fingers stroked inside her sex. It felt good, really good, and for long moments she couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but lie there and take it. Eventually, though, reality intruded and she pulled her mouth from his. “Shouldn’t we get back? The others are probably freaking out—” “The others are used to waiting for me,” he told her as he pressed kisses along the line of her jaw. “Besides, I’m not very good at ‘shouldn’t we’s.’” “Yes, but you need—” She broke off on a moan as he crooked two fingers deep inside her and found her G-spot. “What I need is to watch you come again,” he muttered against her skin, his thumb circling her clit. She didn’t think that was going to be a problem, considering the fact that she was already close. She’d always known he was magic with his hands—anyone who paid attention when he played the drums had to know that—but still, what he was doing to her body was absolute art. Absolute heaven. “Wyatt,” she gasped as he twisted his fingers and she climbed even higher. “Wyatt, I—” “It’s okay,” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. “I’ve got you, Poppy. I’ve got you.” And then he pulled her closer, his arms tight around her as he pinched her clit with one hand and her

nipple with another. That was all it took to send her soaring over the edge, orgasm thundering through her like a drum riff. Wyatt held her through it all, his talented fingers coaxing every cry, every whimper, every ounce of pleasure out of her until she was boneless. Mindless. Until all she could do was curl into his chest and cling. He held her as she came down, his calloused fingers stroking her back, her neck, her cheek, as she trembled against him. He pressed kisses into her hair, whispered about how beautiful she was, how sweet. It wasn’t what she’d expected from him, but it turned out it was exactly what she needed. She clung to him for long seconds, dropping kisses along his neck and collarbone and whatever parts of him she could reach. At least until Wyatt’s phone buzzed with a series of quick texts. He ignored it, but she couldn’t. No matter how much she wanted to spend the rest of the day out here with him, he had a job to do. And so did she. At least for now. Reaching into his pocket, she fished out his phone and held it to him. Though initially all he did was scowl at it—and her—eventually he relented and took the thing. His scowl only deepened as he scrolled through the texts, although that might have had something to do with her taking advantage of his preoccupation to scramble off his lap and straighten her clothes once again—and taking extra care to make sure she was out of his reach as she did so. “Time’s up?” she asked after he fired off a couple of texts in quick succession. “Something like that. Ryder ’s threatening to come looking for us if I don’t get my ass back there.” “Of course he is.” She all but shoved him onto the path to the house. “You did drop a hell of a bombshell back there. Is it any wonder they’re freaking out?” They didn’t say anything else as they walked back to the studio, both lost in thought. She was doing her best to figure out how to convince Wyatt to change his mind about quitting Shaken Dirty, and he was thinking about…God only knew what. She could only imagine what was running through his head after that awful call with her father. Once they reached the studio, he headed toward the front door with her hand still firmly clasped in his. She stopped him with a murmured, “I’m going to get going now.” “You don’t have to leave,” he told her. “Yeah, I do. This is between you and them.” She nodded toward the recording studio’s front porch, where Jared, Ryder and Quinn now waited impatiently. They must have been watching for them from the windows. He followed her gaze then nodded grimly. “At least let me walk you to your car.” She stared at him incredulously, as did the rest of his bandmates. “I’m fine,” she finally told him. “You need to stay here and fix this.”

…

Poppy was right. He did need to fix this, did need to make them understand why his decision was the best one—the only one—for Shaken Dirty. But since he didn’t have a fucking clue what he was going to say, he figured taking a couple more minutes wouldn’t hurt. “I do. But it’s not going anywhere.” He glanced at the others. “I need five more minutes.” “What you need is your fucking head examined,” Quinn snapped back. “Have you lost your fucking mind?” “Five minutes,” he repeated, knowing it would only antagonize his best friends more. But he’d walked out on Poppy the other night to go on stage after going down on her in that alley. After his whole wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am performance there, he was damned if he was going to do it again, even if the band was falling apart around his ears. At this point, taking two damn minutes to walk her to her car wasn’t going to cause any more damage than had already been done. To prove it, he looped an arm around her waist and propelled her toward the path that led to her car. “They want to talk this out because they think there’s a solution.” He lowered his mouth to hers, dropped a kiss on her shiny pink lips. “Plus, it occurred to me as we got back to the studio—despite what we’ve spent the better part of our time together doing—I don’t have your phone number. And since I’m no longer an official member of the band, I won’t be seeing you—” “You are, absolutely, still an official member of the band. Both you and the label have what I assume are ironclad contracts for a reason—so that hotheaded idiots can’t just decide to blow up a billion dollar band in a pissing contest.” “Who are you calling a hotheaded idiot? Bill Germaine or me?” “Both of you! That whole fight in the kitchen was ridiculous, and I’m sure your manager and lawyer will tell you that.” “I’m sure my manager and my lawyers will be glad to see the back of me. I’m a fuck-up—” “I really wish you’d stop saying that!” She huffed in exasperation. “It’s—” “True,” he told her, dropping another kiss on her too-tempting mouth. “It’s true, and wishing it wasn’t isn’t going to change anything.” He pulled out his phone. “Now, give me your number and I’ll call you later after I calm the other guys down. Maybe we can get ice cream or something.” She lifted a brow. “Ice cream?” “Well, it’s not like I can take you for a drink. And dinner seemed a little too presumptuous.” “Seriously? Your dick was in my mouth less than fifteen minutes ago and you think dinner is too presumptuous?” God, she sounded hot as fuck when she talked about blowing him. “Well, maybe not dinner. But definitely the fact that I’d like my dick to be in your mouth or some other part of your body again very soon…” “Yeah, well, I don’t sleep with unemployed musicians, no matter how talented they are. So if you want to put your cock anywhere near me tonight—”

“You don’t actually think that’s going to work, do you?” “Hey, I’m just stating the facts.” “Are you now?” He fisted a hand in her shirt and yanked, hard. She tumbled forward, straight into his arms. “Something tells me I can change your mind.” She let him kiss her again, and this time it was her tongue tracing his lips. Her tongue sneaking inside to stroke along his cheek, the roof of his mouth. The kiss lasted longer than he’d originally intended, but seeing as how she was clinging to him, her body soft and sweet and pliant, he sure as shit wasn’t going to step away. Not when just the feel of her pressed against him brought him more pleasure than he’d had in a long, long time. When she finally broke away, she didn’t go far. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest. “I want you to fix this,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.” He shrugged, blew her words off because if he let himself imagine it, let himself feel how much it hurt to just think about leaving Shaken Dirty, he’d never get out the door. “Not going to happen.” “Wyatt, please—” “I’ll try.” He said it more to placate her than anything else, and he could tell by the twist of her mouth that she knew it. Before she could get herself wound up again, he shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Now, on to more important things. What’s your number?” She stared at him for long seconds, her gaze so fierce that he couldn’t help feeling like she was trying to see inside of him. He was about to look away, to break off this unwitting battle of wills, but she did it first, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe he was real. But she rattled off her cell phone number, so he counted it as a win. Before either of them could say anything else, he heard gravel crunch on the trail behind him. He didn’t need to look up to know it was Jared who had come after him. He was the impatient one, after all… “I’ll be there in a minute, Jare,” he said without ever taking his eyes off of Poppy. There was a disgruntled silence—Jared was also really good at speaking without uttering a word— but eventually he heard footsteps retreating, and they were alone again. “How did you know it was Jared?” she asked. “Because I know him and the other guys better than they know themselves.” She looked surprised, but all she said was, “And they know you the same way?” He’d walked into that question like an idiot, but that didn’t mean he had to answer it. Didn’t mean he had to tell her anything he didn’t want to, no matter how perceptive she was. Or how much he wanted her. When he just shrugged, she looked like she was going to say more. But if it was about the label or the band or how he should deal with Bill Germaine, he didn’t want to hear it. Not right then and maybe not ever. Some things really were better left unsaid. And so he kissed her one last time, making it count, making sure she felt it from her sex to the soles

of her feet. Then he helped her into her car before she even knew that was what he was doing. For long moments, she just sat there in the driver ’s seat like she’d forgotten how to operate a vehicle. But eventually she turned it on, turned it around, and headed back down Quinn’s long, winding driveway to the isolated street that led off the island. And he was left staring after her, wondering what the fuck he’d just done.

Chapter Twelve When he finally made it back into the studio—ten minutes after the five he’d allotted himself—Wyatt found his bandmates waiting for him. And if he’d thought they’d looked pissed before, it was nothing compared to what this latest wait had done to them. Ryder was pacing, hands yanking at his too long hair. Quinn was muttering to himself as he scrolled through his phone like a madman. And Jared…well, Jared was glaring at the door like he was waiting for Satan himself to walk through it. And the second Wyatt did, the guitarist was out of his chair and across the kitchen. Wyatt knew the punch was imminent, but he didn’t try to defend himself. Hell, after all the shit he’d caused, he figured Jared had at least one free shot coming. They all did. Of course, that was before the guy’s fist connected with the side of his face—it had been a long time since they’d settled things by fighting, and Wyatt had forgotten just how hard a punch Jared had. No time to categorize the damage, though, not when Jared was already pulling his hand back a second time. “What the fuck did you think you were doing?” Wyatt just raised a brow at him, his gaze going between Jared’s face and his fist. “I gave you one.” “Is that supposed to scare me? After three months in rehab you look like a gust of wind would blow you away. You sure as shit laid down for Germaine like it would.” That set him on edge despite himself, and he gave up discreetly trying to catalog the damage to his face so that he could shove Jared, hard. “Fuck you. You don’t know anything about it.” “I don’t know anything about—” Jared broke off. Ground his teeth together. Worked at unclenching his fists. “Fuck you. Nobody knows more about your shit than we do. And we’ve always had your back. Always. So you want to explain to me why the fuck you pussed out the second Germaine put a little bit of pressure on you?” “I didn’t puss out.” “Sure as hell looked that way to me.” Jared glanced over his shoulder at the others. “What about you guys? Didn’t it look like that to you, too?” “Stop being a dick,” Quinn told him, his voice ringing through the room with an air of finality. “And both of you come sit down so we can talk this out.” “There’s nothing to talk about,” Ryder said, even as he pulled out a chair to sit down. “Wyatt quitting the band isn’t an option.”

“It’s the only option. You know the label’s just going to keep pushing you about me—” “And we’re just going to keep pushing back,” Jared interrupted, looking at him like he was a moron. “Why the fuck do we pay a small fortune to our lawyers and management if we’re just going to roll over and let them fuck us?” “It’s not about rolling over! Can’t you see that?” “All I see is you backing off from a fight. And that isn’t like you.” Wyatt snorted. “Who the fuck are you kidding, Jared? It’s exactly like me.” “No,” Ryder interjected. “It isn’t. If you were going to walk away from this fight, you would have done it a long time ago.” “I tried. You wouldn’t let me.” “Damn right,” Jared snorted. Quinn shot him a look. “So what makes you think we’re going to let you do it now?” “You don’t have a choice.” “There’s always a choice,” Ryder told him. “And if you think we’re going to let you make the wrong one here, then you’re out of your fucking mind.” “It’s my decision.” “It’s our decision,” Jared countered. “This band has always been a democracy, and three beats one every way you look at it.” “You don’t get it.” “No, you don’t get it!” Quinn pushed back from the table so fast his chair tipped backward and crashed to the ground. No one even looked at it. “We’ve stood by you for ten years, Wyatt. Ten years. Through the drugs, through the self-mutilation, through rehab, through relapses…what makes you think we’re going to cut you loose now?” “Because it’s time!” he yelled. “Because I’m a fuck-up and I’m always going to be a fuck-up. Nothing you do is going to be able to change that. No matter how many rehab programs you put me in, no matter how many shrinks you drag me to, it’s not going to change. I’m still going to fuck up. I’m still going to ruin everything!” “So what?” For the first time all night, Jared’s voice was low. Calm. It confused him, had Wyatt turning around to stare at the guy who’d been his best friend for more than a decade. “I don’t—what do you mean?” “I mean, so the fuck what if you screw up again? So the fuck what if you end up ruining this tour? We already have more money than we can ever spend. And even if we didn’t—even if the label came after us and somehow got it all in a breach of contract suit—so the fuck what? You think a big, fancy house is worth more to us than you? “You seem to forget we came from nothing. Money didn’t matter. Only the music did. If you think that’s changed just because Quinn drives a fancy pink motorcycle now, then you’re even more screwed up than I thought you were.”

“For the record,” Quinn interjected, “the motorcycle has sentimental value.” “The motorcycle’s an embarrassment,” Ryder told him. “But you’re not, Wyatt. I thought you knew better than anyone that Shaken Dirty’s about more than the bottom line. It’s about more than the money, more than the fame. It’s about the four of us doing what we love, together. Where we do it or how much we get paid for doing it—that’s just the details, man. And yeah, if you fall off the wagon again, it’s going to hurt all of us. Not because of the money. But because we don’t want to see you die, man.” He wasn’t going to touch that, not when a lump the size of a watermelon had already taken up residence in his throat. He’d always known he’d take a bullet for these guys, but to hear them say they’d do the same for him—when he wasn’t worth it, when he couldn’t be counted on, when he’d stood by and watched his own father die without lifting a finger to stop it, for Christ’s sake—fucked with him on a whole new level. Still, he wasn’t yet a big enough pussy to say any of that, so he shoved all his screwed up emotions down deep and concentrated on what he could talk about. On what should matter to his friends. “You say that now, but your money’s safe. What happens if you really do have to pay? If you lose millions of dollars—” “We already paid.” Jared cut him off mid-sentence. “Shut up, man,” Ryder hissed, elbowing him in the gut. For long seconds, shock held him hostage as his brain tried to comprehend what Jared was telling him. “What the fuck does that mean? What did you pay? Who did you pay?” “You think keeping you was easy when we were so insistent about dumping Micah?” Jared asked. “Shut up,” Ryder said again, even more forcefully this time. “It doesn’t matter,” Quinn added quickly. “It does matter,” he and Jared said at the same time. “I want to know exactly what he’s talking about,” Wyatt continued, as the room grew eerily silent. “We ponied up a fuckload of money to keep you after the breach of contract,” Jared told him. “To the label, to Micah. Shit, even to management.” “Exactly how much is a fuckload?” Wyatt demanded, as rage and heat and shame slammed into him like a runaway eighteen-wheeler. “It doesn’t matter,” Ryder said again. “How. The fuck. Much?” When they continued to stare at him blankly, he swore—loud and vicious. “If someone doesn’t start talking right the fuck now, I’m walking out that door and I am not coming back.” As he waited for their answer, fury had his voice and hands shaking, had his head feeling like it was going to blow up. Quinn must have figured out that he meant what he said, because the keyboardist was the one who eventually spoke. “Nine million, total.”

“Dollars?” he asked incredulously. “Nine. Million. Dollars?” He sat down at the table before he could fall down, as the number reverberated through his head. He buried his face in his hands. Tried to think. Tried to breathe. Nine million dollars. Nine. Million. Dollars. “Jesus Christ, are you insane?” “It’s beginning to feel like it, what with the way you’re trying to throw your career away. And ours with it.” Jared sounded tough, but he was the first one to pull a chair up right next to Wyatt and sit down. “We already told you. The money doesn’t matter,” Ryder repeated. “Of course it fucking matters. What are you going to do when I screw up again? Where are you going to be?” “Same place we’ve always been,” Quinn told him. “Hanging out together, making music, watching one another ’s backs. We’ve been doing it since we were seventeen. I think it’s a little late to try to learn anything different now.” “Yeah, especially since none of us wants things to be any different than they are.” Jared clapped him on the back. For long seconds, Wyatt didn’t say anything. Not because he didn’t have things to say, but because he didn’t trust himself to be able to say them. For the first time in more years than he could remember, he was afraid that if he opened his mouth, his voice would crack. Afraid that if he unclenched his jaw, he’d end up blubbering like a baby. He didn’t deserve this loyalty, didn’t deserve this generosity. Not with all the shit he’d pulled through the years. Not with all the mistakes he’d made and all the times he’d fucked them over. Nine million dollars. They’d paid nine million dollars just to keep him around. Him. The guy who’d been a screwup since he was six years old. The guy who’d destroyed his family one person at a time. The guy who couldn’t keep his shit together long enough to make it through a concert, let alone an entire world tour. And yet here they were. Jared, Ryder, Quinn. Backing him, even knowing it was a sure bet that he was going to fuck up again. Standing by him even though it had already cost them more than they should ever have to pay. Even his mom had given up on him. Drank herself to death when he and the memories of what he’d done—what he’d failed to do—had gotten to be too much. Why the fuck were they still hanging around? “I don’t get it,” he finally said, when he thought he had a chance of getting the words out without completely humiliating himself. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this.” For the first time since he’d walked into the kitchen, they glared at him like he really was a fuck-up. Jared clenched his fist like he was contemplating hitting him again, and Quinn looked like it was taking every ounce of self-control he had not to kick his ass. “If you can’t figure that out,” Ryder said eventually, “then I don’t know what the hell we’re even

doing here.” He wanted to say what they wanted to hear, wanted to give them the answer they were all waiting for. But he couldn’t do that, because he didn’t get it. He didn’t understand why they would risk everything on him when he’d shown them over and over again that he wasn’t worth it. That he couldn’t be trusted. Shoving back from the table, he stumbled to his feet, lurched toward the back door and the fresh air that was waiting for him right outside the glass. He felt like he was strangling, his emotions a knot in his chest that kept him from taking in enough oxygen. “I’m sorry,” he said as he flung the door open and staggered outside. “I’ll pay you back. I’ll pay you all back, I swear. But I can’t do this. I just can’t do this.” Knowing the guys would be right behind him, he took off for his car, and made it seconds before Ryder, Jared, and Quinn caught up to him. Sorry, he mouthed through the glass as he threw the car in reverse. And then he was speeding down the driveway, away from them, away from Shaken Dirty, away from yet another mess he’d made and didn’t have a clue how to clean up.

Chapter Thirteen “What the hell was that all about, Caleb?” “I don’t know. I swear I don’t. Dad ambushed me! When we talked strategy for the call, trying to get Wyatt to quit was never even part of the discussion. He totally came up with it on his own.” “Are you sure about that?” Poppy asked as she slammed into her apartment. “Because you didn’t seem very shocked that he was out for Wyatt’s blood.” She’d never been more furious with her father in her life—and that was saying something, considering the kind of stunts the man was known for pulling. But this? Going after Wyatt like that when he was already so vulnerable? Badgering him into quitting the band when it sure as hell appeared that Shaken Dirty was all he had? Making him feel like shit just because he could? It was despicable, absolutely despicable, especially since the more she’d thought about it, the more she realized it was just her father ’s shot at getting a say in band personnel. Unless Shaken Dirty had some strange provision in their contract that she didn’t know about—and she was pretty sure they didn’t—one of the few things the label didn’t have a legal say in was whether the five original members got to stay or go. Oh, they could put pressure on them (and obviously were) and they might have veto power over any replacements to the original members, but that was about it. So, since her father was pissed that he hadn’t convinced them to get rid of Wyatt when everything went down a couple of months ago, he was flexing his muscles in other ways. The bastard. She knew better than to trust him. But Caleb? She hadn’t seen that coming at all. More fool her. “Of course I was shocked,” Caleb told her, sounding more than a little annoyed at the question. “The last thing either the label or Shaken Dirty needs is an all out war between us. Not when the tour is set to kick off at ACL the first weekend in October!” “Which is exactly what I was trying to say! There’s still too much damage that needs to be repaired here for Dad to go off like that. I know you know that, but you sure as hell didn’t seem very intent on stopping him when he was going on about the band having to choose between Wyatt and a decent bassist. And what—” “In Dad’s defense, Li is a more than decent bassist.” “That’s true. He’s got good musical chops and he’s reliable, two things a rock bassist has to be. And he’s going to make some band feel really lucky to have him one day. But this isn’t his time, and Shaken Dirty is definitely not his band.

“Besides, the whole conversation was completely ridiculous. Li’s a good bassist, yes. But Wyatt is a brilliant drummer. There’s no way Shaken Dirty would sound the same if they got rid of him—his riffs and fills are the backbone of the whole band, and you’re an idiot if you can’t see that!” “Hey! Don’t confuse me with Dad. I don’t want to replace Wyatt. I know exactly how talented he is —remember, I’m the one who wanted you there instead of me, to keep him out of trouble in the first place.” “Yeah, well, after today’s call I’m interested in a lot more than just babysitting.” She pulled her laptop out of her briefcase and settled down on the huge, overstuffed couch that dominated the apartment’s living area. She wanted a chance to go over Shaken Dirty’s contract, to see exactly how much control the band had over its members. She knew the band’s lawyers were probably doing the exact same thing at this exact same moment, but it wouldn’t hurt to have another set of eyes on the contract. Especially when those eyes belonged to someone who knew the label’s weaknesses as intimately as she did. “I could tell that much from the way he was looking at you today.” She was so caught up in what she was looking for that it took her a minute to register the tone in her brother ’s voice. When she did, she felt anger sweep through her, along with a pretty hefty dose of shame. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “You know exactly what it means. And why are you so offended? It’s obvious that Wyatt’s thinking about something besides drugs these days—which is exactly why I needed you in Austin. Shaken Dirty needs you. And Wyatt needs you—you know the music industry better than anyone in the company. You get the talent in a way Dad and I never will. That’s why I sent you there. Because I knew you’d find a way to relate to Wyatt and you have.” “Why you needed me in—” The shame gave way to out and out fury. “I can’t believe this! You sent me here to prostitute myself for Wyatt Jennings.” “I absolutely did not.” Caleb sounded outraged at the very idea. “I sent you there to keep an eye on him. How you choose to do that is completely up to you. And judging from the way you leaped to his defense today, he’s not the only one this is working out for.” “First of all, let’s get one thing straight. I am not using sex to keep Wyatt sober! That is not in my job description.” “I didn’t say—” “No, but you sure as hell implied it.” She was pissed off enough not to mention the fact that they actually were hooking up—after all, that wasn’t work related and it was no one’s business but theirs. And the last thing she wanted was for that knowledge to get back to her father. She didn’t think Caleb would tell him deliberately, but obviously her brother didn’t always think before he spoke. “And secondly, it’s not working out! Or have you totally forgotten the fact that Wyatt quit the band after Dad went after him?” “Oh, come on. Wyatt isn’t actually going to quit the band. He was just frustrated.”

“Oh, really? And how, exactly, do you know that?” “I know it because you’re there. And you’re not going to let him.” Poppy groaned, shoved a frustrated hand through her hair. “That’s your big strategy? Throw the mess over to me and hope to God I can sort it out?” She could all but hear the shrug in her brother ’s voice when he said, “It’s a sound strategy. You’ve never let me down before. Besides, think of how much it will stick in Dad’s craw if you get Wyatt back and find a solution to the bassist problem? He’ll have to take you seriously then.” “Dad will never take me seriously. I think we both know that, don’t we?” No matter how hard she tried. Still, her brain whirled as she tried to gather her thoughts. As she tried to figure out all the rapidly changing pieces of this puzzle and how they fit together. At least Caleb’s explanation made everything that happened in the studio today make so much more sense. The look on her father ’s face when Caleb asked for her opinion and he realized Shaken Dirty actually listened to her. The grandstanding that she saw now was as much for her benefit as Wyatt’s. The fact that he was suddenly digging his heels in on this issue when she’d thought they’d gotten past it months ago. He was pissed that she was the one with the band when he had always refused to let her take the lead in situations like these. Of course, the fact that everyone on the call probably knew exactly why she and Wyatt had been late hadn’t helped her case—if anything, it had cemented his opinion about women and musicians. About her and musicians. And, maybe, that was what had set him off about Wyatt. Just the thought made guilt stir sickly in her stomach. If her father had gone after Wyatt because of her…damn the man. Just once in her life it would be nice if he could give her a reason to trust him. A reason to think he wasn’t out to screw her. “You know, maybe if you’d given me some warning, I would have done things differently,” she said as she continued skimming through Shaken Dirty’s contracts. “And then maybe Dad wouldn’t have pushed Wyatt so hard and we’d be in a totally different situation right now.” “It’s going to be fine,” Caleb assured her. “The guys will chill Wyatt out, or you will, and tomorrow we’ll go back to finding a bassist for the band.” “Yeah, well, I’m not feeling nearly as optimistic on that front as you are.” It had been four hours since Wyatt had sent her on her way. Four hours when she didn’t know where he was or what he was doing or who he was doing it with. She’d tried texting him, had even tried calling him, but there’d been no response. He’d gone completely silent. Maybe that meant he was hanging out with the band somewhere… She hoped that was what it meant. But if she was honest with herself, she’d admit that she was afraid his silence was for a much more ominous reason. Not that she was going to tell Caleb that. The last thing Wyatt or Shaken Dirty needed was for the label to freak out about him going off the rails right now. Her brother wasn’t her father, and he

seemed to have the band’s best interests at heart…but at the same time, he was a businessman. And the label’s bottom line was his business. Not to mention the fact that she still wasn’t sure she could trust him, still wasn’t sure he hadn’t thrown them all under the bus with her father today. Two days ago she probably wouldn’t have hesitated to confide her worries to Caleb. For a very long time, he was the only person she’d been able to trust. But that was before she’d realized just how many of their father ’s Machiavellian tendencies her brother had inherited. Before she realized that trusting him was almost as foolish as trusting her dad. So now she just had to wait for Wyatt to turn up, all the while silently hoping that he wasn’t out doing what she was so deathly afraid he was. A hell of a babysitter she turned out to be… “Look, Caleb—” She broke off when the apartment’s central intercom buzzed. Hoping, praying, that it was Wyatt, she dashed across the room to answer it. “Hold on, Caleb,” she said, putting her brother on mute as she depressed the button. “Wyatt?” “Ma’am?” “Yes?” she asked impatiently. “This is Rudolfo, the doorman from downstairs. I have a gentleman here to see you by the name of Quinn Bradford. Is it all right if I send him up?” The bubble of hope inside her deflated, replaced by a crushing sense of distress. If Quinn was here to talk to her, it couldn’t be good. Especially since she was positive this visit had nothing to do with the band’s social media presence and everything to do with its drummer. “Of course, Rudolfo,” she answered as dread settled in her stomach. “Send him right up.” “Yes, ma’am.” As she waited for Quinn to take the elevator up, she switched back to her brother. “I have to go.” “Is Wyatt there?” he asked, voice rich with satisfaction. “That’s none of your business,” she retorted. “Excuse me? I’m the one who sent you there—” “You’re also the one who threw Shaken Dirty to the wolves this morning, so as far as I’m concerned, you’ve lost any voice you might have had in how I handle things.” “But, wait. I thought—” “Looks like you thought wrong. Good-bye, Caleb.” Hanging up on him might have given her more satisfaction if she weren’t so close to totally and completely freaking out about Wyatt. Slumping against the nearest wall, she took several deep breaths and tried to get her panic under control before Quinn showed up at her door. Losing it now wasn’t going to help anything. Besides, for all she knew, Wyatt was safe at Ryder ’s house and Quinn was just here to chat with a label rep about everything that had gone down in the kitchen today. Yeah, and a sparkly pink unicorn was about to take up residence in her kitchen, too…

She was so nervous that she nearly leaped out of her skin when an impatient knock sounded at her door. Crossing the room, she flung the door open and found herself staring at a Quinn Bradford she had never seen before, even with all the years she’d been following Shaken Dirty. Totally serious and completely stressed out, he all but shoved his way into her apartment the second she opened the door. “Is he here?” he asked, glancing around a little wildly. The last little smidgen of hope she’d been holding on to abandoned her in a rush. “No, he’s not.” She didn’t need to ask who he was talking about. “When was the last time you saw him?” “About half an hour after you left.” “But that was hours ago!” “Believe me, I know. We’ve been looking for him everywhere—” “Define everywhere?” she asked, suddenly a lot more sick to her stomach. The grim set of Quinn’s mouth told her he knew exactly how she felt. “All his usual haunts. Between us, we’ve covered his apartment, his favorite bars, his dealer ’s house. Shit, Ryder and Jared have spent the last hour combing every bar on Sixth Street, and he’s nowhere to be found.” “Maybe that’s a good thing,” she said. “If he’s not drinking—” “Oh, he’s drinking or smoking or shooting up. He was not in good shape when he left us.” The absolute certainty in his voice had her mind racing and her blood running cold. “He can’t! I’ve spent the last few hours trying to figure out a way to fix this mess. If he relapses—” “I know. Believe me, I know.” “So why’d you let him go, then?” She didn’t mean to sound accusatory, but come on. It was a no brainer. When the drug addict was having a bad day, the last thing you did was leave him on his own. You left him, the little voice inside her head reminded her. Yeah, but she had left him in what she’d thought were his friends’ capable hands. She couldn’t babysit him twenty-four seven, especially not when it was her father who had set him off to begin with. She’d left because he’d asked her to, and because she’d been certain the other guys would take care of him. Well, that was a lesson learned. Never trust three emotionally stunted men to do a woman’s job. “We didn’t let him go,” Quinn corrected her. “He took off, and short of chasing him down on my motorcycle—which would only have fucked him up more—we didn’t have a hell of a lot of options.” Still, his tone told her he was asking himself the very same question. Or, more precisely, torturing himself with it. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything.” She headed toward the kitchen to find something to keep herself busy. “Can I get you some coffee or something while we try to figure out what to do next?” “No. If he’s not here, I need to keep looking—” “Do you even know where you’re going to look next?” His shoulders slumped. “I don’t have a fucking clue.”

“That’s what I figured. If you’re here, you’re already scraping the bottom of the barrel, so you might as well sit down for a few minutes.” She poured coffee beans into the grinder then waited for them to be pulverized before she tried to speak again. “Besides, I make really good coffee.” Quinn looked like he was going to protest, but after another look from her, he nodded in defeat. Then, after texting someone, he sank down onto one of the barstools that lined the raised counter separating the kitchen from the living room and did his best to look like he wasn’t completely freaking out. “You know,” she said as she got out cream and sugar, “if he falls off the wagon tonight, it isn’t actually the end of the world.” Quinn looked at her like she was insane. “It’s pretty fucking awful.” “It is,” she agreed. “But people make mistakes. Alcoholics and addicts relapse. If Wyatt messes up today, he can start again tomorrow. It will be okay.” She wasn’t sure if it was Quinn she was trying to convince, or herself. “I know that,” he told her. “Wyatt’s the one who doesn’t get it. For him, it’s always been all or nothing, you know? He gives the best advice of anyone I know. He would give a stranger the shirt off his back if he thought they needed it. He forgives the people he cares about any mistake, any slight, any hurtful thing they do to him. But he can’t forgive himself. He can’t let his mistakes go. If he fucks up, if he drinks or gets high, it’s done. He isn’t going to be able to let it go tomorrow or next week or even next month. That’s not how he’s made.” The coffee finished brewing just as Quinn grew quiet, and she took a few moments to pour the hot liquid into cups as she turned his words over in her head. As she tried to figure out exactly what he meant, and what had made Wyatt so uncompromising with himself. The only problem was she didn’t know enough about him to figure it out. Oh, she knew his basic bio, knew what she’d read in magazine articles and interviews through the years. But something was missing from the story—something big. A guy as smart and dedicated as Wyatt didn’t continually go down this path unless he also had some pretty huge demons to fight. If she was going to help him, she needed to know what those demons were. She didn’t know when her job here had gone from helping her brother out by babysitting a rock star to trying to find a way to reach through Wyatt’s self-loathing to help him, but sometime in the last twenty-four hours, that was exactly what had happened. Except she felt like she was flying blind here, like she was trying to put together a puzzle that had half the pieces missing. She had a good idea what the picture was supposed to look like by the outside frame, but there were too many holes in the center for her to figure out what it actually was. As she slid Quinn’s cup of coffee in front of him, she tried to decide the best way to ask what she wanted to know. But sometimes there was no way to ease into a topic, no way to bring it up gradually, and she had a feeling that whatever was haunting Wyatt was like that. And so, as she was pouring cream into her coffee, she just did it. Just blurted it out.

“Why, Quinn? Why is he so hard on himself and not on others? Why does he always expect the worst of himself? He’s a good guy—you know that way better than I do. So what is it that makes him hate himself so much?” Quinn shook his head as he stared into the depths of his coffee. Silence stretched between them— awkward and uncomfortable and filled with a million unspoken things—and for a minute she was certain he wouldn’t answer her. Not that she blamed him. In his eyes, she was probably just another stooge who worked for the label, a ditz who was there to increase the band’s online presence without having a clue who they really were. And yet she willed him to answer anyway. The desire to know what was hurting Wyatt was a need deep inside of herself, a compulsion that had nothing to do with the label and everything to do with her convoluted feelings for him. Still, when he finally shook his head and said, “It’s not my story to tell,” she felt the loss like a punch to the gut. She tried to hide it, but she really was as bad an actress as she was a liar. Or at least that’s what the look on Quinn’s face said. “Look, it’s bad,” he told her after he picked up his cup and drained the near-boiling liquid in a couple of long sips. “It’s really bad. That’s all I can tell you. And that it wasn’t his fault, though he doesn’t see it that way. He blames himself, has blamed himself for more than twenty years, and nobody’s been able to convince him differently. Not the shrinks he’s seen or the counseling groups he’s been a part of or any of us. In his story, he’s the villain, and there’s not a damn thing any of us can do to convince him otherwise. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you’ll come to accept Wyatt’s shortcomings as just part of the package.”

Chapter Fourteen Wyatt sat at a table in the corner of the dark bar and stared at the drink in front of him. Two fingers of the best dark tequila the place had. It was his drink of choice—had been for as long as he could remember—and as he sat here, in this dive bar he’d found in what felt like the middle of nowhere, he wanted it more than he wanted his next breath. More than he wanted this nightmare to be over. More than he wanted just about everything… Except Poppy. And his band. He was used to needing the band—and the guys in it. It’s why he’d let himself get talked into rehab again, after all. But Poppy…Poppy was something new. Something desperate and dangerous and allconsuming that clawed at his insides a little more with each second that passed. He could be at her apartment right now, he told himself viciously. Kissing her, holding her, fucking her as slowly or as quickly as he’d like. All he had to do to make that happen was get up from this fucking table and walk out of this fucking bar. But that wasn’t how this was going to go down, was it? Oh, he could talk a good game, even in his head, but the truth was, this glass of tequila owned him. It fucking owned him, and nothing—not Poppy, not his bandmates, not his fucking drums—was going to change that. Not tonight, and probably not ever. With that thought blinking in the front of his mind like a particularly gaudy Christmas display, he picked up the tequila. Rolled the cool glass between his fingers. Listened to the clink of ice cubes against the sides. Watched as the amber-colored liquid shifted and rolled. And tried not to feel like a total fucking asshole. It didn’t work, but then again, he really hadn’t expected it to, had he? Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and sucked the harshly sweet scent of the tequila deep inside of himself. As he did, he couldn’t help remembering what it felt like going down. The burn in his throat, the ache in his chest, the sweet warmth and lassitude that started spreading through him as soon as he finished his second drink. He wanted it bad. Wanted all of it so fucking bad.

Lifting the glass to his lips, he told himself to go for it. Told himself he was just going to fall off the wagon eventually. Why shouldn’t it be today? Why should he keep fighting on what was rapidly turning into one of the worst days of his life? He’d quit the band, after all. Had walked away from more than a decade of friendship because he was a gigantic pussy who couldn’t take the heat. But he’d been running from his past—from himself —for so long, he didn’t know any other way to handle his shit. Nine million dollars. That’s how much it had cost his friends to buy him out of his latest fuck-up. Nine million dollars. It was hard to fathom, considering a few years ago they’d all been living together and still had trouble coming up with the nine hundred dollars for rent each month. And yet they’d done it. They’d fucking ponied up nine million dollars because they were loyal no matter what, and this was how he was repaying them. By sitting in a bar with a glass of tequila and throwing away three months of hard-won sobriety. It would have happened sooner or later. Everyone knew it—Bill Germaine, who had said as much on the phone call this morning. His friends, who didn’t think he could be trusted around so much as a bottle of beer. Fuck, even his counselor at rehab had told him it was going to happen. Admittedly, he’d used it as a cautionary tale about why Wyatt needed to deal with all the shit he carried around, but the message was the same. He was going to fuck up. He was going to fail. He wasn’t strong enough to stay sober. And they were right. They were all right—every last one of them. And all he had to do to prove it to them was tilt this glass a little and take one long, glorious swallow of the tequila he craved like most people craved air. “I gotta say, Jennings, I was glad to get your phone call. I was starting to think you’d disappeared off the face of the earth.” He looked up from his drink in time to see Rollo slide into the chair opposite his. “Rehab. Got out the other day.” He went back to studying the tequila. Rollo must have heard it all before, because he didn’t look surprised. He also didn’t comment on the irony of a guy sitting in a bar waiting to buy smack less than seventy-two hours after getting out of said rehab. God bless drug dealers. As long as you had money, they were so much easier to deal with than shrinks. “Your friends were looking for you.” Wyatt’s gaze shot from the tequila to the guy whose number he’d had on speed dial for way too long. “What’d you tell them?” “What do you think I told them? That I hadn’t heard from you in months. It’s not like it’s really a

lie, now is it?” Wyatt nodded as he continued to roll the drink between his hands. As he continued to stare into its depths and imagine the sweet burn of oblivion that it promised. “Have you decided how much you want?” Rollo asked, voice low and hand in his pocket. He wasn’t nervous—they’d done this hundreds of times before—but he was cautious, his eyes darting toward the door and around the room in a never-ending loop that made Wyatt tired just watching it. “Three grams should do it,” he said, and tried not to think about what a coward he was. What a fuck-up. What a goddamn, pathetic excuse for a human being. Pretty hard to avoid it, though, when the voice in his head was doing a damn good job of cataloging the million and one things that were so very, very wrong with him. Rollo looked surprised. “That’s all? You don’t want anything for the rest of the week?” Fuck. How much of the stuff had he been using before rehab that Rollo didn’t think three grams would last him longer than a day? He knew he’d kind of lost track there at the end, but still. Fuck. “Nah. Three’s good for now.” Wyatt dropped some bills on the table and the dealer shrugged. “Whatever you want.” Seconds later, he passed the small bag of smack to him under the table. Wyatt palmed it then slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. And it was done. Just like that he was back to being the weak-ass junkie he’d been for so long. He was so proud. “Pleasure doing business with you,” Rollo said, reaching for the glass of tequila still in Wyatt’s other hand. He drained in it one gulp, then placed the empty glass on the table between them. “What?” he asked, when Wyatt lifted a brow at him. “You’ve been staring at it for as long as I’ve been here. I figured that meant you weren’t going to drink it. Call me when you run out.” He shot Wyatt a quick grin and a mock salute then disappeared as quickly and silently as he’d appeared. And Wyatt was left alone with three grams of pure smack and his very guilty conscience. It wasn’t a good combination.

… Two and a half nerve-wracking hours after Quinn left—after promising to let her know when and if they found Wyatt—Poppy’s intercom buzzed again. Expecting it to be one of the other guys, she refused to get her hopes up. At least until the doorman told her that Wyatt Jennings was there to see her. “Send him up!” she all but shouted into the phone. And, after quickly texting Quinn to let him know Wyatt had surfaced, she ran to the door and opened it. No playing it cool this time—she wanted Wyatt to see her when he got off the elevator. Wanted him to know someone was waiting for him. Quinn hadn’t given her details, but by the time he’d left, she’d figured out enough to know that having someone waiting for him who wasn’t a member of Shaken Dirty would be a novel experience.

Sure enough, when the elevator dinged, Wyatt got off with his shoulders slumped and his head down. Like it hadn’t even occurred to him that she would be watching for him. “Wyatt.” She called his name, a million questions dancing on the tip of her tongue. Are you okay? Are you high? Where does it hurt? Can I help? They were all right there—especially the last one—but when he looked up at her with tormented but clear eyes, she bit every single one of them back. Instead, she just held her arms open to him. He stopped dead a few feet from her door, like he didn’t know what to do with what she was offering him. With another man, she might have taken offense. With Wyatt, it just made her heart ache more, and before he could say anything—before he could do anything—she launched herself at him. He caught her—of course he did. No matter what Wyatt thought of himself, no matter what he’d done in the past, she knew he was a stand-up guy. It was in his eyes, in his face, in the gentle way he touched her. And then she was wrapping herself around him, arms and legs and body twining with his as she pressed kisses to his jaw, his throat, his too-prominent collarbone. I was worried about you. Again, the words were on the tip of her tongue, and again she bit them back. The last thing he needed was to know that neither she nor his bandmates had expected to find him sober tonight. That wasn’t a comment on him, but the situation. Her father ’s epic douchery had driven her to drink more than once in her life. How could she expect Wyatt to be any different? “I’m glad you’re here,” she told him instead, in between kisses. “I missed you.” It was no more than the truth. He groaned in response, the deep, heartfelt sound of a man finding redemption—or maybe just escaping from hell. And then his mouth was slamming down on hers, lips and teeth and tongue tasting her, taking her, demanding everything she had to give him. She gave it all willingly, took all of him in return as she poured herself into the kiss. Poured herself into him. Licking her way along the seam of his lips, she nuzzled at the corners of his mouth before sucking his lower lip between her teeth and biting down softly. He cursed then, a low, reverent sound that had heat skating down her spine and sparks of electricity sweeping along her every nerve ending. Relishing the feeling—reveling in it—she took instant advantage of his parted lips, skimming, stroking, sliding her tongue along his as heat continued to build white-hot between them. He tasted bittersweet, like the songs he wrote. Like coffee and clove and strawberry lollipops all mixed up together. It was a taste she was growing to love, one that was rapidly becoming as addictive to her as Wyatt himself.

The thought of being addicted to Wyatt—of needing him—scared her, had her holding herself back, just a little. As if he sensed her withdrawal, his hand came up, cupped the back of her neck, tilted her head this way and that as he delved deeper, taking more and more and more of what she had to give with each second that passed. But he gave as much as he took. Somehow he gave even more. She cried out, burrowed even closer, and then Wyatt was backing her into the apartment, his body plastered to hers as he slammed the door behind them. He didn’t take time to lock it, didn’t take time for anything as he propelled them across the living room until her back was against the nearest wall and her legs were around his waist. After Quinn’s visit, she’d changed into yoga pants and a tank top, and now Wyatt’s hand was down the stretchy, comfortable pants, his thumb stroking her clit even as he sucked love bites into the curve of her neck. She tried to reciprocate, tried to slide a hand between them to stroke his very hard cock through his jeans, but he grabbed her hand, pinned it against the wall above her head as he continued to lick and suck and bite his way along her neck and shoulder. It was a total turn-on that he was strong enough to hold her up with only one hand and the hips that were pressed so intimately against her own. Then again, everything Wyatt had done to her from the moment they’d met had been a turn-on. Everything about him was a turn-on, like the universe had designed him specifically for her. The thought terrified her, had her squirming against him as she started to throw roadblock after roadblock up in her head. Was she insane? Thinking like that about a guy she’d just met—and not just any guy but Wyatt freaking Jennings? Fucking him was one thing. Worrying about him was her job— and because she was a decent human being. But falling for him, really falling for him? It was a disaster waiting to happen. She’d spent her whole adult life wanting to prove her father wrong, working her ass off to show him that she could run the label as well as he could. And that she wouldn’t fall for the talent, wouldn’t let her desire to make some rock star happy cloud her vision. And now, here she was, sleeping with Wyatt. And fighting her father about his place in Shaken Dirty. She was standing up for Wyatt—and standing against Li—because it was the right thing for the band. And, in turn, the right thing for the label. But if she and Wyatt were together, that’s all her father would see. That she was letting her emotions get in the way of the business. That wasn’t good for her aspirations, but it also wasn’t good for Wyatt. For the band. Not to mention the fact that falling for him was a bad fucking bet. He was an addict, one straight out of rehab who shouldn’t even try to have a relationship until he’d been sober at least six months or a year. It was part of the program and made perfect fucking sense, and yet here she was, building fairy tales about him—about them—in her head. Hadn’t she learned yet that fairy tales didn’t happen? At least not to girls like her, who wanted to run the kingdom and be swept off their feet. “Hey, you okay?” he demanded as he slid two fingers inside of her, twisting them so that he had

immediate access to her G-spot—and her attention. “I’m fine,” she gasped, her body arching against his as she forced everything but the pleasure to the back of her mind. Pleasure—mind-numbing, body-shattering pleasure—she could do. It was the rest of the stuff she wasn’t so sure about. “Better than fine.” “Oh, yeah?” He flicked his thumb over her clit even as he continued to stroke her deep inside. “Then let go, sweetheart. I need to feel you come for me. I need—” He broke off as just that easily, her body followed his command, flying into a thousand different pieces as she came and came and came. “Fuck, yeah, baby,” he groaned, his eyes gleaming as he avidly watched her fall apart. “I love watching you come.” “Well, you’ve—” Her voice broke and she took a few seconds to get her breath back before she tried again. “You’ve certainly made sure it happened enough in the last few days.” His grin was wicked as he twisted his fingers inside her again, sending new tendrils of heat curling through her sex. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m just getting started.” Because she knew that was true and because she also knew if she gave him just a few more seconds he would have her begging for another orgasm, she squirmed away from him, lowering her legs so that she was once again standing on the floor. Unsteadily, yes, but she was standing so she was totally counting it as a win. Besides, she wanted to talk to him before things went any further. Wanted to check in with him, to see where his head was at. It was important for him—and the band. And, she admitted a little reluctantly, the label. “Do you want something to drink?” she asked, putting a little distance between them so she wouldn’t melt back into him at the first touch of his hand. She considered the fact that her knees only wobbled a little another win. “I’ve got coffee, Dr Pepper, water…” Her voice trailed off lamely as he quirked a brow at her. “Dr Pepper ’s not exactly what I came here for.” “I know what you came here for,” she answered, shooting him a wry grin. “And we will definitely get to that. But don’t you think we should talk first?” The easy grin slid off his face, as did the remnants of desire. His eyes grew shuttered and only the wild, storm-tossed blue of them let her know that he was in there. And that he was hurting. Everything else about him was blank. Empty. Wrapping an arm around his waist, she propelled him toward the kitchen and the granite ledge that had two barstools tucked under it. “Sit,” she told him, shoving him gently toward the closest one. “Have you eaten?” He didn’t answer and she didn’t push. Instead, she walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of eggs, some fruit, and some cheese. “I’m not a very good cook,” she told him as she started rummaging around the cupboards for a bowl. “But even I can make an omelet without too much

trouble.” “You don’t have to cook for me.” His voice sounded rusty, and when she glanced over her shoulder at him, he was watching her with a look so intense it took her breath away. “I know I don’t have to,” she told him. “I want to. Besides, I’m hungry. An earth-shattering orgasm will do that to a girl.” “I wouldn’t know,” he answered, sounding glib. “Not having had an earth-shaking orgasm of my own.” She laughed. “Eat some eggs and we’ll see about remedying that.” “Food, with the promise of sex after? Has any guy, ever, turned that combination down?” “Nice to know rock gods are the same as any other guy underneath,” she told him as she began cracking eggs into a bowl. “Is that your way of calling me basic?” he asked, brow raised. “I’m pretty sure rock gods, by definition, can’t be basic. Not to mention it’s probably in your contract.” His smile faded. “Yeah, well, a lot of things are in my contract.” “Including the fact that Bill Germaine can’t bully you into quitting the band. The guys checked.” And so had she, but she couldn’t tell him that, not if she was going to keep her cover as social media director. A quick flicker of his eyes was the only indication he’d even heard her and she decided not to pursue it. At least not yet… The next few minutes passed in a companionable silence as Poppy cleaned and sliced up some fruit before setting a platter of it in front of Wyatt. “Eat,” she urged as he looked at the plate like he’d never seen such a thing before. “You need the vitamins.” “I’m a grown man. Drug and alcohol addiction aside, I do know how to take care of myself, you know.” Yeah, because she’d seen so much evidence of that in the time she’d been in Austin. No wonder Caleb had sent her down here—Wyatt totally needed a keeper. Not that she said that to him, though. Instead, she just nodded at the plate, telling him, “So prove it.” He rolled his eyes at her, but as she slapped a slice of butter in a pan and set it on the stove to melt, she noticed that he was dutifully popping a strawberry in his mouth. Once the butter was melted, she got the eggs and cheese in the pan and within minutes was sliding a slightly lopsided but completely edible omelet onto a plate, along with a couple of slices of whole wheat toast. But when she went to hand said plate to Wyatt, surprise flashed across his face for just a moment. “Now is not the time to tell me you don’t like cheese omelets,” she informed him as she poured more eggs in the skillet for her own dinner. “Definitely not what I was going to say,” he answered, and for the first time she realized that there

was a red tinge to his cheekbones. She had no idea what she’d said or done to embarrass him, but she kept an eye on him as she cooked—and it was only partly because the slight blush somehow made him even more attractive. He ate the fruit, but kept looking at the omelet she’d set in front of him like it was an alien life form. And she noticed that he definitely didn’t touch it. “I was just joking, you know,” she said as she slid a second omelet onto her own plate. “I can totally make you something else if you don’t like eggs.” “No!” Wyatt all but shouted, then lowered his voice at her look of alarm. “No, no, I like omelets just fine. It’s just…except for Jamison, no one’s ever cooked for me before. Thank you.” “No one?” she asked curiously. “Well, my mom, when I was little I guess. But not since I was six.” She didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t know what she could say that wouldn’t sound like she pitied him. Especially since she did have a ton of empathy for him—and the small boy he’d once been. Bill Germaine might be a bastard, but he’d always made sure she and Caleb were well cared for. It hurt her that Wyatt obviously hadn’t had the same experience. As if he sensed that he’d turned the whole conversation into a downer, Wyatt concentrated on keeping the rest of dinner light. He told a couple of really funny stories from before things had gone to hell on the last tour, and even filled her in on why Quinn’s favorite Harley was now a hot pink, bedazzled mess (the answer being because Elise was diabolical and—according to Wyatt—the only woman who had ever been able to handle Quinn). By the time he moved on to stories about Jamison and Ryder—and how Jared had definitely not taken that whole relationship well—her sides hurt from laughing. She was totally charmed by this new side of Wyatt. He was wry, sarcastic, witty, but somehow also really kind and understanding of his friends’ foibles, and she loved it. Loved listening to the way his voice changed when he talked about them. Loved even more the way his eyes turned a soft, swirly, happy blue with no darkness or angst in sight. It was a rare enough occurrence that she found herself studying him, trying to memorize every detail of this version of Wyatt. Happy Wyatt. She wanted to tuck this picture of him away, wanted to hold it deep inside of herself for the rainy days she knew were coming. But eventually the food ran out and so did the stories. She could see Wyatt kind of come back to himself, could see the moment he remembered he’d quit the band and would no longer have access to all the funny little things that happened between them. It was like the light inside him had been extinguished and his whole being plunged back into darkness. And though she knew it was exactly the wrong thing to do, she couldn’t help resting a hand on his knee as she asked, “Are you okay?” Those three words were all it took for his eyes to go dull and his face to close completely up. Not

that she was surprised—every time she’d tried to have any kind of meaningful conversation with him at all, Wyatt had used sex to distract her. And himself. And much as she’d like to take him into the bedroom and let him have his way with her—or have her way with him (she was flexible like that)—she couldn’t just ignore what had happened today. Couldn’t just let it go, not when it was obviously still bothering him. And not when she was terrified her father ’s bullshit would set him right back to using. She might be terrified of him and the feelings that were growing between them despite her best intentions, but she was even more terrified for him. “I’m fine,” he said, pulling away from her both physically and emotionally. As he did, she realized for the first time just how much he’d let her in since their first meeting. It left her feeling bereft, though she knew it was stupid. After all, she’d known him less than a week. But she’d known of him a lot longer than that, had been emotionally invested in him pretty much from the moment she’d first discovered Shaken Dirty. Now that she actually knew him—knew how hurt and how strong he was—she was a million times more invested. Which was why she had to keep pushing. “You sure?” she asked, wrapping her hand around his bicep and holding him in place as he went to get up. “I know Germaine was awful today. I’m sorry.” “I already told you, you don’t have to apologize for him. Besides, he didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. I’m not good for the band.” “Will you stop with that?” she demanded, pulling at his arm until he turned to face her again. “Do you have problems? Yes. Does everyone have problems? Yes. Shaken Dirty wouldn’t be the same without you, and you know it.” He opened his mouth, and for a second he looked like he was actually going to say something real. She braced herself for it, but in the end he just shrugged off her hand and headed for the front door. The asshole. “You don’t get to do that,” she said, rushing to stand in front of him. “You don’t get to spend the afternoon worrying all of us, then barge in here and make me come, and then just get the hell out the second things turn uncomfortable for you. That’s not how this shit works.” “That’s exactly how it works. If you don’t believe me, just ask the others. It’s what I’ve been doing for years—I mean, not the making them come part obviously, but the show up, fuck things up and then disappear thing…yeah. That’s pretty much my modus operandi. If you don’t like it, then you’re welcome to go running back to the label.” “What do you care what I do, considering you’re no longer part of the band or the label?” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You don’t actually think that reverse psychology bullshit is going to work on me, do you?” “Honestly, I don’t know what’s going to work on you! You’re so busy seeing yourself as the villain that you don’t see the man everybody else does. Have you made mistakes? Yes. Are you the only

person on the planet to make mistakes? Not even close. So stop beating yourself up about it and get your shit together. Because Shaken Dirty is going on tour in a few weeks, and you know as well as I that they won’t do it without you.” “Don’t you get it? That’s the whole point! That’s why I have to be the one to walk away. Because they are so blindly, stupidly loyal, that they won’t. And it’s just a matter of time before I fuck up again! I already cost them nine million dollars and a huge hit to their careers. I don’t want to be responsible for anything else happening to them, and I sure as shit don’t want them in the crossfire when I mess up.” “You think they’re the only stupidly loyal people in this band? You’re the one willing to quit preemptively, just so you don’t hurt them anymore. If that’s not loyalty, I don’t know what is.” “Better I quit now than fuck up again and ruin everything.” “You know, you’re an addict. You’re not Satan. And if you want to protect them, don’t do drugs again. Don’t drink. Make the choice not to put them in this position again. It really is that simple.” For long seconds, he didn’t say anything. He just stared at her as he processed what she’d said. As she waited for him to speak, she prayed that she’d gotten through to him. Prayed that he would acknowledge, for one second, how valuable he was to this band. Because if he did that, if he was willing to believe that, maybe she had a chance of convincing him how valuable he was as a person. She didn’t know what he’d gone through in the past, before Shaken Dirty started to blow up. All she knew was that it was bad. Based on what Quinn had said, and how fucked up Wyatt’s self-esteem was, she knew it couldn’t be anything but. Which was why she’d spent the hours since Quinn left scouring the internet, trying to figure out just what had happened to him. She hadn’t found it yet, but she would. She was determined to. She had to if she was going to fight to get through to him, going to fight for him. Every instinct she had told her Wyatt hadn’t had enough people in his life willing to do that. Eventually, he threw himself out of the chair, his face a mask of torment and self-doubt as he crossed to the sliding glass door that led to a balcony that overlooked downtown Austin. “You make it sound so easy,” he said, as he stared out at the cars fighting their way through the streets. “Of course it isn’t easy. If it were, you wouldn’t be in this position to begin with. But you think your bandmates deserve everything they’ve got, right?” “Of course they do.” His voice was firm, without doubt. “They’ve worked their asses off for everything we have.” “Well, then, if you can’t or won’t fight for yourself right now, fight for them. And keep fighting, every day, so that Jared and Quinn and Ryder get everything that you think they deserve.” He shook his head, and she could tell he was going to refute what she’d told him. Could tell he was going to come up with another reason as to why he wasn’t good enough. Why he couldn’t be trusted. And it made her crazy. Before she could think better of it, before she could even try to choose her words with care, she

exploded. “Jesus, Wyatt. Wake up and look around you. You’ve got a really good chance here to turn your life around, and everyone—with the exception of the label douchebags—is behind you. You should be ready to take on the world. Or at least not so hell-bent on cataloging your sins that you’re hiding from it. Can’t you see—” “I went to a bar today,” he interrupted. “I ordered a tequila.” For a moment, just a moment, it felt like the whole world had frozen, as all her hopes and fears came crashing down around her at the same time. She tried to think of what she was supposed to say to that, of how she was supposed to convince him to try yet again. But then she looked at him, really looked at him, and she knew. “You might have ordered that tequila,” she whispered, “but you didn’t drink it.”

Chapter Fifteen For a second, he couldn’t believe that he’d heard Poppy correctly. He’d just told her that he had ordered a drink. And her response was to have faith in him. To believe that he hadn’t taken a drink. That he hadn’t fucked up his sobriety. The fact that she was right, that he had left that bar completely stone-cold sober and headed straight here, mattered less than the look on her face. Less than the fact that she believed in him when she had no reason to. For a moment, the little baggie of heroin in his pocket weighed heavy on him. Much, much heavier than the three grams it was measured out to be. He hadn’t touched the stuff since Rollo had handed it to him. Hadn’t even gone looking for a head shop to buy needles and a new kit. Oh, he’d thought about it. Of course he’d thought about it. He’d thought about the anticipation he felt when he was heating the powder on the spoon. He’d thought about the sharp prick of the needle in his vein. He sure as hell had thought about the sweet lassitude that came after he shot up, the slow burn followed by the bliss that came from nodding out. He’d thought about that a lot. But in the end, he’d shoved the bag deep in his pocket and driven in the opposite direction from his apartment. He’d driven here, to the label’s apartment, because his need to hold Poppy, to kiss her and feel her come, was even greater than his need for the drugs. From one addiction to another, he thought wryly. And how ironic was it that her name was Poppy, when for years that little red flower had been the biggest nemesis in his life. And now there was her. Somehow, after only a few days, what she thought of him—how she looked at him—was more important than being numb. He didn’t get it, would probably never get it, but for now he was going with it. It was so much better than the alternative, after all. “How’d you know?” he asked hoarsely, his hand shoved deep in his pocket where he could feel the cool plastic of the heroin baggie. “I could have chewed gum before I got here.” “Because I’m getting to know you,” she answered, crossing the room until she was only a few scant inches from him. “And no matter what you tell yourself, no matter how bad the cravings get, I know you’re so much stronger than that.” “Just because you believe that doesn’t make it true.”

“Sure it does. That’s the power of positive thinking.” She reached for him then, wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled his body flush against hers. “Besides, it’s not whether I believe it that matters. It’s whether you believe it.” Her hand slipped under his T-shirt, her fingers dancing lightly up his spine as she pressed her breasts against his chest, her sex against his thigh. And just that easily, she had him. Just that easily, the edges dulled on the craving that had been riding him hard ever since he’d woken up that morning, replaced by the desperate need for her currently pounding through his blood. Through his brain. Through his dick. “Fuck,” he told her on a groan. “You feel good.” “So do you,” she said, her voice just a little breathier than it had been mere moments before. “So, so good.” She slid a hand into his hair, pulled his face down to hers. And then her mouth was on his, her tongue licking its way along the seam of his lips. He opened to her because he had to, because he couldn’t not let her in when she was holding him so carefully. Kissing him so tenderly. Making him feel so much—and so good—when earlier all he’d wanted was to be numb. But standing here with her right now—breathing in the sweet strawberry scent of her breath, feeling the way her soft breasts rose with each jagged inhalation, hearing the broken little cries she made as her body strained against his—he wouldn’t trade this feeling for all the numbness in the world. Wouldn’t trade Poppy in his arms for any amount of heroin. It was a terrifying thought—and a tantalizing one. This idea that with her he could find surcease from the torment that had ridden him for far too long. With a groan, he pulled her closer. Held her tighter. Kissed her harder, until she was moaning, too, her hands clutching desperately at his hair as she nipped and sucked and licked at his lips, his tongue, the corner of his mouth. “Fuck.” It was as much a prayer as it was a curse as he slid his hands down her long, slender back to cup her ass. And then he was lifting her against him, wrapping her legs around his waist as he turned them around and pressed her up against the sliding glass door that led to the balcony. Below her, Austin’s lights glittered like stars and for a second—just a second—he was spellbound by the beauty of them. Of her. Of this moment, when for so long he’d been unable to appreciate the beauty in anything. He shuddered at the realization, buried his face in the curve where her neck met her shoulder. And breathed. Just breathed. She held him for long seconds, her arms and legs wrapped tightly around him as she whispered soft words in his ear, loving words that somehow made it both easier and harder for him to breathe. To think. To just be. He started to get twisted up in it, tangled in the memories of his past as the familiar guilt wrapped

itself around his gut. His heart. But it was like she knew, like she could feel it, too, because suddenly she was cupping his face in her soft hands, those gorgeous gold-brown eyes of hers looking deep into his own. “Hey,” she murmured, before pressing soft kisses to his jaw, his chin, the sensitive skin of his neck. “Stay with me. Please.” “I am,” he told her. “I’m right here.” She must have heard it in his voice, though, because when he moved to once again take her mouth with his, she shied away. Pushed him back just far enough so that she could slide her legs down his hips and put her feet on the floor. “Don’t,” he said, his voice breaking with the sudden need—the sudden desperation—burning inside of him. Don’t push me away. Don’t leave me alone, not now. Not yet. His hand clenched on her hip, his fingers digging into the soft lushness of her ass for one second, two, before he forced himself to let go. To move away. But she moved with him, her arms twining around his waist and her body pressed against his own as she walked him backward across the living room. “What—” She stopped him with kisses, so many kisses—soft, hard, slow, fast, lingering, deep—as she kept them moving down a short, narrow hallway. “Much as I like walls,” she murmured against his lips between kisses, “sometimes a bed is good, too.” Relief flooded him and he grinned, his arms winding their way back around her waist. “You won’t get an argument from me,” he told her as they made their way from the hallway into her bedroom. Since it was the label’s condo, there wasn’t much to the room—nothing personal that would tell him anything about her that he didn’t already know. At least, nothing beyond the fact that she had yet to unpack and was currently living out of a purple-and-white polka-dotted suitcase that he found completely ridiculous and totally endearing all at the same time. But there was also a bed—a huge, sprawling bed with a black duvet and a million pillows—and at the moment, he was much more interested in it than he was in Poppy’s luggage, no matter how charming her suitcase was. He started to take control, to turn her so that he could lower her onto the big bed—but she just shook her head. Shot him a wicked little smile. Murmured, “It’s my turn.” And then she was shoving him hard enough to have him falling ass first onto the bed. She was on him in a second, her long, curvy legs straddling his hips as she yanked his shirt over his head and sent it soaring across the room. He laughed a little at her enthusiasm, but his amusement soon turned to need as she slammed her mouth down onto his. It was a fast kiss—fast and hard and deep—and he was just getting into it when she pulled away. He

reached for her, but she laughed and twisted her hips to dislodge his hands. He groaned—even through two layers of fabric, the feel of her sex against his cock was nearly enough to have him going blind with need—and it took every ounce of willpower he had not to roll her beneath him and take what he so desperately wanted. Only the knowledge that she wanted to be in control this time kept his hands on the bed and his hips from thrusting into her as she pulled her tank top over her head and then leaned over to rub her breasts against his chest. Fuck. He gritted his teeth, tangled his fingers in the duvet, fought against the need blasting through him like a particularly powerful bass line as Poppy started licking and kissing and nibbling her way up his neck. She paused at the hollow of his throat, swirled her tongue against his skin in slow, lazy circles that made his eyes cross and his dick swell. She prodded his Adam’s apple with her tongue, once, twice, before moving on to where his jaw met his neck. She dawdled there for long seconds, licking her way along the line of his beard until she reached the sensitive spot beneath his ear. She kissed her way over it even as she blew a warm, soft stream of air into his ear that had his hips slamming up and into hers of their own volition. She gasped, her knees tightening around his hips, and for a second he thought he had her. But then she moved to the other side of his neck and started all over again, and he knew he was in trouble. It was a feeling that only intensified as she sought out every single one of his spots, listening to the way his breath hitched and ebbed in an effort to figure out exactly what he liked and how hard—or soft— he liked it. Jesus. He wasn’t going to survive giving her control. Wasn’t going to survive her curious sensuality, or the care she was putting into her exploration of him. Groaning deep in his throat, he closed his eyes thinking maybe if he couldn’t see her beautiful face, her gorgeous body, that maybe— just maybe—he’d last long enough to get inside of her. And then she shifted, her sex brushing against his straining cock, and even with the layers of clothes between them, it was almost enough to have him coming in his jeans. And that was before she started fumbling with his zipper, her fingers clumsy. “Fuck,” he breathed, moving to help her. As he did, he ended up with his face pressed into her hair and damn, did she smell good. Like honey and strawberries and fresh summer rain. And then, because he couldn’t resist, he kissed her shoulder, trailing his lips over the slope of her breast until he could take her hard little nipple in his mouth. She gasped, arched her back. Tangled her fingers in his hair. Thank God. He sucked harder, swirled his tongue around her nipple once, twice, then again and again as she moaned and quivered and gasped above him. Determined to press his advantage, he slid his hand over her hip to her sex. He could feel her through the yoga pants—hot and wet—and for a second he wanted nothing more than to strip them off of her and press his lips to her pussy.

But before he could do much more than hook his hands in the waistband of her pants, she jerked away. “No, what are—” He grabbed for her, but she was already gone, sliding off the edge of the bed and tugging his jeans with her while she went. “I told you,” she said, pressing her lips to his now bare abs. “My turn.” “No offense, sweetheart, but if you don’t hurry up, I don’t think I’m going to survive your turn.” He sounded like he’d just swallowed a handful of broken glass. She only laughed, though. “No offense, sweetheart,” she mimicked after a minute, “but I’m just getting started.” And then she was nuzzling her way along his happy trail, licking along his V-cut, pressing kisses over his abdomen and chest. She paused at his nipples this time, circled her tongue around first one and then the other before pausing to suck one into her mouth. His fingers tightened in her hair—he’d long since lost the battle to keep his hands to himself—and she moaned, a breathless little sound that had his cock all but standing at attention. He pulled her closer, held her tighter, reveling in the luscious scent of her, the creamy softness of her. The wicked, wanton sex of her. Though he knew this was her show, knew she needed to be in control, it took every ounce of self-control he had not to lift her up and set her down on his face. He knew if he did, he could have her screaming his name in less than thirty seconds. He didn’t do it, though. Instead he lay there as she explored every inch of his body with her hands, her mouth, her soft, wet little tongue. She sucked his nipples into her mouth, licked her way along the macabre, black and white tattoos that made up both of his sleeves, even ran her fingers along the track marks on his hips and inner arms. He squirmed away the second she touched them, hating that she was seeing them. Hating that she very obviously knew what they were. And when she leaned forward to press kisses to the ugly marks—one after another—he nearly lost it completely. “Don’t!” he ground out, pulling her away from him. “It’s okay,” she told him. “It’s not okay,” he answered, feeling naked in a way that had nothing to do with how his clothes were crumpled on the floor. He couldn’t stand that his addiction—his weakness—was laid out in the thin black marks for her to see. He hadn’t wanted to be strong for anyone in longer than he could remember, hadn’t wanted to be whole and clean and normal. But he wanted it now, for her. Wanted it with a desperation that bordered on the pathological. “They’re a part of you,” she told him, shoving his hands out of the way so she could kiss along the tangible proof of his weakness. “Not all of you, not the most important part of you. But a part of you.” “I don’t want you to see them,” he said. “Please, I don’t want—”

“Okay,” she murmured, shimmying back up him so that she was once again straddling his hips. Only this time all that was between his dick and her sex was the very thin layer of her yoga pants, and it wasn’t enough to keep him from feeling how hot she was. How wet. “I won’t touch them,” she continued as she rocked her hips gently against him. “But I want you to know what I see when I look at them.” “Poppy, don’t—” She was killing him, tearing him apart with his need for her and his utter selfloathing all at the same time. “Ssshhh.” She pressed soft fingers to his lips, even as she slipped a hand between them. Fisted his cock. Began to stroke. “I know you’re ashamed of them, but you shouldn’t be.” He arched against her despite himself, his whole body straining for the pleasure—the release—her touch promised. “You’ve been to hell, Wyatt.” She pressed kisses to his chest, his neck. “And I’m so, so sorry that you had to go through that.” More kisses, to his cheeks this time. “But you’ve come out the other side. You’re here and you’re alive and you’re clean. That’s nothing to be ashamed of, baby.” Still more kisses, to his eyes, his forehead. “That’s something to be proud of. That’s something to celebrate. I’m so glad you survived, baby. I’m so glad you’re here, with me, right now. So glad—” Her voice broke and he broke with it. Rearing up, he thrust his hands deep into her hair and dragged her mouth down to his. Then he was shoving his tongue between her lips, taking her words, her breath—taking all of her that he could—deep inside himself. She cried out, but she didn’t stop him. Didn’t try to get away from his ravenous mouth, his rampaging need. Instead she gave and gave and gave, and he took and took and took, until their mouths were swollen and their hands were shaking. Until their hearts were slamming against their ribs and their bodies straining against each other. “Poppy, please,” he ground out as he sucked her lower lip between his teeth and bit down hard enough to make her cry out. “I need—” “I know,” she said, working him faster. “I’ve got you—” “Not like that. Not this time. Not—” His voice broke as she stroked her thumb over the sensitive head of his cock. “Okay. Okay.” She clambered off him and he nearly howled at the loss, his hand grabbing at her hip, her thigh, at anything he could reach. But she didn’t go far. Instead, she kept one hand around his dick as she used the other to peel her pants down her legs. It was a little awkward, a little slow, and still she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He was lost in her, enthralled by her, so close to coming that every heartbeat felt like a razor blade along his nerve endings. But he was determined to hang on, determined to be inside her when it happened this time. He thought about closing his eyes, about shutting her out for just a second until he could get some control, but he didn’t want to miss a second of her luminous skin, her gorgeous smile, her flashing

eyes. Then she was climbing back on top of him, fumbling in the nightstand drawer with her free hand and coming up with an unopened box of condoms. Thank God. Seconds later it was time, and she was lowering herself over him, the tight, wet heat of her sliding against him. He shuddered then, completely overwhelmed by the feel of her. The sight and sound and smell of her. She was moon-kissed in the dark room, her skin pale and creamy against the black of the duvet. Her long, glorious hair was wrapped around her, wrapped around him, as he brought his hands to her lush, full breasts. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered as he rubbed his thumbs over the hard tips of her nipples. “So are you,” she told him, her voice breaking as she lifted herself up and nearly off of him before slowly, slowly, slowly, lowering herself back down his cock. And then she was finally moving, her hips swinging faster and faster as she rode him. He was close, so fucking close, but there was no way he was going off before her. No way he was going to come until he felt her beautiful body clenching around his own. Sliding a hand between them, he stroked his thumb around her clit, circling it as she continued to rock against him. She cried out then, bracing her hands on his chest as the pressure built inside her, built inside him. “Wyatt,” she gasped. “I need, I need—” “I’ve got you, sweetheart.” His voice was hoarse from restraint, from the iron will he was using to fight off his own climax as he squeezed her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, then did the same to her clit. “I’ve got you. I’ve got—” She came, crying out his name, her body convulsing on his in a rhythm that broke the last of his determination. Lifting his hips, he thrust into her. Once, twice. Then he was coming, too, emptying everything he had—everything he was—into Poppy. And praying, even through the pleasure, that it was enough for her. For both of them.

Chapter Sixteen Early the next morning, Poppy shook her head as she clicked through to yet another Shaken Dirty tumblr dedicated almost exclusively to Wyatt. She’d gotten online two hours before to check out a few things in reference to some ideas she had for their social media, and she’d quickly fallen down the rabbit hole. There were literally hundreds of thousands of tumblrs dedicated to all aspects of this band—their music, their influences, their girlfriends, even their clothes. And that didn’t even count the tumblrs dedicated to shipping the members together. Right now, Ryatt seemed to be the favorite ship—and after looking at hundreds of pictures of the two of them together, even she had to admit Ryder and Wyatt made a cute couple. The fact that Wyatt was currently cuddled up next to her in bed was completely beside the point. Especially when she was looking at really pretty pictures of him and Ryder hugging each other at last year ’s Grammy awards… She was still grinning as she clicked on another timeline, this one from Shaken Dirty’s early early days, back before they were signed, when they were still playing clubs and hoping for a big break. She skimmed through the pictures and captions, laughing a little at all the inside jokes the fandom had. And yes, she knew the fact that she now got all those jokes might indicate that she had spent way too long on these blogs in the last two days, but it was so fun she didn’t care. Besides, if she squinted hard enough, she could totally claim all this “research” fell under her newest job description. She paused over a particularly adorable picture of the guys on a small outdoor stage in what the caption identified as Springfield, Missouri. The photo had obviously been taken when they were playing a county fair, which was odd enough for them during this time period. But what really gave her pause was that the maker of the timeline claimed they were playing there because Springfield was Wyatt’s hometown. Even more perplexing was that as far as Poppy could see, none of the twenty-four thousand people who had reblogged the timeline had given its maker any grief about the misinformation. And since that was totally not like Tumblr users, she couldn’t help wondering what was going on. Shaken Dirty had formed in Austin, when lifelong friends Jared Matthews, Ryder Montgomery, Wyatt Jennings, and Micah Tarrent were still in high school. Quinn Bradford was a later addition, having met them in a club after one of their shows nearly a year later. So if Wyatt had grown up in Austin with the others, as the bio claimed, what was all this talk of Springfield?

She clicked back to the tumblr, one that had nearly forty million followers and was obviously one of the most respected in the fandom. Once she did, she searched through the blogger ’s list of tags, found the ones that she had basically dedicated to Wyatt. As Poppy scrolled through them, she felt herself getting more and more confused. Because according to this blogger—Dani was her name—nothing was quite what it appeared when it came to Wyatt Jennings. For example, he’d said in numerous interviews that he’d grown up on a farm, but then other interviews—and his official bio—talked about him growing up in Austin where there weren’t a lot of farms. In another interview, he’d mentioned that at one time his big claim to fame was that he had gone to Brad Pitt’s middle school. At the time, the interviewer had joked that soon Brad would be claiming to have gone to Wyatt’s middle school and everyone had laughed. A quick Google search showed her that Brad Pitt had been born in Oklahoma but had moved to Springfield, Missouri, with his family when he was young…So Wyatt had spent a significant amount of time in Springfield, then. How did she not know about this? And why was his official bio disguised to make it look like that wasn’t the case? Intrigued now, she started combing through the rest of the tags. As she did, she came up with a bunch of things that seemed to contradict the label’s official narrative regarding Wyatt. Little things like when he’d learned to play the drums. Or what musicians had influenced him growing up. Or how old he was when he’d moved out on his own. There were bigger things, too, though. Things like whether it was his widowed mother who had raised him or his father ’s sister. Or disputes on whether or not he’d ever been arrested. On whether or not he had a kid. And even, if she could believe some of the more outrageous conspiracy theories, on whether or not his name was actually even Wyatt Jennings. Because she was curious, she also searched the other guys. Found little to no ambiguity between the official bio and what the fans held to be true about Ryder, Jared, and Quinn. So it was just Wyatt who things didn’t add up for, Wyatt whose background looked to have been professionally whitewashed, considering almost nothing appeared online about him that dated back more than five or six years. It was like he hadn’t actually existed before Shaken Dirty was signed. But some intrepid fan had actually dug up a birth certificate for him from Missouri twenty-eight years ago, so obviously that wasn’t the case. Which only made the whole thing weirder. Not to mention setting off every trigger and trust issue she had. She had just clicked over to another big Ryatt blog, determined to see what this blogger had to say about Wyatt, when the man himself started stirring. He groaned a little, burrowed deeper into the bed. Then flung an arm around her waist and cuddled into her. “Do you always get up at the crack of dawn?” he asked, his voice all smoke and gravel in the early morning quiet.

“Trying to catch up on some work,” she answered. “Since I spent so much of yesterday either fucking you or worrying about you, I’m a little behind.” He grinned and opened one sleepy blue eye. “I thought I was your work.” “You are, but so are the others. And since I’m not planning on sleeping with any of them, I figure I should do what I came here for and get you guys started on what you can do to maximize your social media exposure.” “Now you sound like Jamison. She’s always after us to post more pictures or tweet more.” “She’s totally right. You should do that. But there should be so much more to the strategy than just tweeting more. The sheer number of Tumblr and Instagram accounts devoted to you guys is seriously awe-inspiring. It’s ridiculous that you haven’t been utilizing that kind of unrestricted access to your fan base.” He snuggled closer, pressed soft kisses to her stomach where her shirt had ridden up. His shirt, she corrected herself. She’d picked it up and shrugged into it when she’d gotten up to go to the bathroom a couple of hours before. “So instead of waking actual me up to have more incredible sex—” “Incredible?” She raised a brow. He just looked back at her blandly. “I don’t think I’m exaggerating by calling it incredible, and I’m pretty sure you don’t either.” She inclined her head, nodded for him to go on. After all, the man did have a point. It had been several hours since he’d last been inside her, yet her body still felt deliciously and wonderfully used. It was a new experience for her, one she’d never come close to feeling with another guy, and it made her nervous—especially considering everything she’d found out about him today. At the same time, though, she couldn’t help responding to him, her body completely in tune with his after the night they’d spent. “Instead of doing that,” he continued, “you’re looking at pictures of the rock star version of my friends and me and trying to come up with better ways to promote us? How does that even make sense?” “I am from the label,” she reminded him. “I believe we’ve been accused of being a tad bit singleminded at times.” “Yeah, well, I can be single-minded, too.” He started to wrestle her computer away from her, but this wasn’t her first rodeo, and she held on tight. They’d be prying this computer out of her cold, dead hands one day. Until then, it stayed right where it was. When he realized she wasn’t giving in, Wyatt pulled back and looked at her inquisitively. “Something going on that I should know about? I mean, other than you plotting Shaken Dirty’s world domination?” She took a moment, tried to decide what she wanted to say. How she wanted to say it. “You’ve got a lot of fangirls, you know?”

He quirked a brow. “It’s kind of part and parcel of the rock star thing. Besides, most of them are there for Ryder and Jared.” “No, you don’t get to say that. Maybe in the old days you could, but I’m on a tumblr dedicated to you and you alone—wyattdomelikethis. A couple of minutes ago I was on one dedicated to you and Ryder and the oh-so-secret love you two have for each other.” “You were on a Ryatt site?” He burst out laughing. “So you do know about Ryatt? Even though you claim never to have been on Tumblr or Instagram?” “I don’t have to be on Tumblr to hear about Ryatt. Or Wyred or Ryinn or Jinn for that matter. We get tweets about it all the time.” “It doesn’t bother you that people think you’re sleeping with your bandmates?” “Why should it bother me?” he asked with a shrug. “I mean, besides the fact that Jamison would bury my body where no one would ever find it if she thought I was making a move on her man. But, seriously? What’s the big deal? Every other day I’m linked with a new Victoria’s Secret model. Why is this any different?” Wow. When he phrased it that way, it kind of bothered her. Not the band ships, obviously, because after meeting them and seeing how they were together, the idea of him sleeping with one of them was ludicrous, no matter how many photo manips or how many “receipts” Tumblr produced. But him being linked to model after model? Yeah, that bothered her more than it should considering she’d promised herself just last night that she wasn’t going to get in too deep with Wyatt. Sure, she’d always had an okay body image and pretty decent self-esteem, even if she had boring brown eyes and even more boring brown hair. But she was no underwear model. Not by a long shot. The idea that that was the kind of women Wyatt was used to—the kind of women he was normally attracted to? It hit a little closer to home than she might have liked. Then again, that so wasn’t what she’d planned for this conversation to be about. Who Wyatt had slept with in the past—and who he was going to sleep with whenever this thing between them was done—was none of her concern. Even if, right now, it kind of felt like it should be. Determined to cut off that train of thought before it could do any more damage, she focused on bringing the discussion back around to what she really wanted to talk about. Something that had absolutely nothing to do with beautiful blondes with incredible bone structure and even more incredible bodies. And wings… “These blog owners—the ones who have tumblrs dedicated to you—they’re pretty intense.” “It’s rock and roll,” he answered with a shrug. “It’s intense by definition.” She rolled her eyes. “Okay, rock star, tone it down a bit.” He looked offended. “I’m just saying, rock is an intense musical genre. If you wanted something a little more bubblegum, you should start working with a boy band or something.” “Wow. Arrogant and disdainful. I’m so impressed. And I’ll have you know that a lot of boy bands

have really talented members.” She batted her eyes at him for a moment, daring him to say more, before she settled back against the pillows and pulled up one of the tumblrs she’d just been visiting. “But seriously, the fans who run these sites seem to know everything about you and the others.” “They don’t know anything. They know what we tell them, what we let them see. But the real stuff, we keep that shit buried deep where the fans can’t get to it.” Which was exactly the opening she’d been looking for. “Like what?” “What do you mean? You’re from the label—you should know this better than anyone.” “I do. But I’m talking about you specifically. What do you keep buried deep?” He quirked a brow at her. “You mean besides the fact that I was doing more than an ounce of heroin a day before I checked into rehab this last time?” God, that was so much worse than she’d envisioned. An ounce a day? She’d read up on heroin addiction the first time Wyatt had gone to rehab, had learned more than she’d ever wanted to about the hell of getting clean. But she’d also learned a lot about what the human body could tolerate, and shooting up an ounce of the pure stuff was way more than most people could handle. The fact that he’d been doing that to himself, to his body…it made her want to pull him close, to hold on tight so he could never hurt himself that way again. All she said, though, was, “I get that you tried to keep your addiction quiet as long as you could— your basic human right to privacy with that is absolute. Or it should be, no matter who you are.” “That’s not really how it works, though, is it?” “No, not really.” She sighed, rested her head against his shoulder. “Is that why there are all these conflicting stories about you? Because you don’t want anyone to know any truths? So it’s easier to hide the painful stuff?” He stiffened a little, but she pulled him closer, held him tighter, and eventually he relaxed when he realized she wasn’t going to push. “If there are ten stories out there instead of just one, and I don’t deny or confirm any of them, then no one actually knows what’s going on with me. Or, that’s the theory, anyway.” “It’s a good theory.” He shrugged. “Maybe. Sometimes.” “It’s worked so far. I mean, I’m from the label and in charge of your social media message and even I don’t know what the truth is.” “Yeah, well, I’ve been lying to myself and everyone else so long that sometimes I don’t think I do either.” She didn’t like the sound of that, even though she knew admitting it—coming to grips with it—had probably been a big part of rehab for him. But she hated the way he implied that he was inherently untrustworthy, because she didn’t think that was true. Sure, the addiction had made him that way. But she had seen him with his boys, had seen the way he tried to protect them, the way he struggled to be good enough for the band and his friends. Those were not the acts of an untrustworthy guy.

It was as much a realization for her as it was for him, and she could feel her resolve crumbling a little bit more, could feel herself falling even harder for him despite all the warnings and assurances she’d been giving herself. Because in a lot of ways that mattered, Wyatt was trustworthy and that…that was her own personal kryptonite. The knowledge freaked her out more than she wanted to admit, even to herself, and she went back to poking at him because it was easier. And because she wanted to know. “So, tell me the truth, then.” His gaze, wide and wary, flew to hers. “What do you mean?” She forced a laugh as she set the computer down on the floor next to the bed and then rolled over so she was draped on top of him. “Don’t worry. I’m not asking for your deepest, darkest secrets. Just a few of the small ones. Like, were you really born in Texas? Or were you born in Missouri? Or Alaska?” she asked, remembering she’d seen an interview where he’d claimed to be from Anchorage. She’d thought where he was born would be an easy question to start with—what did it matter, after all? But he stiffened underneath her and for long seconds, she was certain he wasn’t going to answer. In the end, though, he did. Grudgingly. “I was born in Springfield, Missouri.” She’d already known that from the birth certificate, but the fact that he was honest with her…it meant something. She could feel herself melting just a little bit more, feel her defenses getting just a little bit weaker. The fact that a hint of a native accent crept into his voice when he said “Missouri” was just icing on the cake. “Say it again,” she teased, straining forward to drop a kiss on his chin. He looked baffled. “Say what?” “Missouri. Your accent is adorable.” He rolled his eyes at her, but he did it—twice—then waited for her giggles to quiet down before saying, “Okay, my turn.” “For what?” “You don’t think you’re the only one in this bed who gets to ask questions, do you?” She had thought that, actually. But if he had questions…she had answers. As long as he didn’t ask her about her real reason for being in Austin. Her stomach tightened unpleasantly at the thought. Here she was, all hung up on whether she could trust him, and she was the one lying to him. The one keeping secrets. The fact that she was doing it because she cared about him, because she wanted him to succeed, didn’t seem to matter so much anymore. Not when they were plastered against each other in bed playing twenty fucking questions. Because her guilt was eating her alive, she told him, “Ask away. I’m an open book.” And she would be, she promised herself, about everything but her relationship to her dad and Caleb and her real reason for being in Austin. Wyatt deserved that much. He tightened his arms around her waist, pulled her even more firmly against him. She reveled in it —in the feel of his tight, hard body beneath hers. In the sound of his heart beating beneath her ear. And, most importantly, in how well their bodies matched up. How good it felt to be wrapped up in

him as the streets below them started slowly filling with people beginning their morning commute. “Hmm.” He deliberated for a few seconds, his fingers unconsciously toying with the ends of her hair as he did. Finally, he settled on, “What do you do at the label? When you aren’t formulating social media plans for pain-in-the-ass bands? Or is that what you do all the time?” Shit. Seriously? He could have asked her anything, and that was what he’d chosen? She was going to kick Caleb’s ass for putting her in this position—and her own ass, too, as soon as she figured out how to manage that. How was she supposed to lie to him when they were naked in bed together? And when she was trying so hard to let him know that he could trust her? When she was working so hard to trust him, too? In the end, she decided to stick as close to the truth as she could manage. “Mostly I’m in marketing. I work out plans for bands when we first sign them, decide how we’re going to market them, what kind of publicity we want to garner for them, what demographics we want them to appeal to. I’m also often the liaison between the label and the band’s management. I make sure we’re all on the same page.” “So you do all that, but you don’t actually work with the bands?” He looked skeptical. “Or is it just Shaken Dirty that you didn’t work with early on?” “No.” She tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “I don’t work with any of the bands. I just strategize.” “Why not? You mentioned before that music is your life. Or was that just about your work?” “No! Music is my life.” She rolled over, despite his efforts to keep her in place, and settled on the side of the bed with her feet on the floor. “Rock, especially. I fell in love with Queen and Aerosmith and Led Zeppelin before I could even walk. Spent my childhood going to Pearl Jam and U2 concerts. Soundgarden, Nirvana, The Cure. Nine Inch Nails. I loved them all. From the time I was in junior high, I never wanted to do anything but work with musicians and help connect them with fans who really got their music.” “Which explains your obsession with social media. You get to do that on a global scale now, right?” “I guess.” She sighed. It was so much more complicated than that, but she couldn’t explain it to him. Not if she wanted to keep her cover. “There’s a story there,” he said, brows raised. “Do you want out of marketing? Would you rather be focusing on the music end of—” “Dude! No offense, but I’m pretty sure you’re on like your fifth question, and I only got to ask one. That’s not how this is supposed to go.” “Yeah, but this is so much more interesting!” “To you, maybe. Not to me.” “Okay, fine.” He settled back against the headboard with a little bit of a huff. “What do you want to know?”

“When did you move to Austin?” “When I was sixteen.” “So you didn’t grow up with Jared, Ryder, and Micah.” “Nope.” He shook his head. “They felt sorry for me and pulled me in a few months after I started at Austin High.” “And by ‘felt sorry for you,’ you mean they were awed by your talent.” He snorted. “Not quite. Jamison and I got to be friends and Jared freaked out. I had trouble written all over me, even then. I’m pretty sure he befriended me to make sure I wouldn’t take his little sister to bed.” “I doubt that’s it.” “No offense, but you weren’t there. I guarantee that was almost one hundred percent of his motivation. Can’t fuck your band mate’s little sister, after all.” “Yet now she’s with Ryder.” He laughed. “She is. And that was hilarious to watch. Jared almost killed him at one point.” “I’m glad he didn’t. Replacing a bassist is one thing. Replacing your lead singer and guitarist is something else entirely.” She paused. “Almost as hard as replacing your drummer.” “Really? We’re going to go there now?” “No.” She shook her head, pressed several soft kisses to his chest. “We’re not. But you’ve got to admit, the opening was too perfect to pass up.” “I don’t have to admit anything,” he answered with a smirk. “But, since you brought it up, I should probably get going.” “No, you shouldn’t.” She tangled her legs up in his, then rolled until his back was pressed into the bed and she was sprawled above him. “Not yet.” “Oh, yeah? Why not?” She stroked her hands down his chest. “Because I don’t want you to go.” “Does that mean you have an incentive to keep me here, then?” His fingers tangled in her hair before she could answer, pulling her down for a kiss that went on and on and on. They were both breathing hard and she was even trembling a little bit when he finally broke away. “I could make breakfast,” she told him when she could finally talk again. “Not quite the incentive I was thinking of.” He reached for the box of condoms where it lay half empty on the nightstand, then quickly fumbled a condom out of it. Seconds later he was wrapping his hands around her hips. Lowering her down on his cock. Thrusting his hips up to meet hers. It was hot and wild and thrilling. And fast—so, so fast this time, with both of them soaring over the edge together only a few short minutes after Wyatt slid inside her. “Wow,” he said when they finally caught their breath. “Should I apologize? I didn’t exactly take my

time, there.” “Don’t you dare,” she answered, nuzzling her face into his throat. “It’s not like I was lagging behind or anything.” She felt him smile as he bent down to kiss the top of her head, but he didn’t say anything more. And neither did she, for the longest time. But as seconds bled into minutes—and his phone continued to vibrate on the nightstand—she knew they couldn’t stay holed up like this forever, no matter how much she might want to right now. Not when there was so much going on around them. And not when there was still so much unsaid between them. “Can you tell me?” The words came out before she knew she was going to say them, but once she had, she didn’t want to take them back. Instead, she just rested quietly against him, stroking his chest and making sure not to look at him as she waited. To his credit, Wyatt didn’t ask what she was talking about. But he did stiffen beneath her, his heart jolting hard in his chest before it started racing. “You don’t want to go there,” he finally said. “I do,” she murmured, running her lips over his shoulder, his sleeves, any place she could reach. “I know there’s something there—I can see it in your eyes when you don’t think I’m looking. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s why you thought you needed to quit the band. I know it’s what made you go out and sit in that bar last night. It’s causing so much of this mess and I’m afraid if you don’t deal with it, you’ll—” “Leave it alone, Poppy.” “I can’t. It’d be easier it I could, but I can’t. It’s hurting you, Wyatt, and I can’t stand that. I want to help. I want to—” “Stop it.” He rolled out from under her then, grabbed his jeans off the floor, and started tugging them on. She was right behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing more kisses to his back, his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I’m not trying to hurt you. I just want to make things better—” “You can’t make them better!” he said, and though he didn’t shrug her off, it felt like he had. It felt like, suddenly, he was a million miles away. “What do I need to say to convince you of that fact? Nothing can make this better.” “That’s not true. Maybe I can’t help, but maybe a counselor could. Therapy—” “Fuck therapy!” This time he did pull away, striding toward the bedroom door at a rate that had her scrambling to keep up. “You think I haven’t done the therapy thing? I’ve been in rehab three times. All they fucking do is talk to me, talk at me. It doesn’t fucking work.” He shoved his feet into his boots, bending down to tie the laces. “Okay, not a counselor then. One of the guys from the band. Me—” He didn’t look at her as he said, “I already told you. You don’t want to hear this shit.”

“I do, Wyatt.” She crouched next to him, rested her hands over his. “I do want to know.” “Why?” he demanded, his beautiful blue eyes wild with a pain and torment so real she swore she could reach out and touch it. If only he’d let her. “We spent one fucking night together. Why is it so fucking important that you know all my secrets?” She tried not to flinch at his description of what they’d done. He was angry, she reminded herself. In pain and lashing out. And she was the one pushing him. The one who had refused to drop it when he asked. “I just don’t want to see you hurt any more than you’ve already been—” “Jesus, Poppy! Stop! Just stop.” He stood up so fast that she nearly lost her balance, nearly fell flat on her ass at his feet. “You can’t fix me. I know you want to, but you can’t. Some things that are broken can’t be repaired.” “I never said you were broken.” She stood up, tried to touch him, but he shrugged her off. “You’re not broken.” “I am. I am broken, and the sooner you accept that, the better we’ll both be.” “I don’t believe that. I won’t believe it. Just talk to me, Wyatt. Just—” “What the fuck do you want me to say? What the fuck do you think is going to make it better? You think my telling you how it felt to watch my father get pulled under the thresher at our farm is going to make it better? Do you think if I tell you how I’ll never forget the look on his face when it ran over him for the first time that it will somehow make me okay?” She gasped at his words, tried to reach for him. But he was having none of it. The dam had broken and so, she was afraid, had Wyatt. “Is it going to make me forget the fact that, even though he’d taught me two or three times how to turn it off, that I couldn’t remember how? That all I managed to do was turn the wheel so that it went in a circle and ran him over again and again and again until the fucking thing ran out of gas? Do you think it’s going to make me forget what he looked like lying there? Or my mother ’s face when she found us in the field hours later, me still sitting on that goddamn tractor and him…him…” Oh God. Oh God. Ohgodohgodohgod. All the things he’d said before made sense, as did so much of what she’d read. About his mom not cooking dinner after he was five or six, and him coming to Austin to live with his aunt when he was in eighth grade, and— “Would talking about it somehow have made my mother forgive me? That’s how she died, you know. She couldn’t even look at me unless she was drunk. Couldn’t talk to me. Couldn’t be around me. And since she couldn’t get rid of me, she just kept drinking to make it better. Drank herself to death before she was forty. Before I was thirteen. You think talking to a counselor is going to make any of that better?” His chest was heaving when he was done, loud strangled sobs coming from him even though his eyes were dry. She went to him then, because she couldn’t not go to him. Couldn’t not try to hold him. She didn’t know if he’d let her, but she had to try. To her shock, he did. When she went to hug him, he grabbed on to her like she was a lifeline, his

arms around her shoulders, his face buried against her neck. She tried to think, tried to push through all the pain his words had brought forth in her, tried to think past the sorrow and the horror she felt for him—for the little boy who’d watched his father die and been unable to stop it, and for the man who had never been able to forgive himself for something that wasn’t his fault. If she was piecing things together right—things he’d told her and things she’d read online—he must have been a baby when the tractor thing happened. Maybe five or six at the most. Old enough to remember. Definitely old enough to be traumatized by what had happened. But certainly, certainly not old enough to be responsible for it. To be blamed for it. She prayed it wasn’t true, prayed his mother hadn’t taken out her sorrow over a tragic accident on her already traumatized son. But even as she prayed, she could see it in Wyatt’s eyes. Could read it in the torment on his face as she cupped his cheeks in her hands and pressed kisses to his cheeks, his chin, his lips—wherever she could reach. “It’s not your fault,” she told him in between kisses. “None of what happened is your fault.” He shook his head. “It is—” “It’s not,” she told him fiercely. “Not one bit of it. You were a child—” “That doesn’t matter. Children do a lot on farms, way more than they do in city households. He’d taught me how to work the gears. He’d showed me what to do and I panicked. I couldn’t—” “You were five years old. No five-year-old could have been expected to stop that machine. And no five-year-old should have been blamed for it, especially not by his mother.” “It wasn’t her fault—” “It was her fault. Not your father ’s death—that was nobody’s fault. That was a horrible, horrible, horrible accident, and I am so sorry you had to be there. So sorry you had to see it and live with it and carry it around with you—” Her voice broke, but she shoved the tears back down. She could cry later, deal with her own emotions when he was gone. Right now, she needed to make him understand. “But Wyatt, baby, what happened to him is not your fault. No one who wasn’t grieving or seriously disturbed would ever, ever blame you for what happened that day.” “I blame me. I didn’t stop it. I didn’t—” “It wasn’t your fault.” He shook his head. “You don’t know—” “I do. I do know.” She grabbed his hands, pulled them to her mouth. Kissed each one in turn. “It wasn’t your fault,” she told him again. “Stop it,” he said, voice hoarse and shattered. “Just stop—” “It wasn’t your fault. What happened to your father. What happened to your mother. You were a child—” “I was awful. After my father died, I was always acting up in school. I started sneaking my mom’s whiskey when I was eleven. I didn’t make it easy for her. I—”

“You were a child. A traumatized, distraught child and it was her job to make things easy for you, not the other way around.” “You don’t understand.” He shook his head, started to back away. But she was holding on to his hands and she wasn’t letting go. “I do understand. I do. And I’m so sorry, Wyatt. I’m so, so—” “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me! I didn’t tell you so you’d feel sorry for me. I told you so you’d understand what a fucking loser I am. What a fucking, fucking mistake I am—” “You are not a loser.” She grabbed him then, wrapped her arms around his neck and dragged his mouth down to hers. It wasn’t a passionate kiss, wasn’t a tender kiss. It was fierce and angry and desperate and sorry and so many other things that she didn’t know how to put into words. So many other things that he wouldn’t let her say. “You are not a mistake. You are one of the strongest people I have ever met. I can’t imagine the nightmares you’ve gone through, but you’re here and you’re sober and somehow, despite everything, you’re such a good man.” “I’m not—” “You are,” she told him, her hands clenching on his biceps. “Ryder can see it. So can Quinn and Jared and Jamison. And me. I can see it, Wyatt. The way you’re always willing to sacrifice for your friends. The way you stand up for them. The fact that they all come to you for advice.” Tears were rolling down her cheeks now despite her best efforts, and she paused just long enough to wipe them away. “And the way you treat me. You’re always so gentle with me, so kind and careful, even though I’ve pretty much been nothing but a total pain in your ass since I got here. The way you got clean, when it had to have been so hard. So awful. “You are a good man, Wyatt. The very best kind of man, and I’m so, so sorry that you’ve been hurt so badly. So, so sorry that you can’t see it. Because I can, and you’re beautiful. You’re so beautiful.” “Stop,” he told her, even as he pulled her back into his arms. Even as he pressed desperate kisses to her mouth. Even as he held her tight, tight, tight against his chest. “Just stop. I hear what you’re saying, but I can’t take any more right now. I just can’t.” “Okay.” She nodded. “Okay.” His phone buzzed yet again and he cursed under his breath. “I need to go. The guys have been blowing up my text messages all morning.” “Do you want me to call them? Tell them you’re having a rough day—” “No. That’s the last thing they need to hear right now.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead, then pulled away. “I’ll call them.” “Are you sure? You don’t have to go.” “I do…I do have to go. I need to think.” “I know, but—” She stopped, not wanting it to sound like she was doubting him. Because she wasn’t, not really. But she was worried. Shit, after what he’d told her she wanted a drink and it wasn’t even her fucking story. She could only imagine how he felt right now.

His eyes clouded over. “I’m not going to use, Poppy.” “I know that.” She made sure her voice rang with conviction. “Do you?” he asked. “I do, Wyatt. I trust you.” He shook his head, laughed a little bitterly. “I don’t know why.” “Because you deserve it.” “I don’t. I—” His phone buzzed again and this time he pulled it out and fired off a text before shoving it back in his pocket. “You could just put them out of their misery and tell them you aren’t quitting the band. They’d probably leave you alone then.” He raised his brows at her and she just shrugged, grinned sheepishly. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.” “I guess not.” He didn’t sound impressed. “Look, I know you have a lot to think about. I know I forced you to talk about things you’d rather just forget. But this band thing—you need to understand how important you are to Shaken Dirty. Jared might be the leader of the band, Quinn might be the heart, and Ryder might be the soul, but you, Wyatt, you are the backbone of this band. You give them their shape, their sound, you hold all of them together. If you break, they all break.” When she finished, he didn’t say anything, didn’t respond at all. Just stared at her as the seconds slowly ticked by. She let the silence stretch out as long as she could, but it was dark and brooding and awkward, and she wanted to make it stop. She wanted to make all of his pain stop. “Wyatt, please—” She reached a hand out to him, but he didn’t take it. “I have to go.” He started for the door. She followed him. “Like that? You don’t even have a shirt on.” He shrugged, kept walking. “I’ve gone out in less.” She could only imagine. Rock stars, man. Rock stars. “Still, here. Take this.” She pulled off his shirt, held it out to him. He froze, his eyes darkening to nearly black as they swept over her now naked body from head to toe and back again. Then he was grabbing her, pulling her full against him as his mouth devoured hers. Seconds passed, minutes, decades maybe, as he kissed her like she’d never been kissed before. Kissed her like she was the only woman in the world. Kissed her like she was the only thing that stood between him and utter destruction. It was desperate and devastating, sexy and sensual, a full-on sensory assault that she barely knew how to deal with. Barely knew how to control even after everything that had happened between them. So she didn’t try. Instead, she gave herself up to it—to him—her hands clinging to his shoulders, her body wrapped around his like a vine, her soul and heart and mind yielding to him in a way they

never had for anyone else. And still he took and took and took, and gave and gave and gave, until they were both breathless. Exposed. Broken wide open. That’s when he pulled away, staring at her with eyes as wild and devastating as the storm-tossed Pacific. She waited for him to speak, waited for him to pull her into his arms and make love to her right there in the middle of the living room. He didn’t do that, though. In fact, he didn’t touch her at all. Instead, he yanked the shirt over his head and all but ran from the apartment. And she was left standing there, watching him flee and wondering at the panicked, fluttery, desperate feeling deep inside of her. Love or lust? she wondered, more than a little terrified. Infatuation or something deeper, something more real? As the door slammed behind him, Poppy lifted a trembling hand to her mouth and prayed it was just infatuation. Because if it was love…if it was love, then she was totally fucked.

Chapter Seventeen Wyatt slammed out of Poppy’s apartment then slammed down the fifteen flights of stairs to the lobby because the idea of being trapped in an elevator right now made him feel like his head was going to blow apart. Well, that and he’d been hoping the extended time in the stairwell would help him get his raging hard-on under control. Turned out hope wasn’t the only thing that sprung eternal, at least when he was around Poppy. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. What the hell was he doing? With her, with the band, with his whole fucking life? He didn’t have a clue and he was damn sick of flying blind. Damn sick of giving control of his life over to something or somebody else. For too long, that thing had been heroin. And now, now he was letting Bill Germaine pull his strings like the man was some kind of evil puppet master. There were a few people in the lobby—getting mail, talking to the doorman, waiting for the elevator—so he shoved his hands in his pockets and kept his head bowed as he made his way to the door. The last thing he needed right now was to be recognized. He loved Shaken Dirty’s fans, loved that people listened to their music, but after what Poppy had pulled out of him upstairs, he felt like if he had to stop for pictures and autographs he would probably lose his shit right there. Add in the fact that he was still packing a semi, and being recognized just wasn’t an option. He slunk toward the main doors of the apartment building, his keys already in his hands. This was downtown Austin—a notorious music city, and Shaken Dirty’s home town. It was still early and people were walking to work, which meant traversing the block and a half to where he’d parked his car was going to be more complicated than he anticipated. Still, he was determined, so he kept his head down and his shoulders hunched. He wanted a cigarette, desperately, but when he reached into his pocket all he found were more of Poppy’s damn lollipops. She must have put them in there when he was still asleep. Despite the turmoil churning up his insides, he couldn’t help smiling a little at her persistence. At her utter determination to save him—even from himself. It felt strange to have someone who cared so much, someone who wanted what was best for him just because he mattered. It made his skin itch a little, but it also felt…good. Damn good. Too bad she was only assigned to the band for a little while. Then again, that was probably for the best. She could see the good in him now because she didn’t

know him well. The longer she stuck around, the more likely it was that he’d disappoint her. That she’d end up seeing him how he really was instead of how she wanted to see him. Though he wanted a cigarette—or at least something to do with his hands—he figured walking down the crowded street with a lollipop in his mouth would only draw more attention to himself. So he forced himself to wait. Just like he forced himself to wait before he started thinking about what she’d said to him. About it not being his fault. About him being a better man than he thought he was. About— He cut the thoughts off even as he sped up, determined to make it to his car before he freaked out completely. He’d almost made it, too, the entrance to the parking garage in sight when he noticed three guys who looked like they were still in high school elbowing one another and nodding in his direction. Fuck. That’s what he got for walking around downtown Austin with his very recognizable tats on full display. He started to speed up, but it was too late and he knew it. There was no way he was going to make it to his car before they got to him, so fuck it. Just fuck it. He ducked inside the entrance to the parking garage so at least they wouldn’t be on the street, drawing more attention, and then waited the thirty seconds he figured it would take the kids to catch up. Turned out they must have been all but running, because they got there in fifteen. The first one spotted him and stopped in his tracks, and Wyatt watched—amused despite himself— as first one, then the other, of his friends careened straight into his back. He waited for them to say something, but they didn’t. Instead, they just stood there, eyes wide and mouths open, and stared at him. And stared at him. And stared at him. Because it was getting awkward—and because he didn’t know how long it would be before someone else came along—he stepped forward. “Hey, how are you? I’m Wyatt Jennings.” “I know. I mean, I recognize you. I mean, I know. You’re Wyatt Jennings.” He laughed and held out a hand. “Pretty much what I just said, kid.” “Right, of course. Sorry.” He blushed wildly, but still made no move to shake his hand. Wyatt was starting to think he was going to be left hanging when one of the guy’s friends nudged him hard. “Oh, um, I’m Dylan. Dylan Waters,” he said as he finally grabbed on to Wyatt’s hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “And these are my friends and bandmates, Billy Freeman and Jace Brooks.” “Nice to meet you guys,” Wyatt said as he wrestled his hand away from Dylan’s very enthusiastic grip and extended it to first Billy and then Jace. “So you guys have a band?” “Yeah,” Billy said. “Big Bad Wolf. We’re just starting out, but yeah. We’re trying to put a show together, get some gigs.” “That’s awesome. What kind of music do you play?” Judging from their appearances, he was going with punk. “Rock,” Dylan said. “Like you. We even cover a couple of your songs.”

“Oh, yeah? Which ones?” “‘Entice’ and ‘Drowning.’” “Really?” His eyebrows shot up in surprise, since both were solid songs that had performed well, but they were definitely not Shaken Dirty’s biggest hits. “I wrote both of those.” “Believe me,” Billy told him, “we know. Jace reminds us of that fact pretty much twenty times a day. He’s like, seriously, your biggest fan. He worships you and bores us daily with endless facts.” “I mean, we’re all huge fans,” Dylan said, glaring at Billy. “It’s not like he actually bores us, ‘cuz we could pretty much talk about Shaken Dirty all day, but—” Wyatt laughed. “It’s okay. I promise, I didn’t take offense. I’d get bored, too, if I had to hear about myself all day. So much better to just play music, huh?” He grinned at Jace, tried to invite him to share the joke. But the guy just stood there, blushing wildly and looking at everything and everyone but him. Poor kid. “Who else do you cover?” he asked, hoping to give him something easy to talk about. No such luck. Jace just kept staring through him like he was a ghost or something. “We don’t. Other than your stuff, we pretty much write all our own songs,” Dylan told him. “Or Jace does. He’s the big songwriter of the group.” “Oh, yeah? That’s really cool. What are you working on now, Jace?” Jace squeaked in response, but still didn’t look at him. Dylan rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Sorry, man. I think he’s in shock. Seriously, like you don’t understand how important you are to him. He knows every Shaken Dirty song, every drum fill, every riff. He spends hours every day just wailing on the drums, trying to be as fast and as steady as you are.” “Yeah, but that’s never going to happen.” Jace spoke up for the first time. “I pretty much suck.” “You do not, man!” Billy sounded totally indignant. “You’re really good. Not Wyatt Jennings good yet, but who the fuck is?” He turned to Wyatt. “I’m serious, man. It’s like he’s a different person when he’s behind his kit. He’s really fucking amazing.” “I bet.” Wyatt studied the kid. There was something about Jace that reminded him of himself at that age—which scared him a little, considering how he’d ended up. Then again, maybe if he’d had something to hang on to until he’d found Shaken Dirty, things would have turned out differently. “You know, I’d like to see that. Do you guys have any gigs coming up?” For a second it looked like all three of them had swallowed their tongues. Then Dylan blurted out, “Actually, we have one at the end of next week. It’s at this bar called The Spotlight. It’s pretty sketchy, but—” “I know the place. In fact, we played it a long time ago, back when we were just starting out.” “No way!” Billy crowed. “No fucking way!” Wyatt shrugged. “We all started somewhere, dude.” “Yeah, but I’m going to be singing on the same stage that Ryder Montgomery sang on!” Dylan

whooped. “I can’t fucking believe it.” “Believe it. Though, it’s been years. I can’t guarantee they haven’t switched the stage out—” “If you’d been to the place recently, you’d know they haven’t switched anything out in a long, long time.” “Same old Spotlight, then,” Wyatt said with a laugh. “That place was decrepit when we played it.” “Still is,” Billy told him. “Only worse, I bet. If you actually come see us, you can check the place out for yourself.” “You’re right.” He pulled his phone out of his back pocket, pulled up the calendar app Jared was constantly jawing at him about using. “What day next week?” “Friday,” Dylan answered. “We start playing around nine.” He entered the information, only fucking up the time twice. “Cool. I’ll drop by.” “I can’t believe this!” Billy shouted, his voice echoing off the cement walls of the garage. “I can’t fucking believe this!” “You’re the best, man,” Dylan gushed. “Seriously. The best, ever.” “I’m really not,” he told them. “You’ve seen me play. I figure it’s only fair that I see you.” “You’re not really coming.” For the first time, Jace was looking him square in the face. “What the fuck, man?” Dylan asked, elbowing him. “He said he’d come.” “You’re just trying to get rid of us, right?” Jace asked. “You don’t really mean it. You’re not actually coming.” Wyatt might have taken offense at the kid’s words if he hadn’t sounded so desperate. So lost. So much like he was trying to convince himself not to get his hopes up because he couldn’t stand the disappointment if it didn’t pan out. It was just one more way Wyatt saw himself in the skinny teenager standing in front of him. “Jace!” Billy hissed. “What are you doing? He—” “Don’t worry about it,” Wyatt interrupted as he stepped closer to Jace, getting in his face until the kid had no choice but to look at him. “You don’t know me, so I get it. Why should you trust me, especially considering when I first realized you’d spotted me, I thought seriously about sprinting for my car to get away from you?” Dylan squawked a little, and he shrugged. “What can I say? It’s been a rough morning.” He turned back to Jace. “But I don’t say things unless I mean them. That’s not the kind of guy I am. And I don’t promise to do something if I’m not going to do it.” He’d broken enough promises when he was using. It was a matter of honor to him that he wasn’t going to do that anymore. “I’m going to be at your show next Friday, and I’m going to listen to you drum. So you better be prepared to rip my fucking head off with your fills. You got that?” Jace turned white—pure, blank-sheet-of-paper white—and for a second Wyatt thought the kid was actually going to pass out. But then he nodded said, “Yeah. I can do that.” Wyatt grinned at him. “I figured you could. Now, I need to get going. So if you guys want a picture

—” “That’s okay,” Jace said, cutting off his friends even as they reached for their cameras. “We don’t need one.” “Uh, yeah we do,” Dylan said, looking at him like he was insane. “‘Receipts or it didn’t happen.’” “It happened,” Jace said softly. “Besides, when he comes to the show Friday night, you can take a picture with us.” “The fuck?” Billy demanded, turning almost as white as Jace had. “He didn’t mean it, Wyatt. He’s just insane or something.” Wyatt was laughing too hard to answer him. When he could finally speak, he nodded at Jace. “Okay. That seems fair. I show up to hear you play and you take a picture with me that I can post on Twitter and shit and tell everybody that I got to meet the guys from Big Bad Wolf.” Billy elbowed Dylan, whispered loudly, “He remembered our name.” Dylan nodded like a crazy man, and Jace just stood there grinning. “It was nice meeting you guys. Have a good day.” He gave them a little salute, then headed up the ramp toward his car. About a minute later, he heard feet pounding up the ramp after him. He turned to find Jace running full out in an effort to catch up to him. “What’s up, Jace?” he asked as the kid finally stopped a couple of feet from him. It took him a couple of seconds to catch his breath, but then he said, “I really do think you’re the greatest drummer ever. I’ve listened to everybody—Dave Grohl, Keith Moon, Phil Collins. They’re great. I mean, some of them are really phenomenal. But you’re better.” “Dude.” Wyatt reared back a little, humbled by this kid’s support. “That’s pretty serious company you’ve got me in. I mean, I appreciate the compliment—” “No. You are. I’m not just blowing smoke up your ass. Your drum fills are genius. Pure genius. They make the whole fucking song, set the whole thing up. Because they don’t just fill, don’t just keep the beat. They get inside the song, mirror the emotions and the tension of it so perfectly. Believe me, I know—I’ve spent years watching you, learning from you, trying to do what you do. It’s the hardest fucking thing in the world, and you make it look effortless.” “It’s not effortless—” “I know it’s not. Believe me, I know that better than anyone. But the way you hit the sticks, the way you beat that shit out, it’s fucking brilliant. The way you’ve fought to get clean…I’ve been sober thirty days myself, because of you. So I just wanted to say thanks. Thanks for stopping to talk to us even though you didn’t want to. Thanks for saying you’ll come to our gig. And thanks for being the guy who made me want to be a better drummer and a better person. If I hadn’t heard you when I was twelve, I probably never would have wanted to play the drums. And if I didn’t have them to bang away at…” He shook his head. “Shit. I probably wouldn’t still be here. So thanks. For everything. The way you drum, the way you got off drugs despite the life…You’re an inspiration, man.”

It was Wyatt’s turn to be speechless. “Jace—” “Don’t worry about it.” The kid shook his head, grinned. “Have a good rest of the day.” And then he was gone, sprinting back down the ramp toward his friends and leaving Wyatt standing there with his mouth hanging open. He was an inspiration? Not just a sick drummer but an inspiration? What the hell was he supposed to think about that? When he finally got in his car, he’d planned on going to Quinn’s house. Planned on talking things out with the guys once and for all, so that they understood where he was coming from. Why he had to leave the band. Instead, he’d driven to his apartment on autopilot, his conversations with Poppy and Jace running through his head on a loop. And now, here he was, standing in front of his drum kit like he was scared of it or something. Like he was some kind of pussy who’d lost his nerve. The thought was enough to have him crossing the room, to have him sliding his hand over the cool red aluminum of his drums, the smooth plastic of the skins. He had a few different kits—one for touring, one for home, and one for Quinn’s studio. This was the smallest of the kits, and the oldest, but it was also his favorite. An old school DW Jazz series, it only had three toms along with two crash and two ride cymbals to compliment the core kit of snare, bass, hi-hat and floor tom. The heads were mostly White Coated Emporers because he liked the crisp, yet smoky sound of them and his sticks were 5BXLs with acorn tips because nothing else had ever felt right in his hands. He’d had this kit since almost the beginning of Shaken Dirty—had scrimped and saved every penny he could for it while he worked two bullshit jobs trying to pay for his stick breaking habit. Hell, he’d even given up his other, less healthy habits for six months back then, just so he’d have enough money for this kit. If only money had kept being that tight, maybe he never would have developed an eighteen point a day heroin habit… Shoving that thought out of his head—or at least as far out as it would go—he rubbed his thumb along the edge of one of the crash cymbals. It had been months since he’d played this kit; he’d been touring with his much more impressive and well-equipped Sonor SQ2 kit for a couple of years now, but there was just something about this DW kit that he loved. That took him back to what it used to be like, when life had been all about writing songs and making music instead of pleasing a record label that had crawled so far up his ass he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to get them out. Then again, it had been months since he’d played any kit, really. He’d only played once since he’d gotten out of rehab—on stage at Antone’s the first night—and that had been for the band. For the crowd. For the show. It seemed like he was always playing for one of those reasons. But as he stood there, running his hands over his prized hi-hat cymbal, Jace’s words came back to him. The way you hit the sticks, the way you beat that shit out…thanks for being the drummer that made me want to be a drummer. Without it…I probably wouldn’t still be here.

Fuck, he knew exactly what Jace had been talking about. Knew exactly how he felt when he’d said banging on the drums had saved his life. When had he lost touch with that? When had he gotten so caught up in the bullshit—in his head and with the label—that he’d forgotten what it felt like? Once upon a time, his aunt had bought him his first drum kit as therapy and it had ended up saving his life, too. As he stood here, looking at one of his three beloved kits, he wondered—if he let them— if they’d do it again. Because there was only one way to find out, he crossed to the bookshelf, where he kept dozens of extra sticks for when he needed them. He grabbed four, then shoved a couple into his back pocket in case he broke the first two before crossing back to his drums. And then he was settling himself behind them, striking each a few times to make sure they were all in tune, all sounding like they were supposed to. They were, so he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let the first song that came to his mind flow through his brain and out of his hands. The song was “Seventeen Again,” one he’d written a couple of years back about choices and mistakes and roads not taken. It had done well for them, had hung out on the top music charts for nearly six months, two of those at number one. It had always made him uncomfortable that this song was so popular—hell, it had even made him uncomfortable that the guys insisted on putting it on the album. Because it was so personal. So honest. So real, when so much of what he showed people was anything but. He could still see Poppy’s face from earlier today, when she’d asked him if any of his bio was actually true. He’d been tempted to point her to this song, to tell her that every verse, every word, every note of it was him, laid bare for public consumption. But in the end, he hadn’t done it. Instead, he’d let her get inside his head and had spilled everything to her. Had told her things no one but the other members of Shaken Dirty knew. Things he hadn’t planned on ever telling another living soul. He still didn’t know why he’d done it, except maybe he’d wanted to push her away. He was falling for her, had been pretty much since he’d laid eyes on her, and when she’d pushed, he’d figured what the hell. He’d show her. He’d let her see just how fucked up he was and then she’d go running in the other direction. Except she hadn’t done that, had she? No, she’d stuck instead. Had gotten right up in his face and made him look at things he hadn’t examined in way too long. Had tried to make him see things in a totally different light. He didn’t know yet if she’d succeeded, didn’t know yet how he felt about what she’d said. But for the first time in longer than he could remember, he wanted to hold on to something, wanted to feel something for someone other than his bandmates. For a man who’d spent years, decades, running from his emotions, it was a strange place to find himself. It scared him. She scared him. Eyes still closed, he laid down the first of the drum fills, adding a few extra flourishes because

that’s how he was hearing it in his head. Played through the whole song from memory, then did it again and again, embellishing it a little more each time through. It didn’t take long for his arms and pecs to start aching—it had been too long since he’d played the drums on a daily basis—but he played through it, pounding away at the skins with everything he had in him. Fourth time through the song, he switched to “Closer,” then to “In the A.M.,” then to “Deified.” By the time he’d run through those a couple of times, his biceps were burning, his hands throbbing. And still he didn’t stop. Instead, he switched on the recorder he always kept next to his drum kit and started wailing away, playing the beat that had been in his head since he’d seen Poppy waiting for him in her doorway last night, arms open and face welcoming. The melody had started then, in the back of his head, and by the time he’d had her up against the wall it had been a towering crescendo of drumbeats that he couldn’t ignore even if he’d wanted to. Which he hadn’t. It had been too long since music had burned inside him like that. He played the song through the way he heard it, keeping a fast thirty-two-beat rhythm on the hi-hat while he worked the snare, the bass, and the floor tom in alternating rhythms. It sounded good, really good, and as he banged out a long, elaborate fill on the toms and crash cymbals, he knew he was onto something. Though all he was doing was laying down the beat, he could hear the song in his head so clearly. Jared coming in with a quiet but pure guitar presence while Quinn took front and center with his keyboards. Bass—whoever the fuck that turned out to be—would hang back with Wyatt, playing low to underscore. And Ryder…fuck, Ryder ’s voice would own this song. He would destroy it. Just the thought sent excitement rioting through him. Usually, Wyatt and Quinn were the music guys, while Ryder and Jared did most of the lyrics. Every once in a while, though, a song would come to him fully formed, like “Seventeen Again” had, an early version of the lyrics tearing through his head even as he pounded away at the drums. This song was like that, the words running through his brain like a rain-swollen river, pouring out of him as fast and powerfully as the music had. Even knowing they weren’t perfect, he sang them aloud, let the recorder get every syllable. When it was over, he ran through the song over and over again while everything was still fresh in his mind. Playing and singing, singing and playing, until his shirt was drenched in sweat and his arms felt like they were going to fall off. And still he played. Still he wailed away at the drums like the demons of hell were after him. Or worse, like the sins of his past had finally caught up to him after all the years he’d run and all the drugs he’d used to keep them at bay. And maybe they had. Maybe they had. Since he couldn’t do anything about it, he played instead.

Long after sweat rolled into his eyes and poured down his face. Long after his shoulders and biceps and pecs cramped up. Long, long after blisters formed between his fingers. He played and played and played, like these drums were the only thing standing between him and hell. And like getting this one song right was his only chance at salvation. At one point, the blister on his right index finger cracked open and started to bleed. He grabbed one of the clean towels he always kept next to the kit, tore a strip off it, and kept playing. When his left index finger followed suit a couple of minutes later, he did the same thing. And then he played through that, too. The pain was there, his nerve endings sending agonized alerts to his brain, but he ignored them. Compartmentalized them. Put them in a part of his brain he didn’t need to access to play, and then concentrated on the music. On the beat. Right now, it was the only thing that mattered. The knuckles at the top of his already injured hand went next, busting through the skin and scattering drops of blood on the pure white drum heads with each hit of the stick on the skin. But because he couldn’t do anything about these wounds, he ignored them. Just like he ignored the burn in his middle fingers as the skin and flesh slowly, agonizingly got worn away. Hours passed, and still he played like his life—and his soul—depended on it. He didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t stop, not when the music just kept coming, just kept pouring through him like it used to in the old days. Like it hadn’t done in way too long. And now that he’d found it again, there was no way he was giving up on it, no way he was just getting up and walking away from it because it made him hurt. Because it made him bleed. This pain was nothing, less than nothing. Not compared to everything that had come before it. And not compared to what he hoped, prayed, would come after it. The longer he played, the worse the bleeding got, and he either wiped it away or ignored it as it spattered the hi-hat, the snare, the toms. But then—just as he was working out a huge, ascending drum riff for the end of the new song, it happened. The skin at the edge of his hand, right below his pinkie fingers, gave way, and blood went from splattering to gushing over the drum heads. Fuck. He grabbed another couple of towels, wrapped them around his hands, but they were pretty much soaked through in the matter of a couple of minutes. Cursing under his breath because the song wasn’t completely finished—and the muse was still riding him hard—he stumbled out from behind the kit and made his way to the bathroom. Once there he turned on the faucet and filled the sink. Then he doused his hands in the ice cold water, watching as it turned red in seconds. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He was used to playing ’til he bled—just a hazard of the job that few people ever talked about—but it had been a while since he’d messed up his hands this badly. He couldn’t believe he’d been so in the zone that he hadn’t noticed how bad it had gotten.

Then again, he admitted to himself as he emptied the sink and then refilled it, it wasn’t like he would have stopped even if he had noticed. The music had been too pure, too perfect. It had been a long time since he’d had something that pure in his life. Poppy came into his mind again then, her bright eyes, rosy cheeks, and Renaissance Madonna face floating before his closed eyelids as he once again plunged his raw hands into the water. He cursed a little, tried to do the trick again where he compartmentalized the pain. But the music was gone, and he couldn’t do it without it. If he could, he never would have needed heroin. When the bleeding slowed to a gentle ooze, he grabbed a towel off the rack and wrapped it around his most damaged hand, making sure to keep as much pressure on the wounds as he could. Then he crouched to rummage beneath the sink. He always kept a first aid kit in here for occasions just like this. He found it behind a twelve pack of toilet paper and more soap than any one person could use— which made him wonder just what Jamison was trying to tell him, since she was the one who’d stocked his apartment before he got out of rehab. Shaking his head in amused exasperation, he fumbled the first aid kit open. And found a lot more than bandages and antibiotic ointment. One of his small, secondary drug kits fell out at his feet, and for a minute he just stared at it, almost too afraid to touch it. Too afraid, even, to be in the same room with it. But fuck, it wasn’t like he could just leave it in the middle of the bathroom floor to keep tripping over, either—not if he had any chance of surviving—so eventually he bent down and picked it up. Turned it over in his hands. Ran his thumb over a random burn mark in the bottom left corner of the leather. Every single brain cell he had shrieked at him to throw it away. To toss it out the window. To do anything, everything, but keep holding it, shifting it this way and that as memory after memory assaulted him. He didn’t do that, though. Instead, his fingers seemed to move of their own volition as they unzipped the kit. As they pulled the spoon and lighter out of one side and the package of wrapped, unused syringes out of the other. As he did, he sank down onto the floor, rested his back against the wall, and tried not to think about how good it felt to get high. To nod out. To bliss out. It didn’t work. Suddenly, the heroin he’d been carrying around since he’d met Rollo at the bar last night was burning a major hole in the pocket of his jeans. He hadn’t used last night, hadn’t had a drink. He’d gone to Poppy’s instead and let his need for her ease away his craving for smack. It had worked better than he’d ever expected it to. But she wasn’t here right now and the heroin was. And he wanted it. Holy fuck, did he want it. Every cell in his body was practically breakdancing in anticipation. He reached into his pocket. Pulled out the small bag with the off-white powder in it. Held it up to the

light as he squeezed it between his fingers again and again and again. His hands were shaking with the need to open it up. To put a little on his tongue, just to taste. Just to feel the way the numbness tingled and spread. It would be so easy. All he had to do was break the little Ziploc seal, then sprinkle some on the spoon, heat it up, pull it into the syringe. Inject it. And then he’d be flying. For a little while he wouldn’t care about anything or anyone, past or present or future. He could just float. Could just be. He turned his arm over, traced his fingers over his tattoo sleeve as he searched for a vein he hadn’t collapsed with years of IV drug use. He found it on the inside of his upper arm, closer to his shoulder than his elbow. He’d only just started injecting it when he’d gone to rehab, so it had a bunch of uses left in it. He poked at it a little, plumped it up so it’d be easier to slide the needle in. It was all so familiar, watching his bleeding, busted open hands poking at his own skin. So, so familiar, and it took him back, had the endorphins shooting through his body in mere anticipation of the heroin. But as he poked at the vein, as he imagined how good it would feel, as he told himself he deserved the reward—just once; it didn’t have to be a regular thing—Poppy flashed into his mind again. Poppy, as she was last night. Her hair spread out like a silken waterfall over the dark luxury of the sheets. Her body draped half over his. Her fingers and lips stroking tenderly over his still fading track marks, her gentle acceptance telling him it was okay. Poppy as she’d been that morning, telling him that he was a good man. Telling him that the past wasn’t his fault. Telling him that who he was now was all that was important. Fuck. Just fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. He banged the back of his head against the wall, tried not to think about how he had gotten here, right here, to this moment. Tried not to think about every bad choice, every mistake, every fucked up thing he’d ever done. It was an impossible thing to ask himself, especially considering all that shit was on a never-ending track inside his brain. One that ran twenty-four seven, three hundred sixty-five days a year. One that showed him his father ’s face, his bloody, torn up body, over and over and over again. Fuck! He threw the bag of heroin across the room, watched as it bounced off the shower curtain and fell to the floor. And still it took every ounce of willpower he had not to crawl across the floor to pick it up. After all, he’d been doing it for years, doing it so long that going back to it would be almost like going home. But he was smarter now than he’d been even three months ago, smart enough now to know that no

matter what he did, it wasn’t going to last. He could go back to what he’d been doing, drinking twenty hours out of the day, pumping more and more and more heroin into his veins until everything was a blur. Until even being on stage with his friends became nothing but a faded out mockery of itself. And still it wouldn’t be enough. Still it wouldn’t last. Because even at his worst, even when he was injecting more than an ounce of heroin a day, he hadn’t been able to get enough. His body hadn’t been able to tolerate enough to keep him numb, to keep him nodding out and forgetting all the shit from his past he’d spent so long running from. He’d nearly died once—would be dead, if it wasn’t for Ryder and Jared and Quinn. And how had he repaid them? By ruining their tour and fucking everything up for them as they waited on him for the last three months. Yet here he was on another bathroom floor, kit in one hand and heroin right there, waiting for him to ruin everything. For his friends, for Poppy, for himself. Goddammit. No. He wasn’t going to do it this time, wasn’t going to go there no matter how much he wanted the momentary oblivion that first hit of heroin would give him. And he wanted it. God, did he want it. But last night, Poppy had told him if he couldn’t stay clean for himself, he should do it for his friends. Because they deserved it. Because he owed it to them. Because they were worth it. She was right on all counts. They did deserve it. They were worth it. Quinn, Ryder, and Jared had stood by him for years, and this time they’d held out against Micah and the label and the insurance company just to keep him part of the band. They’d visited him every chance rehab gave them, coming in shifts so he’d know he wasn’t alone. They hadn’t judged him, hadn’t given up on him even when he’d given up on himself. Hell, they’d even taken calls from him at three in the morning, when the cravings were so bad it was all he could do not to claw at his skin to get to his veins. Fuck, yeah, he owed them—more than he could ever repay—and fuck if he was going to shoot this shit into his veins and ruin everything they’d given him. Everything they’d worked so hard for. Micah was a selfish prick who hadn’t cared about anyone but himself. Wyatt would be damned if he went out the same way that bastard had. Fuck it. Just fuck it. And fuck heroin, too. He was done with it. He pushed to his feet, walked the few steps across the bathroom until he got to the powder-filled baggie. He shoved it back in his pocket, then zipped up the kit and threw it on the counter while he poured peroxide over his hands. He only cursed a little at how much it hurt when there was no smack in his system to cut the pain. When he was done, he put the first aid kit away, then picked up his drug kit. He went into the small living room of his apartment and gathered his keys before locking up the place. Then he walked down to the parking lot—and the Dumpster that sat in the corner of it. He stood there for a second, thinking about what he was doing. Second-guessing himself. But that

was just the addiction talking, trying to get inside his head, to weaken his resolve. And he wasn’t going to let it. Not now. Not this time. Pulling his arm back, he threw the kit into the Dumpster as hard as he could, listening as it banged against the side wall before falling into the heaps of trash. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out the heroin. Got ready to do the same with it. But fuck that. Just fuck it. He wasn’t afraid of three grams of powder, wasn’t afraid of this goddamn motherfucking drug. Not anymore. He was done with it. Done. With. It. And he wasn’t going to run from it this time, like a scared little boy who couldn’t take the pressure. He shoved the baggie back in his pocket, then turned away and headed for his car. He’d spent the last few years running from this drug, so afraid of his weakness that he couldn’t even think about it while he was sober, let alone be anywhere around it. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? He was a rock star, and this shit was everywhere in his world. It was fucking everywhere. He could get it anytime he wanted with a flick of his hand or a quick, whispered request. Hell, half of the time fans just shoved it into his hands in an effort to get in with the band for a night. And he’d never resisted, because he couldn’t. Because if it was there, he was going to smoke it or snort it or inject it. Not this time. Not anymore. Being afraid of heroin, hiding from it, running from it, hadn’t done the trick. So fuck that shit. He was carrying this bag with him from now on. Right there in his fucking pocket as a symbol that he was strong enough. That he didn’t need to be afraid of it and that he didn’t need it. That he wasn’t going to fall back down into that abyss. Not now and not later, when he was on the road. He didn’t know what the future held, didn’t know how many other ways he’d find to fuck up—a lot, probably. But not this way. Not again. He might have a hard fucking head and a past that nightmares were made of, but he’d learned his lesson. He. Was. Done. Crossing the parking lot toward his car, he felt lighter than he’d ever been. Felt like he actually had a chance for the first time since he’d tried heroin in the back of that shitty club at seventeen. It wasn’t enough to drown out the shit in the back of his head, wasn’t enough to dampen the self-loathing that rode him with every breath. But it was enough to keep the heroin in his pocket instead of his veins, and for now, that was all he could ask for.

Chapter Eighteen “So, Shane, I think that’s pretty much all the questions we had for you,” Jared said, shoving a hand through his hair and glancing surreptitiously at his phone. Poppy knew the feeling—she’d been doing the same thing for the last hour and a half, trying to figure out where the hell Wyatt was. After he’d left her apartment that morning, he’d texted her that he was going home to change and then heading over here, since they were interviewing three bassists today. She’d been planning on snapchatting a bunch of it—something she couldn’t do if Wyatt was missing. The last thing she wanted was to broadcast any problems he had to the world—and her father, especially. And what was most concerning was that he’d missed the whole day. Shane was the third interviewee —and the first one any of them had actually thought had a chance. He’d been the bassist for a couple of up-and-coming groups she’d had her eye on through the years, but for whatever reason, the bands had always fallen apart before hitting the big time. Which, she admitted, made her a little leery of him —one seemingly solid band falling apart could happen to anybody. Two in less than three years? That was really bad luck—or something else. Still, he was a damned good bassist. Definitely good enough to at least do a quick audition set with the band. Which they would totally be doing, right now, if Wyatt wasn’t in the fucking wind, once again refusing to answer any calls or texts. Part of her thought she should head over to his place and make sure he was okay after what she’d put him through that morning. But she couldn’t justify it. Not when she didn’t think he was using. Yeah, it was her job to try to keep him clean, but that didn’t mean she had the right to invade his privacy if all he wanted was some alone time after everything he’d told her. He’d come to her last night when he could have been drinking, had promised her this morning that he wasn’t going to use. That had to count for something. Besides, she had to trust him some time. Trust really wasn’t her strong suit, but after this morning, she wanted to try with him. Needed to try. They all did, or they’d end up right back in the mess they were in three months ago. Then again, here they were, several hours later, and Wyatt was completely MIA. The band was growing agitated—she could see it in the way Quinn kept clicking his pen, the way Ryder kept bouncing his leg. The way Jared kept glancing at his phone and cursing under his breath.

Shane could sense it, too, and she could tell it was making him nervous. His eyes were wide and his own body language a million times tenser than it had been when he’d first gotten here. He had to know what was making them nervous—the whole music industry and half the world knew about Wyatt’s addiction—so even if they decided they wanted to give him a shot at another secret club gig, there was no guarantee he would actually go for it. Still, it would have been nice if Wyatt had actually given them a fighting chance. Oh, she knew that this wasn’t technically her problem—that helping Shaken Dirty find a new bassist wasn’t in her job description, especially after what her father had said yesterday. But this band meant a lot to her father ’s label, and to her. And, more importantly, so did Wyatt. She wanted to make sure both he and his band were okay before she had to go back to New York in a few weeks. Or sooner, if her father decided to throw a hissy fit and send Caleb down here after all. “Do you have any questions for us?” Quinn asked, leg still jiggling. “Actually, yes.” Shane took turns looking each of the band members in the eye. “Where’s Wyatt?” “Right here.” Wyatt’s deep voice filled the room as he stepped inside Quinn’s studio, letting the door fall closed behind him. “Wyatt!” His name escaped before she even knew she was going to say it. He winked at her before grinning at the other guys. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, holding up his hands, which were heavily bandaged. She barely had time to wonder if he’d been in a fight—please God, don’t let him have been in a fight—when he continued, “There was this song…” The concern and annoyance melted off the other guys’ faces like it had never been. “You wrote a song?” Jared demanded, jumping up and crossing the room to clap Wyatt on the back. “I did. I went home to change, saw my kit. It just kind of came to me.” “Fuck, yeah, man!” Quinn let out a little whoop. “Every time that happens to you, we get another Grammy.” “And another number one hit,” Ryder added with a grin. “Yeah, well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Wyatt said, but he was smiling, too. And it was a real smile, one that had his cheeks creasing and his eyes sparkling with a joy she’d never before seen in him. It was a good look, especially since those same eyes were clear and unclouded by drugs. “You haven’t even heard it yet.” “Yeah, well, that’s about to change,” Jared said, grabbing one of Wyatt’s hands to examine the damage. It must have been even worse than it looked from across the room, because he let out a long, low whistle. “Damn, man, it’s been a long time since you tore them up this bad.” Wyatt shrugged. “What good is art if you don’t suffer for it occasionally?” “Damn fucking straight,” Ryder said, coming over to stand beside him, too. “But before we hear that soon-to-be-award-winning song, why don’t you meet Shane? We’ve just been talking to him about the bassist opening.” “Hey, Shane,” Wyatt said, holding out one bandaged hand to shake. Shane looked at it, a little

horrified, but Wyatt just laughed. “It’s fine, man. Doesn’t hurt.” Shane nodded, but he still took Wyatt’s hand very gingerly, like he was convinced the drummer would scream if he pressed too hard. Then again, she didn’t blame him. The whole doesn’t hurt comment was a blatant lie—the parts of his hands she could see were raw. She’d heard about drummers messing up their hands during a particularly hard performance, had even seen the blood spatters across the occasional drum head after a show. But what she saw in Wyatt’s hands—the raw sores on his knuckles, the broken blisters on a couple of his fingers—that wasn’t normal abuse from a hard session. Drummers built up callouses if they played often enough, so for Wyatt’s hands to look like that…he had to have played for hours, had to have played through agony to get them in that shape. And that was just what she could see. She couldn’t imagine what was actually under the bandages. “So, what’s going on?” Wyatt asked the room at large as he ignored a seat in the circle of musicians and crossed over to sit next to her on the couch. As he did, it took every ounce of professionalism she had not to demand to see his wounds, to ask if he was really okay. But she was here as a guest, a social media coordinator in the eyes of the other guys, and the last thing she wanted to do was overstep her bounds. At least until Wyatt rested one of his injured hands on his thigh and rubbed gently. When he grimaced at the friction, she couldn’t stop herself from picking his hand up at the wrist and bringing it closer to examine. “What did you do to yourself?” “I played,” he said simply. “It’s what I do. Trust me, this is no big deal.” She wanted to disagree, wanted to kiss his hands, to check and make sure he was really all right. But she didn’t know if it was her place, didn’t know how he was feeling after what had gone down at her apartment. So she kept her mouth shut as she let go of his hand and waited for one of the guys to say something. It didn’t take long. Quinn stepped up, breaking the awkward silence by asking, “So, should we play something? See how we all sound together?” Not quite what she’d expected him to say, but…if the others weren’t concerned, maybe she shouldn’t be either? Maybe this really was normal for him? “Yeah!” Wyatt was the first one up and across the room. “Let’s do it.” He gave her one long, searching look as he stepped behind his kit, but then he was all business. “Get your bass and come stand by me,” Jared instructed Shane as he headed to his guitar. “There’s an amp over here you can plug into.” “Sick,” Shane answered, scrambling to follow directions. So he’d definitely decided not to run, then, Poppy thought, amused as she watched him all but salute in his haste to do what Jared had said. It was a very smart move on his part. Shaken Dirty was a band to be reckoned with under any circumstances. But with Wyatt on and sober and writing songs ’til his

hands bled? They were epic. “What are we playing?” Ryder asked. “You’re not playing anything,” Quinn told him, playfully jostling his shoulder as he walked by on his way to his keyboards. “You’re just going to stand there and wait for the rest of us to make you look like you know what you’re doing.” Ryder flipped him off, but he was laughing while he did. “Yeah, well, somebody’s gotta front this band of miscreants and make you look good.” “We should probably call Jamison, then, huh?” Wyatt joined in the teasing. “She’s way better at looking good than you are.” “She totally is,” Ryder agreed with a grin. “Too bad she wants nothing to do with the rest of you losers.” “Obviously not,” Jared deadpanned. “Must be why she demanded I come over for breakfast this morning. And made me blueberry pancakes while you were out on your pathetic excuse for a run.” “Those were leftovers from when your sister made me breakfast in bed this morning. One of these days, you’re just going to have to come to grips with the fact that you’re not her favorite anymore. In fact—” Wyatt cut off the good-natured teasing with an extended drum fill that had everyone in the room turning to stare at him, eyes wide and ears ringing from the powerful display. “Shit.” Quinn was the first to recover. “Is that from the new song?” Wyatt grinned, waggled his eyebrows. “Let’s do ‘Pieces of You’ first. That’s got a great base line.” He smirked at Shane as Jared fumbled through some hand-written sheet music before sliding a couple of pieces of paper onto the stand in front of the bassist. “Try to keep up, will you?” Then, before waiting to see if anyone agreed, he started counting off the time on his hi-hat cymbal. One and two and three and four and— Jared joined in first, with the powerful set of chords that marked the beginning of Poppy’s favorite love song ever. Quinn dropped in second and then Shane was there, too. He was shaky, nowhere near as confident on the song as the other guys were, but it was new material for him—and obviously a new song for Shaken Dirty to be playing all together. Rumor had it Ryder had written it to win Jamison back after they’d broken up, right around the same time Wyatt went to rehab and Micah got kicked out of the band. Since Jamison and Ryder were together now, it obviously must have worked. Not that she was surprised. The song was gorgeous, and so full of heart that she didn’t know any woman who could have resisted it. The song ended in a sophisticated tangle of chords that had Shane scrambling. He didn’t quite pull it off, but he did okay in her opinion. A quick glance at Wyatt’s face told her he felt exactly the same way. They did four more songs together, all of them big Shaken Dirty hits that anyone who liked rock

music should have known like the back of their hand. It was obvious that Shane did know them, but even with the sheet music he struggled to keep up. Struggled to lay down a bass line that the others could work with. And it wasn’t just his fingerings—in most cases, those could be learned. But there was something about the way he played that just didn’t work with Shaken Dirty’s sound. He wasn’t crisp enough, which meant that for most of the songs, his notes kept coming out just a little muddled. As they finished, she glanced at Wyatt, Jared, Quinn and Ryder. They were all smiling, and with another band she’d take that as a sign they’d liked playing with Shane. But the four of them were usually so polite that it was hard to tell—it wasn’t like they were going to start listing his shortcomings right there in front of him. So instead of worrying needlessly, she decided to just sit back and see how things played out. Sure enough, a bunch of silent and covert communication went on between the band members as Shane started packing up his bass, and after that, it didn’t take long for Ryder to start moving the bassist toward the door. He was super nice about it, even told the guy that they’d enjoyed jamming with him. But he definitely didn’t mention that they had another anonymous concert scheduled for Antone’s the next night—or invite Shane to play with them. Which meant that they had to go back to the drawing board to find a bassist, and they had to do it quickly. With Austin City Limits—which was going to serve as the first date of their tour—only a few weeks away, they needed someone, like, yesterday. She knew a few—actually, she knew dozens—but none that she thought would work who were also available to go on the road with Shaken Dirty. Still, she wracked her brain trying to come up with a solution as the guys’ conversation ebbed and flowed around her. “What about Deacon Brown?” Quinn tossed out after Shane was gone and they were all settled back with bottles of soda and water. “His sound isn’t right,” Ryder objected right away. “He’s too pop.” “Yeah, but he’s a hell of a bass player,” Wyatt said. “A pop bass player,” Jared told them. “Plus, I’m pretty sure he’s already with a tour right now.” “How about Jackson Kery, then?” Ryder asked. “He’s good.” “He’s also a bigger druggie than me,” Wyatt said with a rueful laugh, “so probably not a good idea.” “No shit, that,” Jared agreed. “Mike James?” “No!” Quinn barked. “No, no, fuck no!” “Aww, come on, Quinn. Let bygones be bygones, isn’t that what you always say?” “Fuck Mike James and his bygones. No fucking way is he joining this band—unless you want to find yourself a new keyboard player, too.” The guys all laughed at his vehemence, but nobody brought up Mike James again. She made a mental note to ask Wyatt later what had happened between him and Quinn—something told her it was a hell of a story.

They continued to toss out names for the next ten minutes, all to no avail. Most of them were guys she’d thought of herself, then discarded for various reasons—it felt good that her judgment seemed to mirror theirs, made her feel like she really did have her finger on the pulse of what was going on in this industry. Considering how much time her father spent telling her she wouldn’t understand this decision or that one, it was a nice validation. Eventually, though, they got tired of throwing around names and Jared picked up his guitar and played a few chords that sounded really familiar. She couldn’t place them, but watched as smiles crossed the face of every guy in the place. Seconds later, Quinn was behind his keyboard, and this time when Jared played the notes, he did too. “Well, are you just going to sit there like a moron, or are you going to play this new song for us?” Ryder jerked his chin toward Wyatt. “I mean, if you’re staying, that is.” Right. That’s where she’d heard that note arrangement—at the beginning of Wyatt’s drum fill. Shivers worked their way up and down her spine at the thought of actually hearing the song, and she waited, a little breathless, as he pushed himself off the couch and headed toward his drum kit. “Oh, I’m staying, since it sounds like you’d all be lost without me,” Wyatt teased. The others didn’t bother to give him shit back—they were all too busy grinning. Wyatt settled himself on the throne. “I’ll run through it once on my own and then you can join in.” He grinned at Ryder. “And you can just sit there and try to look pretty this time around.” “Fuck that.” Ryder flipped him off before reaching for one of the acoustic guitars lined up against the wall. “This is history in the making. I want in.” Wyatt rolled his eyes. “The song could suck, you know.” Quinn snorted. “When have you ever written something that sucked? Now stop being a pussy and let’s hear it.” Wyatt didn’t say anything else, but she could see just how much Ryder ’s and Quinn’s support meant to him. It was in the way his face relaxed, the way his shoulders straightened, the way he had to clear his throat before he started talking way too fast about keys and tempos and chords. And then he was tapping out the beat on the hi-hat, seconds later adding in the snare and bass and tom-toms. He ran through the verse twice, pointing out where he wanted Jared and Ryder to come in and the sound he wanted Quinn to bring. And then he was starting from the top and they were joining in. She listened, spellbound, because even though it was rudimentary and unpolished and far from perfect, it was also magic. Absolute magic. And that was before he added in the chorus, which was all towering chords and powerful beats that got inside her, that grabbed on to her soul and wouldn’t let it go. She was on the edge of her seat as they played the verse and chorus through a couple of times, searching for the sweet spot. It sounded so good, and that was before the third time, when they got it. Really got it, enough so that goose bumps broke out all up and down her arms. “This is good,” Ryder said when they stopped for a couple of minutes to regroup. “This is really

fucking good.” “I’d like to play it all the way through once or twice,” Jared suggested. “See how it sounds with a bridge between the second and third verses. Do you have any words in mind yet, or—” “I wrote lyrics, but that’s always been more you and Ryder, so if you don’t like them, it’s no big deal. In fact, maybe you should just go ahead and come up with something—” “Yeah, ’cuz that’s what we’re going to do—come up with something else before we even hear what you’ve got,” Ryder interjected. “Stop making excuses and let’s go, dude.” Wyatt nodded, but for the first time, he looked nervous. Reluctant. And she got that—she did. Music was personal, emotional in its own right. It set the tone, the mood, told the listener how to feel and gave them an experience all on its own. But good lyrics could do so much more than that. If they were done right—and she had a feeling Wyatt’s were done very right—they drew the audience into the artist’s world, gave them an up close and personal look at a very specific experience or emotion in the writer ’s life. That was something that even the best music couldn’t do on its own. So it was no wonder, with all the shit he’d been through, that Wyatt was reluctant to open that vein and bleed, even in front of his closest friends and the woman he’d spent most of the previous night making love to. Or maybe especially in front of them. As worried as he was about fucking things up —and being rejected for it—it was a miracle he was willing to try at all. Then again, she’d figured out days ago that his trust in the other guys was absolute. It was just one of the many things she admired about him—the way he could just give them that part of himself without reservation. Which was why, despite everything, she wasn’t surprised when he gave in and started marking the beat on the hi-hat again. Seconds later, the others joined in with their instruments, and then Wyatt started to sing. He had a good voice—a really good voice, all gravel and sex and darkness. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard it—he had sung backup on more than a few of the tracks through the years. It was, however, the first time she’d heard it this up close and personal, and she was glad she was sitting down, since her knees were trembling so badly that she wasn’t sure they would have supported her if she’d been standing. It wasn’t a traditional love song, wasn’t filled with sappy metaphors or promises of happy ever afters. What it was, was raw and broken and real. So real that as the words poured out, she forgot anything—she forgot everything—that wasn’t this song. That wasn’t this moment. That wasn’t him. I spent all night watching you dreaming I spent all day just looking for meaning I spent all night lying beside you I spent all day just trying to hide you…away, from me I spent all night watching you sleep I spent all day getting in too deep

You should be running far away But baby all I want is for you to stay…with me With me Baby all I want Baby all I need Baby all I dream Baby all I see…is you…and me Just you and me And I know…I know you need to go I know you want to take this slow But baby, I need your touch Baby, you make me feel too much I spent all night just holding your hand I spent all day sinking in quicksand I spent all night just counting your heartbeats I spent all day trying to break you free…from me…from me I spent all night just trying to get close I spent all day remembering I’m broke…into pieces You should be running far away But baby all I want is for you to stay…with me With me Baby all I want Baby all I need Baby all I dream Baby all I see…is you…and me Just you and me And I know…I know you need to go I know you want to take this slow But baby, I need your touch Baby you make me feel too much I want to hear you breathe I want to watch you sleep I want to taste your kiss

I want to feel you keep…me close, to you And I know…I know I ask too much But baby, I need your touch Baby all I want Baby all I need Baby all I dream Baby all I see…is you…and me Just you and me And I know…I know you need to go I know you want to take this slow But baby, I need your touch Baby you make me feel so much When it was over, when Wyatt’s voice finally faded out over the last word, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Hell, she could barely breathe. No wonder he’d played until his hands had bled. If she could make something that real, she might never stop either. For long seconds, nobody said anything. Then the others were clapping and laughing and all talking at once as they told Wyatt how good the song was, how much they liked the lyrics, how much they wanted to record it, to see how it sounded when it was professionally arranged. And she, who had already thrown her objectivity out the window days ago, did something even more out of character than letting Shaken Dirty’s drum player eat her out in an alley behind a club. Something that shot straight to hell the promise she’d made to herself about playing things cool. As the other guys moved back, she called Wyatt’s name and then launched herself around his drum kit and straight into his arms. He caught her, just like she knew he would. And then he was doing what he always seemed to do when she was in his arms—backing her up against the nearest wall as his mouth crushed down on hers. Vaguely she was aware of the other guys laughing behind them, of Ryder saying maybe this was a good time to break for food. And still Wyatt kissed her. He kissed her as Jared put down his guitar and Quinn turned off his keyboard. As Ryder hit the light switch near the door and plunged the room into an inky kind of twilight. As someone opened the door and they all started to file out into the night. He kissed her and kissed her and kissed her, until Quinn called, “Don’t fuck on the couch, man.” Wyatt pulled his lips from hers then, but only long enough to say, “You can’t tell me that you and Elise never fucked on that couch.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my damn couch.” The door slammed closed behind them on that warning and then she and Wyatt were finally alone. “I love your song,” she whispered into the darkness as her hands slid down to cup his ass through his well-worn jeans. “Oh, yeah?” His mouth was on her collarbone. “Yeah. No one’s ever written a song for me before.” As soon as the words were out, she wanted to take them back. Wanted, even more, for the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Thinking he’d written the song about her was one thing. Saying it, though, was a hell of an assumption. Especially after how they’d left things that morning. She waited for him to freeze, to shut her out. But all he did was press closer as his bruised and battered hands worked at the small buttons on the front of her blouse. “I’m glad to hear that,” he murmured as he dropped hot, open-mouthed kisses along her neck, her shoulder, the tops of her breasts. “Considering I’ve never written a song for a woman before.” “You haven’t?” she asked, holding her breath because she didn’t want the answer to matter but it did. It really did. “I haven’t,” he told her as he started moving her gently across the room. “Wait,” she said, and he stopped right away. “You okay?” he asked, brows raised inquiringly. “I was about to ask you the same thing.” He nodded, his jaw working. “I don’t know. But I’m trying to be. I’m trying to listen to what you said, trying to think it through. That’s going to have to be enough for now.” “It is,” she told him softly. “It’s more than enough.” “Good.” He grinned wickedly, started walking her backward again. “Where are we going?” she asked, breathless now with all the feelings churning inside of her. Love, lust, fear, hope…so much hope that she felt like her whole body was lit up with the stuff. “Quinn says the couch is off-limits.” “Yeah,” he agreed with a wicked grin, “but he didn’t say anything about his favorite chair…”

Chapter Nineteen “Well, you certainly look happy,” Jamison observed as Wyatt walked into the kitchen a little over an hour later. “And well-exercised.” The grin she shot him was amused, and he knew the guys hadn’t exactly been discreet about what he and Poppy were getting up to in the studio. Which had been quite a lot, and right now he didn’t care if the whole world knew it. He’d just walked Poppy to her car after making her come half a dozen times. If it had been up to him, she would have stayed and he would have made her come half a dozen more before the evening was over. The sounds she made as she went over the edge were rapidly becoming his favorite addiction—as was the taste of her against his lips. Add in the fact that she’d let him fuck her—twice—on Quinn’s favorite chair, and he was feeling pretty good all the way around. But she’d insisted he and the guys needed to talk, and she was probably right. So he’d let her go and was now trying really hard not to regret that fact. “Exercise is good for the soul,” he told Jamison as he walked over to the drinks fridge. A cursory look at the contents told him all the alcohol had been removed from here, too—which normally would have bothered the hell out of him. But right now he was in too good a mood to get messed up by the fact that his friends were afraid to trust him. Besides, maybe Poppy was right—maybe they really were just trying to help. He grabbed a bottle of cranberry juice, then walked over to the center island and snitched a slice of cucumber from the vegetables Jamison was cutting up for dinner. “Take a seat,” she told him, nodding at the kitchen table, where pretty much every important discussion happened while at Quinn’s house. He followed directions, brows raised questioningly. Jamison was pretty much his best friend on the planet, and if she wanted to talk, he would talk. Even if doing so felt a little like opening a vein. She didn’t answer his silent inquiry right away. Instead, she made up a plate of cheese and crackers along with some grapes and a handful of salad vegetables and slid it onto the table in front of him. “Eat.” He rolled his eyes. “What is it about the women in my life that makes them keep trying to feed me health food?” “Gouda is not health food,” she retorted as she grabbed a bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice for herself.

“It’s healthier than chocolate cake or heroin.” “Yeah, well, so is just about everything. That doesn’t make it health food.” She grabbed a slice of red pepper and bit into it with a resounding crunch. “Besides, you need the nutrients. You’re pale and skinny.” “Wow, you really know how to make a man feel good about himself,” he deadpanned. “You know me. I’m all about the cheap flattery.” She ruffled his hair as she dropped into the seat across from him. He reached for a handful of grapes under her watchful eye, because he knew it would make her happy. But as she continued to stare at him long after he’d eaten the grapes and a couple of pieces of cheese, he could feel himself becoming defensive. Uncomfortable. “What?” he finally demanded, when he could take her scrutiny no more. “What’s the problem?” “No problem. It’s just…you look happy. It’s kind of weird. I mean, good weird, but still weird.” “Seriously? You used to get freaked out because you thought I was miserable and now you’re freaked out because you think I’m happy?” “I know.” She popped a grape into her own mouth. “It makes no sense. And I’m thrilled you’re happy. It’s just a little weird.” “I just got laid,” he told her bluntly. “Why wouldn’t I be happy?” She leveled a mock glare at him. “Some things I don’t need to know.” “Really? Because you’re certainly acting like you need to know everything.” She stuck her tongue out at him, just as the buzzer on the oven went off. “Calling me a wannabe know-it-all isn’t a smart move when I’ve just baked your favorite brownies.” “That’s what I’ve been smelling!” He crossed the kitchen to peer over her shoulder into the oven. “You made the ones with the chocolate chunks and caramel in them?” “I did.” She hip-checked him to get him to back up. “But they aren’t for you. They’re for some other guy who is actually nice to me.” “I am nice to you.” He waited for her to put the hot pan down on the stove before he grabbed her and waltzed her around the kitchen. “You’re just pissed because you want to pump me for information and I’m not playing.” She sniffed in mock annoyance. “Please. Like Ryder doesn’t tell me everything. I just wanted your perspective.” He whirled her around, then dipped her with a big flourish, right in front of the refrigerator. She laughed, holding on tight. “I’ve missed you,” she whispered as he carefully brought them back up to standing. There was a little too much emotion running through those three words for him to be comfortable, so he eased back, shot her a cocky grin. “Don’t get sappy. I didn’t come back from the dead. I was just in rehab, and you visited me there at least once a week.” “I didn’t mean that. I just…” She made a helpless little gesture that he thought was supposed to

encompass their impromptu dance around the kitchen. “I’ve really missed you. It’s good to have you back.” There were tears in her eyes as she said it. Emotion twisted sickly in his stomach, and he tried to tamp it down like he always did. Tried to ignore it, just like he tried to ignore the guilt that burned right under his skin. It didn’t work, though, especially not when he saw tears blooming in Jamison’s eyes. “Fuck,” he muttered, even as he pulled her back in for a hug. “I’m right here, you know. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere this time.” She clung to him like a limpet, the little sister he’d never had. “Promise?” “I promise.” The words had a peculiar taste, felt heavy on his tongue. It was the second promise he’d made today, the second promise he had every intention of keeping. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry for everything I put you guys through.” She pulled away, and the look on her face was as fierce as he had ever seen it. “You don’t need to apologize to me, Wyatt Jennings. You don’t need to apologize to any of us—” “Yeah, I do—” “No, you don’t. I don’t give a shit what that program says. We’re family. We love you just the way you are, fucked up addiction and everything. You don’t have to say you’re sorry because you were hurting and trying to find a way to deal with that hurt. All you have to do is promise me that if the pain gets bad again you’ll come to me. Or Ryder. Or Jared or Quinn or this pretty little girl you’re dating. I don’t care which of us you talk to,” she told him as she pulled him in for another hug. “I only care that you talk to one of us.” This whole conversation was getting more uncomfortable by the second, and he couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take the naked affection in her eyes any more than he could take the plea she was making. “I’m okay, Jamison,” he said as he eased away. “Poppy confronted me this morning, forced a lot of stuff out of me. Then she got in my face about the past and—I’m not going to lie. It was rough. And I’m not fixed. I’m not…good. I don’t know if I’ll ever be good. But right now, I’m solid. And that feels like enough.” He expected her to call him on it, to tell him to stop being a fraud. But she didn’t do that. Instead, she cupped his face in her hands, smooshing his cheeks a little with the deliberate pressure she was applying. “I know you’re solid. And I know you’ve got this, this time. I can see it in your eyes. You’re not going back to drugs. I’m just saying—I’m just asking—that if that resolve ever wavers, if there comes a time when the past gets too hard or the cravings get too bad, you call me.” “Jamison—” “You call me,” she said fiercely, her hands pressing even more firmly into his cheeks, “no matter what time it is, and we’ll get you through it. Promise me.” “I’m fine,” he told her as best he could, considering she was smooshing half his face. “Promise me!” she barked at him. “Okay, okay, I promise. Can I have my face back yet?”

“Yes. You can.” She let go of his cheeks, then pulled him into a hug and held on tight. So tight. “I missed my best friend,” she whispered into his shoulder. “I don’t want to lose you again.” “You’re not going to lose me.” Her arms tightened around his shoulders. “Promise me.” He thought of the drugs in his pocket, thought of the promise he’d made himself while standing in the middle of his bathroom just a few hours before. Thought of Poppy and the fact that he wanted to be clean for her because she deserved it. And because, for the first time in a long, long time, he felt like he had something to stay clean for. Someone who drowned out all the ugliness, all the pain, all the voices in his head telling him that he wasn’t good enough, that he didn’t deserve to be happy, that he was the one who should have died all those years ago. “I promise,” he told Jamison, his voice stronger and more unwavering than it had been in forever. “I’m not going to use again.” She pulled back then, and studied his face in the way only an old friend could. “Okay,” she said after a second. “Okay. That’s that, then.” She let him go, crossing back to the stove to cut two huge brownies from the pan before handing him one. And as she grinned up at him, looking mischievous and happy and absolutely solid, he promised himself he was never going to make her cry again. Promised himself that he was never going to make her or Jared or Ryder or Quinn worry about him ever again. They deserved better than that…and maybe, so did he.

Chapter Twenty When she got back to her apartment, Poppy found a box waiting for her at the concierge’s desk. It was from Waterloo Records, the big indie music store in town, so she carried it upstairs, figuring it was for the label. It was addressed to her, but if Caleb had ordered something, he might have put her name on it, since she was in town. Still, the explanation didn’t sit particularly well with her, so as soon as she got upstairs, she found a knife and slit the box open…and nearly had a stroke as she pulled out one first edition album after another. All classic rock. All rare. All on vinyl. The Beatles. The Rolling Stones. KISS. Cream. Queen. Bruce Springsteen. Led Zeppelin. The Who. Each album was rarer and more expensive than the last. Convinced now that this was some kind of gift for her father that had been sent to the wrong address, she found the card at the bottom of the box. Pulling it out, she expected some kind of kiss up note from Waterloo, asking her dad to consider them for future signings or whatever. What she found instead…what she found instead had her hands shaking and tears blooming in her eyes. To Poppy, I went looking for a song that reminded me of you, and instead found two dozen that all say what I want to say better than I ever could. Thanks for last night. It meant a lot to me. Wyatt At the bottom of the note was a playlist, one or two songs listed from each of the albums he’d sent her. As she read the titles, the tears she’d been struggling to hold in check overflowed and ran down her cheeks. “Beth” from KISS. “Lady” from Styx. “You’re My Best Friend” from Queen. “If I Fell” from The Beatles. That was the song that did it, that took her from tearing up to ugly sobbing. For long seconds, she just stood there, shoulders shaking, with the playlist in one hand and The Beatles album in the other. Wyatt had done this for her. Wyatt, who thought he was a loser. Who thought he didn’t have anything to give. Who thought all of them would be better off without him. Wyatt had done this. Just

to make her happy. No one had ever done something this elaborate for her before…and until she’d opened the box, it had never even occurred to her what she was missing. She’d spent so much of her life chasing her father ’s approval, trying to placate journalists and band management and label execs and temperamental musicians, that the idea of someone doing something for her, just because it made her happy—just because she mattered—was foreign to her. This and a song written exclusively for her? How could she help but fall for Wyatt? Wounded as he was, messed up as he’d been when he’d left her apartment that morning…and still he’d done this. She picked up her phone to call him, but decided against it when she saw the time. He was probably still in rehearsals with the band. After firing off a quick text instead—one that expressed her intense pleasure with the gift and her desire to show her appreciation with sexual favors—she crossed to the state-of-the-art stereo in the corner of the room and was thrilled to see it still had the turntable she’d added to it a couple of years ago when she’d been in town for South by Southwest. As she put on Something New, she noticed the jewel case from Smoke and Mirrors’ latest CD laying next to the CD player. As she stared at it, an idea came to her. It was insane, ludicrous even, and yet… and yet, she couldn’t get it out of her head. It would be perfect. Absolutely perfect. If her father didn’t have an actual stroke. And have her committed to an insane asylum. And that was only if Caleb was willing to step up and ask him… Knowing there was no way she’d be able to relax until she at least tried, Poppy pulled out her cell phone and dialed her brother. The second he came on the line, she blurted out, “I need you to do me a favor.” Caleb’s long-suffering sigh came through the phone loud and clear. “Aren’t I already doing you a favor keeping Dad off your ass while you’re in Austin? After what happened during the conference call yesterday—and the way Shaken Dirty have sicced their lawyers on us—that has to count for something.” “And here I thought I was doing you a favor, since you’re the one who sent me down here to babysit a rock star when you didn’t want the job.” “I already told you. It’s not that I didn’t want the job. It’s that I knew you’d be better at it than I would be.” She made sure her tone conveyed just how hard she was rolling her eyes. “Kissing up will get you nowhere.” “I’m not kissing up!” he answered with mock indignation. “Besides, if anyone should be kissing up, it’s you. You’re the one who called me for a favor, after all.” “Yes, well, it’s a favor that will benefit all of us, so you just need to do it and not think too hard about it.” “What exactly do I need to do?” Suddenly he sounded a lot more wary. Then again, no one had ever accused her brother of being an idiot.

With that thought in mind, she decided to just rip the Band-Aid off and tell him what had to be done. “You need to get Drew Fitzpatrick on a plane to Austin no later than tomorrow morning.” When he didn’t immediately explode, she told herself maybe this was going to go better than she’d originally thought it would. But then several long seconds passed with no response from her brother, and she knew that was wishful thinking. “Caleb?” she finally prompted when they were coming up on a minute of full radio silence. “You still there?” His only response was a fairly alarming gasping sound. “Are you actually dying or are you just being dramatic?” “I’m imitating the sound Dad is going to make choking on his scotch if I even suggest putting Drew on a plane to Austin. Have you lost your freaking mind?” “He’s perfect. You know he is.” “He is perfect, absolutely. He is the perfect bass player for Smoke and Mirrors. You know how I know? They’ve got four Grammy nods and three CMA awards. That’s CMA as in Country Music Awards. Not rock. Country. And again, because it can’t be overstated, Drew already has a job. Playing bass for Smoke and Mirrors.” “Okay, first of all, they walk the line between rock and country. And secondly, you know he’s not happy there. I’ll be shocked if the band manages to hang together another six months. Not with all the shit that’s gone down with them in the last year.” “Oh, you mean like all the shit that’s gone down in Shaken Dirty?” Caleb asked snidely. “Because even if Drew randomly decided to leave Smoke and Mirrors, do you really think he’d choose to jump from the frying pan into the fire?” “You let me worry about that. You just get Drew on a plane.” “That’s not going to happen, Poppy.” “Come on, Caleb. Trust me on this.” “It’s not about trusting you. It’s about the fact that Dad’s planning another tour for Smoke and Mirrors in six months. If I take their bass player—who we both know is the most talented member of that band—he’s going to lose his shit completely.” “Big deal—let him lose it.” “Are you kidding? Who are you and where’s my sister? You’ve spent your whole adult life trying to make sure Dad doesn’t lose it.” “Yeah, well, maybe that was a mistake.” The words poured out of her as if they’d been there all along only she’d been too stubborn—too dead-set on winning her father ’s approval—to realize it. “Besides, if Drew leaves Smoke and Mirrors, there are other options. They can pick up Li—” “Li’s not good enough and you know it.” “Seriously? Now you agree with me about him not being talented, but yesterday you were all ready to follow Dad’s lead and push him on Shaken Dirty? That’s awesome.”

Caleb huffed in annoyance. “I didn’t say he wasn’t talented. Don’t put words in my mouth.” “I’m pretty sure you’re putting them there yourself. I’m just repeating them.” “You know as well as I do that Shaken Dirty has an embarrassment of talent. Most bands are lucky to have one really talented musician. They’ve got four. If the fifth one isn’t quite as good as the others, who’s going to notice?” “Everybody is going to notice because it will be glaringly obvious. Plus, one okay musician in a band of greats is the difference between being The Quarrymen and being The Beatles.” “Who the fuck are The Quarrymen?” Caleb demanded. “Exactly what I’m saying. I want Drew.” “Well, you can’t have him. Replacing him with a substandard bassist will be the final death knell of that band.” “That band needs a death knell. They’re done and you know it.” “I don’t know that—” “Well, that’s a problem because you should. It’s obvious. Their last album flopped because it was all over the place. It had no clear direction because none of them could agree on anything. I tried to tell you guys that before the album dropped, but no one would listen to me. Add in the fact that they’ve gotten into numerous public fights recently and just last month they refused to perform at a scheduled charity event—fifteen minutes before they were set to go on.” “I’m not saying they’re perfect. I’m saying I’m not ready to give up on them yet.” “So don’t. But that doesn’t mean you have to keep Drew trapped there with the sinking ship.” “Jesus. How many metaphors are you planning on using today? Dramatic much?” She ignored him, too busy wracking her brain trying to come up with a bassist she could substitute in for Drew with Smoke and Mirrors. “What about Micah?” she finally asked. “He’s still under contract to us, even if he’s not with Shaken Dirty anymore. He’s good enough—” “You did not actually just suggest replacing Drew with the most problematic bassist working in rock today. You did not.” “It’s a solution.” “It’s a bad solution.” “Come on, Caleb. Neither of us have time for this argument. Just get Drew on a plane.” “I will not.” She sighed, ran a hand through her hair in frustration. “You know I’m right. You know he’d fit in perfectly with these guys.” “Whether he’d fit in perfectly or not doesn’t matter. I’m not going to cannibalize one of our top performing acts just to help out a band that recently cost us millions.” “We’ve already discussed that they aren’t going to be one of your top performing acts for long—” “Not if I give you Drew they won’t. Seriously, Poppy, think about it. Dad would kill us both if I even suggested it. Plus, it would totally impact the label’s bottom line.”

“For a year, maybe. But if he works with Shaken Dirty as well as I think he will, he’ll take them to the next level. And then the money will come pouring in.” “It’s already pouring in.” “Yes, but it will pour in for decades if we do this. Trust me, Caleb. For once, just fucking trust me to know what I’m talking about.” “I do trust you, Soda Pop. You’re the one who isn’t trusting me. I’m telling you there is no way this is going to happen—no way that Drew or Dad is going to go for it. So you need to get the fuck over it.” “You’re being shortsighted!” “And you’re being stubborn just for the sake of being stubborn. So stop thinking about Drew Fitzpatrick and start trying to convince Shaken Dirty to give Li another shot.” “That’s not going to happen, Caleb,” she said, grimly repeating his words back to him. “So you should probably get the fuck over it.” “Poppy—” She clicked off without bothering to hear any more of his excuses or ultimatums. Tossing her phone on the table, she got up and started to pace back and forth across her living room in an effort to work off the fury coursing through her. Why the hell were the men in her family so shortsighted? Why the hell were they so unwilling to listen to reason? Her plan made sense. She knew it did. And yes, maybe the argument could be made that she was so anxious to make Shaken Dirty work because she was wrapped up in Wyatt and wanted things to work for him. But it was more than that. This band had so much talent and so much potential—if they did this right, they would own rock and roll. They deserved that chance. Of course, they also deserved a label that believed in them, that wouldn’t force them into something that everyone knew was musically wrong for them. Why couldn’t Caleb see that? Why couldn’t her father? Or maybe Caleb did see it. He was just too chicken to stand up to her father. Too afraid of losing everything he’d worked for. Hadn’t that been her problem all along? Wasn’t that why she’d gone along with her father ’s idea of her role in the company? Sure, she’d done stuff behind his back like scouting talent and then letting Caleb be the one to bring them to her father ’s attention, but the truth was, she’d spent her whole career cowed by her father, doing what he wanted her to do because she was afraid to stand up to him. Afraid to trust that things would be okay. Afraid that he’d never love her or believe in her. So how could she condemn her brother for doing the exact same thing? She couldn’t. She might be a coward, but she wasn’t a hypocrite—which meant she was going to have to do something here. She was going to have to be the one to step up and find a way to do what needed to be done to make this right. Because Shaken Dirty was their band and it was the label’s job to take care of them and not just the immediate bottom line. At least, that was the kind of label she wanted to work for. The kind of label she wanted to build.

Flopping back down on the couch, she opened her laptop and pulled up the directory of artists’ phone numbers and addresses. She scrolled through until she found the number she was looking for, then dialed it on her phone with fingers that were shaking just a little. She was so freaked out by the thought of her father ’s reaction that she nearly hung up three times as she waited for Drew to answer, but the second his slow, Tennessee drawl came over the line, she knew she’d made the right choice. No matter what happened after this, Wyatt—and Shaken Dirty—were worth the risk. “Hello, Drew? This is Poppy Germaine from Six Strings. I’m Bill Germaine’s daughter. How are you?”

Chapter Twenty-One “Are you sure we shouldn’t cancel?” Ryder asked, glancing down at his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. “We’re not canceling. We’ll go on without a bass player if we have to, but canceling isn’t an option, not now.” Quinn held up his own phone. “Someone spotted Jared arriving and put a photo of him out on Twitter more than an hour ago. The fans know we’re here—it’s why the place is so packed. We are not canceling another gig on them.” Though he knew Quinn wasn’t leveling a dig at him, Wyatt still felt the sting of his words. He tried not to dwell on it, though. Not when they had other issues to deal with. Like the fact that they should have been on stage ten minutes ago, but were stuck in the dressing room hoping Poppy delivered the bass player she’d promised them. “So why are we waiting?” Jared demanded. He was pacing the room like a wolf trying to catch the scent of prey, doing his best—Wyatt knew—to work off the nerves he got before every performance, no matter how big or small. “Let’s just get out there and give them a show—” “We’re waiting,” Wyatt told him, “because Poppy asked us to. Let’s give her another few minutes, see if she shows up with whatever mystery bass player she’s got on tap.” “Who could she get? She’s a marketing person, not a music person. Besides, we’ve checked out all the top guys looking for bands right now.” Quinn got up, grabbed a Twinkie from his bag. “Unless she’s going with some undiscovered guy, and in that case, don’t you think we should have had a chance to vet him first?” He ate the Twinkie in two quick bites. “Besides, how much pull could a social media director have, anyway?” “I don’t know. I don’t know who she got. I don’t know how she found him.” He pulled out his phone to text her and ask, but saw that she’d beat him to it. He swiped on to her text then groaned out loud as he read it. Poppy: Sorry, flight delayed. We’ll be there in fifteen The text had come in close to ten minutes ago. “What?” Jared asked, pacing toward him. “The good news is, they should be here in five,” Wyatt said, holding up his phone. “Who?” Ryder demanded. “Who should be here in five?” “Whoever the hell Poppy’s got on tap. His flight was late but they’re on their way now.” He held up

his phone to show the rest of them her text. “Now you know as much as I do, so can we all just stop freaking out? Everything’s going to be fine.” At his words, Jared stopped pacing and just stared at him. “Who are you and where the fuck is Wyatt Jennings?” Wyatt flipped him off and rolled his eyes. “No, really,” Ryder chimed in. “Usually you’re the doom and gloom guy we have to keep settled. So what’s up with this whole everything will work out persona of yours?” “Seriously? I’m trying to be reasonable here, and you make it sound like I’m pulling rainbow colored unicorns out of my ass or something. I’m just saying, why freak out if I’ve got a text from Poppy that says she’s going to be here in less than five minutes?” “You’re right,” Quinn said, hands raised placatingly. “You totally are. It’s just we’re not used to the new, enlightened Wyatt. It’ll take some adjusting.” He started to flip them all off again, but in the end he just shrugged. Because they were right. Resolving to cut out the drugs had changed him. Meeting Poppy and listening to what she had to say about him—and about his relationship with the rest of the band—had changed him. Chilled him out. Made him more ready to trust that everything wasn’t always about to go to hell. If he were honest, he’d have to admit he kind of liked his new outlook. Almost as much as he cared about Poppy. Not that he was going to tell Quinn and the others that. During the last few days, they’d done enough of the Kumbaya sharing shit to last a lifetime. But before he could think up a suitably smart-ass remark, Poppy came rushing into the room, dragging a tall guy in worn jeans and cowboy boots hot on her heels. He was carrying a plain black bass case. “I’m sorry we’re late, guys! So, so sorry! But I want you to meet Drew Fitzpatrick. It turns out he’s a big Shaken Dirty fan.” “Drew… Holy shit,” Quinn said, dropping his bag—and his second Twinkie—as he all but leaped over the couch to shake Drew’s hand. “I’m Quinn Bradford. I’m a big Drew Fitzpatrick fan.” Drew grinned as they shook. “I notice you didn’t say you were a big Smoke and Mirrors fan.” “Yeah, well, you’re the best part of that band. And, to be honest, country isn’t really my thing.” “A lot of people feel that way,” Drew said with a shrug. “Guess it’s a good thing I don’t feel the same way about rock, huh?” “Let me get this straight?” Ryder said, climbing off the arm of the couch to stand with the rest of them. “You want Drew Fitzpatrick to play with us tonight?” He looked at Drew. “Don’t you already have a band?” Drew grimaced. “Yeah, well, let’s just say Quinn isn’t the only person in the room who’s not a Smoke and Mirrors fan at the moment.” There was a story there, Wyatt thought, even as he tried to wrap his head around the fact that Poppy had just brought Shaken Dirty one of the best bassists in the business. How had she landed him? How the hell did a social media director have the connections to get a star like Drew Fitzpatrick to a club in

Austin for a public audition? Just the idea of it was crazy. Sure, the guy wasn’t a rock star—he played country/rock light, but his fingerings were fucking legendary. Then again, so was his temper. As the other guys introduced themselves to Drew and got his story, Wyatt wrapped an arm around Poppy’s waist and pulled her to him. She looked up at him with a grin, cheeks flushed and eyes shining, which made him relax even though he still wasn’t sure if what was happening here was a good thing or a bad one. “You brought us Drew Fitzpatrick.” “I did,” she said with a smile. “I mean, he’s no box of rare, first edition vinyl, but I’m hoping he’ll do.” He grinned and shook his head. “You liked the records?” “I told you last night, I loved the records.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “But thank you again. So much.” “Hey, lover boy.” Ryder elbowed him in the ribs. “Wanna join the conversation at the grown-ups table?” “Absolutely. Any idea where I can find it?” It was Ryder ’s turn to flip him off, and Jared just rolled his eyes, but Quinn and Drew laughed. He shot a look at the bass player, who seemed pretty relaxed considering he was about to go on stage and play in a music genre he had no professional experience with. Wyatt didn’t know if that made him ballsy or suicidal, but he felt a reluctant respect for the guy, whichever it was. “Seriously, though,” Quinn said when everyone was paying attention again. “How many of our songs do you know?” “I know the last album really well—I practiced it most of the way here. I’m pretty sure I can keep up with any of those songs. I can probably fake my way through the first half of the second album, but the only song I feel comfortable playing off the first one is ‘Closer.’” “‘Closer ’ it is, then,” Ryder told him before listing off a bunch of songs from their most recent album. “Sound good?” “Sounds great,” Drew answered. “When are we on?” “Ten minutes ago.” Jared clapped him on the back before heading for the door. “Come on. Let’s go fuck this place up.” “Not my favorite thing to fuck,” Drew said as he followed him through the door. “But it’s a close second.” Quinn was cackling by the time he hit the hallway, and Wyatt was left staring at Poppy, his brow quirked meaningfully. She shrugged, shooting him a grin that made his dick stand up and the blood rush from his brain even as he tried to get his head in the right space to go out on stage. “Think of it this way,” she whispered against his lips as she pulled him down for a kiss. “How badly

could it go?” “You didn’t just say that.” He shot her the darkest look he could muster, considering all he really wanted to do was drop down on his knees in front of her and make her come. “Now it’s guaranteed to be completely fucked.” She reached for his hand, held it tight as she brought it to her lips and kissed his palm. “It won’t. I promise.” “It really will. Don’t you know anything about backstage superstitions at all?” “I don’t, no.” “Well, take it from one who does. Once you tempt fate like that, it’s guaranteed to be an absolute, unmitigated disaster.” She shook her head with a laugh. “It really won’t.” “It really will. Mark my words.” He bent to kiss her but before he could do much more than brush his lips against hers, Jared was sticking his head back through the door. “Pretty fucking hard to be a rock band without a drummer, man.” “That’s what I keep telling him.” Poppy kissed him, hard, then shoved him toward the stage.

… It wasn’t a disaster. Wasn’t even close to being a disaster. Poppy couldn’t wait to tease Wyatt, considering all his doom and gloom prophecies and superstitions. For now she settled for lifting her glass of club soda to her lips and taking a long sip as Shaken Dirty, along with special guest Drew Fitzpatrick, brought down the fucking roof. They were brilliant, absolutely brilliant—every single one of them completely on their game. And Drew…Drew fit in like he’d been playing with the band for years. Decades. With him on bass, the songs sounded better than they ever had with Micah. Not that Micah wasn’t good, because he was. One of the best. But he was smooth as silk and his sound blended seamlessly into the band, so much a part of the music that you didn’t even notice it. A lot of people would say that was the mark of a good bass player—and it was. But now, after hearing Drew play the same songs, she realized it also wasn’t enough. Drew’s style was much more jagged, much more raw. He tangled his notes up with Jared’s, let them duke it out a little bit for supremacy, and the results were incredibly powerful, roughed up versions of Shaken Dirty’s most celebrated songs. It was magic, pure magic, and she was standing right in the epicenter of it all, completely spellbound. Just like the rest of the audience, who were so caught up in what was happening on stage that they almost forgot to cheer at the end of a few songs. Almost. Ryder—in full lead singer mode—was eating up the attention. He was hamming it up with Jared,

with the crowd, even with Drew. Laughing, joking, snarling, singing—she could tell he was having the time of his life. Jared was a little more subdued, but not by much. He was playing off every member of the band, engaging Drew, Quinn, and Wyatt in playing duels that had everyone in the audience—including her —in awe of what they could do. Quinn was grinning from ear to ear, delivering zingers every once in a while at Ryder and Jared that had the crowd eating out of the palm of his hand. Drew looked like he was having the time of his life, singing, playing, flirting with the audience… His playing was amazing—dirty, sexy, raw—and he was leaving it all on stage tonight, everything he hadn’t been able to do with Smoke and Mirrors holding him back. And Wyatt—for her, it always came back to Wyatt. Though, to be fair, for a lot of the crowd tonight, it came back to him, too. He was on fire, totally in the zone as he wailed away on the drums so fast that at times his hands were an actual blur. She’d been worried about him playing, considering the mess he’d made of those hands yesterday, but when she’d brought it up that morning he had just smiled at her and told her it was part of the job, and that once he was up there, he wouldn’t even notice. She didn’t know if that was true, didn’t know if he was hurting or not. All she knew was that he’d never sounded better—or looked hotter. Sweat was pouring off of him, had his hair clinging to his face and rivulets of water streaming down his glistening, inked up chest—he’d lost his shirt somewhere in the middle of the set, and she didn’t think anyone missed it. God knew, she didn’t. He was gorgeous, so gorgeous, like this. His skin gleaming in the stage lights, his arm and chest and stomach muscles bunching, rippling, with every move he made. His smile was huge, his eyes clear, and he looked like he was having a ball. Like this, right here, was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Just the thought had her closing her eyes, had her wrapping her arms around her middle as she gave thanks to the universe and whatever spiritual being ruled it, that he had this opportunity. That after all the drug abuse and all the pain, that he was here, right here, on this stage. Exactly where he should be. Doing exactly what he was always meant to do. It was amazing what a week could do. They had just launched into “Pieces of You,” the crowd quieting as the first strains of the poignant, desperate love song filled the club, when her phone vibrated in her pocket. She almost ignored it— she really didn’t want to miss this—but at the same time, she had a feeling she knew exactly who was calling her. Pulling out her phone, she glanced at the caller ID—and sure enough, it was her father. Deciding she’d rather deal with the bitching out now instead of later, she swiped to answer, holding the phone up to her ear and telling him, “Hold on. I’m going outside.” She quickly made her way out the front of the club, grabbing a with-the-band pass from the

manager on her way out so she could get back in without a hassle. And then she was taking a deep breath, bracing herself for this latest battle in her on-going war with her father. “Okay, Dad. I’m here.” She expected him to yell like he always did, to demand to know who she thought she was. Instead he was cold, ice cold, without an ounce of condescension when he said, “You’re fired.” “What did you say?” she asked, certain she had heard him wrong. “I said, you’re fired. I’ve put up with a lot of things from you through the years, young lady, but this is the last straw. Get back to New York and pack your things. You’re done.” “But, Dad, if you could only see how well Drew works with Shaken Dirty—” “I don’t care how well the sound works. I don’t care if he’s that band’s second coming, you had no business doing what you did and you know it. You’re lucky I don’t fire your brother, too, just for putting the label in this position.” “Don’t fire him. He tried to stop me—” “Believe me, I am aware of that. The fact that he failed does not particularly impress me, but I will deal with him separately. You, however, are locked out of the company’s systems as of ten p.m. tonight. There’s a plane ticket waiting for you at the apartment. I’ll expect you to be on that plane to New York tomorrow morning and to return your laptop and your cell phone once you get back to town.” “And if I don’t take that plane?” she asked, her voice steady, despite the way her hands were shaking and her knees were suddenly knocking together. “You’ll be removed from the apartment at nine tomorrow morning either way. Take the plane, don’t take the plane. Either way, it’s up to you. But as of right now, you’re done working for me. Forever.” He hung up before she could even think of a response, and she was left standing in the middle of Fifth Street staring at her phone and wondering what the hell she was supposed to do now. She’d known this was a possibility—of course she had. Her father didn’t take lightly people who crossed him. But at the same time, locking her out of her computer? Out of the apartment? Turning off her cell phone when she was in Austin? That was cold, even for him. She was his daughter. What did he think she was going to do to company property for God’s sake? Then again, this wasn’t about company property. This was about teaching her a lesson. It was a lesson she got loud and clear. She’d taken the risk, chosen Wyatt, and it had cost her everything she’d been working for for so long. But as she wandered back into Antone’s, holding up her backstage pass as she went, she looked at the band on stage and knew she wouldn’t have done anything differently. This was the band Shaken Dirty was supposed to be, the band that was going to turn them from stars into legends. The band that would give Wyatt all the stability and accolades he so deserved. She was proud of the small part she’d played in making that possible.

Did her professional life suck right now? No doubt. Was she freaking out deep inside, trying to figure out what to do? Absolutely. But looking at Wyatt and the others—hearing the music they were playing, knowing they’d found the solution they needed—she knew it was worth it. This was why she’d gotten into this industry, after all. For the music. As long as she remembered that, and the smile on Wyatt’s face as he played such amazing music, everything else was secondary. She’d go back to the apartment after the show and pack up her stuff. Then she’d move to a hotel for a few days while she and Wyatt figured out what the next step for them was. If there was even going to be a next step once she told him the truth about what she’d been doing in Austin. There was a part of her that wanted to bury the whole thing. To make up some excuse as for why the label had fired her and then never tell him the real reason she’d started working with Shaken Dirty. But that wasn’t exactly practical—if they did stay together, he was going to find out who her family was eventually. Hell, the jig was up once he actually got around to asking her last name. Besides, the last thing she wanted to do was start their relationship off with a lie. Especially one of this magnitude. Not when trust was already such an issue for both of them. No, she was going to have to tell him the truth and hope he cared enough about her to understand. And if he didn’t…well, better to know that now, too. Before she got in too deep. As she stood there, she couldn’t resist watching Wyatt. He was grinning while he played, his whole face lit up like the Fourth of July. He was scanning the crowd, looking for something—looking for her, she realized as their gazes met. Her heart melted at the look in his eyes and that’s when she knew. She was already in way too deep.

Chapter Twenty-Two He looked for Poppy the second he got off stage. He caught a glimpse of her, got a chance to smile at her, but then he was swept into a huddle with the others as they informally formalized what they’d all known five minutes after stepping onto stage with Drew Fitzpatrick—that, despite his country roots and cowboy boots, he was the new bass player for Shaken Dirty. Thankfully, he seemed as excited to join as they were to have him. Contracts and legalities had to be examined, of course—his manager, who had accompanied him to the gig, had been quick to bring things back to that…and to the fact that Bill Germaine had already reached out and was less than happy about this little development. But Drew didn’t give a shit and neither did the rest of them. When they went on tour in a couple of weeks, he was going to be up on stage with them. That much they were certain of. Everything else could be worked out among the managers, the lawyers, and the label. As Poppy had reminded him a few days ago, that’s what they were there for. The second Wyatt could slip away, he did. He wanted to see Poppy, wanted to hold her, kiss her, stroke her to orgasm. And then he wanted to thank her for bringing Shaken Dirty the best bass player they ever could have imagined. When she’d told him that music was her life, she hadn’t been kidding. He just wished he’d known days ago how good she was at it—he would have let her deal with the bass player debacle from the beginning instead of wasting time with the names the label had kept tossing out. He found her in the hallway outside the dressing room where they were meeting. She was leaning against the wall, head tilted back, eyes closed, arms crossed over her chest. She looked exhausted. After the way things had gone down in her bedroom last night, he wasn’t the least bit surprised. He should probably get her home and into bed as soon as possible…just because he was a courteous guy, of course. Ignoring the way his dick hardened at just the thought of being in bed with Poppy, he called her name softly before reaching out to brush a hand down her shoulder in an effort to avoid startling her. When she opened her eyes, they were nearly black with weariness and something else he couldn’t quite identify. He started to ask if she was okay, but the moment she registered it was him, her gaze cleared to the soft, rich chocolate color he loved. Then she was squealing and throwing her arms around his neck, pressing enthusiastic kisses all over his face.

He caught her around the waist, tried to hold her a little away from him. “I’m sweaty and gross,” he warned. She just rolled her eyes as she pressed her body against his. “If you think the words rock and roll sweaty and the word gross belong in the same description, you’ve obviously never seen yourself,” she said as she slid her hands into his hair and pulled his mouth down to hers for a real kiss. “Oh, yeah?” His dick grew even harder at her words, and the way her body curved so soft and inviting against his own. “Rock and roll sweaty is different than regular sweaty?” “So, so different.” She nuzzled his jaw. “You look so fucking hot like this that it was all I could do not to climb on stage and rip your clothes off.” “Just so you know, the next time you feel that? You should totally go with it.” She laughed, nipped at the sensitive spot behind his ear. “You don’t think your fans would have a problem with it? Or the other guys?” “The other guys can bite me. As for the fans, the guys would just be impressed I could land a girl like you.” “Oh, I’m sure that’s what they’d be. Impressed. And the girls would do their best to rip my face off.” “I’d protect you, sweetheart.” She snorted. “I’m pretty sure your protection is suspect.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her away from the wall, and started walking her backward down the hall. The little smirk on her face told him she knew exactly what he was up to. Not that he was exactly aiming to keep it secret… When they got to the door at the end of the hallway, he raised his brows in silent question. She giggled a little—a totally un-Poppy-like sound—then reached behind her to push the door open. There were so, so many reasons he was nuts about this woman. He spun her around so that she was facing forward—he didn’t want her to trip on the small steps leading down to the alley—but kept an arm around her waist because he wasn’t ready to let her go. Then again, there was a part of him that was pretty sure he’d never be ready to let her go, a part of him that was rapidly figuring out that Poppy was it for him. “I’m crazy about you.” The words were out before he knew he was going to say them. She whirled back around to face him, eyes wide and lips parted in surprise. Which he might have been sweating, except he could see the joy there, too. Even before a huge grin swept across her face. Then she was throwing her arms around his neck and mashing their mouths together with more enthusiasm than technique. He figured it was just another sign of how far gone he was for her that he liked this kiss just as much as any of the others. Maybe more. And when she whispered, “I’m crazy about you, too,” against his lips, he felt like the whole world had opened up in front of him. The fact that he was sober to feel this, to experience it, meant more than he ever would have imagined it could.

His hands went to her hips, then slid down and around to cup her ass. But right before he lifted her against him, she stopped him with a hand against his chest and a murmured “Wait.” “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asked, pulling back so he could get a decent look at her face in the dim light. But he’d deliberately maneuvered them into the shadows, which meant he couldn’t see her eyes or even her expression. “If you don’t want to do this—” “It’s not that,” she told him. “It’s just, there’s something I need to tell you.” He didn’t like the sound of that, at all. Any more than he liked the dread in her voice. Pulling back a little more, he guided her toward the club door and the small pool of light that surrounded it. The look on her face, when he could finally see it, only reinforced his impression that something was very, very not right. “Okay,” he said, stroking a hand over her cheek. “What is it, sweetheart?” She turned her head, nuzzled his palm, then took a deep breath and blew it out slowly even as she wrung her hands together. “You look like you’re about to get a triple root canal or something,” he said, trying to joke around and ease her obvious stress. “Is it really that bad?” “It’s pretty bad. And I want to say up front, I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I know it probably won’t matter to you, but I really did have the best intentions. So if you could just listen to me before you freak out—” His brows were at his hairline by now. “I’m not normally in the habit of freaking out, but if you think it’s that bad, maybe you should just spit it out. Get it over with.” She froze for a second—even her breathing seemed to stop as he waited for her to make up her mind. But then she nodded. Took a deep breath. Squared her shoulders like she was going in front of a firing squad. “I’ve been lying to you since I got here. I mean, not really lying, more omitting. But still, lying.” He’d be lying to himself if he said his blood didn’t run a little cold at her words. But he’d spent a big part of his early life assumed to be guilty before he had a chance to explain anything, and so he just nodded, saying a very cautious, “All right,” as he waited for the rest of the story. “My name is actually Poppy Germaine. I’m—” “Caleb’s sister,” he said, filling in the blanks before she could. “Bill Germaine’s daughter.” His mind was racing. He’d always known the man had a daughter who was a part of the label, but Shaken Dirty had never worked with her. Caleb had said his sister stayed behind the scenes, working in marketing—he froze as the rest of the puzzle pieces came together. Poppy had said half a dozen times that she worked in marketing, but he’d never put two and two together before. If he was being honest, he’d admit that he was a little annoyed at the fact that she’d never told him who she was. It wasn’t like she could claim it hadn’t come up—Bill Germaine had been the subject of numerous discussions in the week she’d been here. And she’d never once mentioned that he was her father.

Still, it didn’t seem like that revelation would be enough to have her freaking out as badly as she was. “I wish you’d told me,” he said, “just because I feel like an ass with all the shit that’s gone down regarding him this week. If we’d known you were his daughter—” He winced a little as he thought back on all the names her father had been called in the last few days. “That doesn’t matter,” she said bitterly. “Believe me, the fact that my father is a bastard isn’t news to me. He did just fire me, after all.” “Fire you? For what?” He froze as it registered. “For bringing Drew down here to play with us.” “Yeah.” “Shit. I’m sorry, Poppy. That really sucks. I can’t believe he fired his own daughter.” “Oh, believe me, I can. Nepotism is not something my father could ever be accused of.” He pulled her into his arms, dropped kisses on her head as he thought over his next words. “But, hey, I don’t know if you’re interested, but you’ve been doing really amazing things with our social media stuff. I could talk to the guys and we could hire you on full time. That way you could still have a job, and still be—” He broke off before he could say, with me. Which was exactly where he wanted her to be, but maybe it was too soon to actually say that. She had just been fired, after all. By her own father. The state of their relationship was probably not the most important thing on her mind right now. Sure enough, she smiled at him, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s really sweet,” she told him softly. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” “You mean there’s more?” “Yeah.” She took another deep breath. “Maybe I’m an idiot for telling you this, but I figure you have the right to know. And I’d rather you hear it from me instead of my dad if he’s trying to piss you off and get you to quit again.” “Okay.” The bad feeling was back, tightening his stomach and making him feel like he really, really wasn’t going to like whatever she was about to say. “I wasn’t really here as social media director for you guys. That was kind of my cover—and I took it to heart, because God knows you have a lot of room for improvement, but …” “But?” he prompted impatiently. She sighed heavily. “But I was here to kind of watch out for you. To make sure you had whatever you needed and didn’t…” It hit him then, came to him with a clarity that nearly blew the top of his head off. “You were here to babysit me. To make sure I stayed clean.” She winced at his tone. “Yes. I’m sorry I lied, sorry I didn’t tell you right from the beginning why the label sent me. But I was afraid it would freak you out, send you spiraling out of control, and that was the last thing I wanted.” “You thought knowing I had a babysitter would make me use again?” he demanded. “No. I just thought maybe you didn’t need someone looking over your shoulder, making you feel

worse about—” “The whole time?” he interrupted, shaking his head to try to clear it from the feeling of betrayal that was sweeping through him. “You were afraid to tell me the whole time because you thought I’d go back to heroin?” “I’m sorry—” “You’re sorry?” he demanded. “After you told me over and over again that I had this, that you knew I wasn’t going to slip…was that just an act?” He shook his head, started to pace. “What am I thinking? Of course it was an act. It was all lies, right? You were just doing your job. You never actually had any faith in me.” “That’s not true! I did have faith. I do.” He stopped,turned to face her. “So what was yesterday morning all about? Just you poking at the wound to see how soon I would snap?” “No, of course not! I wanted to—” “You wanted to spy on me for the record label. By poking and prodding at me, trying to get me to break so you could make sure you were there to watch me in case I fell apart. Is that why you did it? You were trying to get to the bottom of things so the label didn’t have to worry about losing its precious tour insurance deposit?” “No! Yesterday was about helping you!” “I never asked for your help, Poppy. If you recall, I never wanted it.” He shoved a frustrated hand through his hair. “I know,” she said quietly, but he was too wound up to listen. “I was doing okay on my own, right? Not drinking. Not doing drugs. Not fucking up. So why’d you have to push? Why’d you have to get in my head like that?” “I wasn’t trying to get in your head.” “Don’t give me that bullshit. You were totally angling for it. ‘Tell me, Wyatt. It’s not your fault, Wyatt. You should see a therapist, Wyatt. I just want to help, Wyatt—’” “I did want to help. I do. I’m sorry I pushed yesterday. I shouldn’t have when I knew I wasn’t being completely honest. But none of what I said yesterday was because of the job. I said it because I meant it. Because I love—” “Don’t!” He cut her off as another wave of betrayal tore through him. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare tell me you love me ten seconds after you tell me that this has all been an act. I don’t want to hear it from you. Not now. Not like this.” “I’m sorry.” There were tears in her voice, tears in her beautiful brown eyes. It hurt to witness them —the last thing he’d ever want to do was make her cry. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.” “But you did hurt me.” “I know.” She reached for him again, and again he shrugged her off. “But please, don’t let this mess you up. This is my fault, these are my lies. Please, please don’t go off the rails because I screwed up

—” “Still? Even after all this, you’re still worried about the company’s bottom line? You’re unbelievable!” “I’m worried about you, Wyatt. I don’t want to see you suffer because of mistakes that I made. It’s not fair.” “Yeah, well, you probably should have thought of that before you slept with me, huh? Or was that all part of the act, too? Hard for me to fall off the wagon if I’m too busy fucking you, huh?” She shoved him then, not hard enough to hurt, but definitely hard enough to get his attention. “I’m not a whore.” She looked fierce, like she was going to kick his ass. But her voice broke on the last word. Shit. He stopped, took a few deep breaths himself. Paced a little bit as he tried to work off the worst of his temper. She might have hurt him, but that was no reason for him to say shit like that to her. No reason for him to be a total asshole. “I’m sorry,” he said after a few long seconds had passed. “That was a shitty thing for me to imply, and I had no business saying it.” She nodded, but she wouldn’t look at him. Instead, she stared directly at the ground as she asked, “So where does this leave us?” “What do you mean?” “I mean, I apologized. You still think I’m a whore—” “I don’t. I already said it was a low blow and I shouldn’t have said it—” “Yeah, but you didn’t say you didn’t believe it.” “Seriously? That’s where we’re at? You’re going to play semantics with me? After what you did?” Her shoulders slumped, but this time when she spoke, she looked him directly in the eye. “No. You’re right. This is my fault, not yours. I shouldn’t be blaming you for anything.” “That’s not what I said.” “Okay.” How the fuck had he become the bad guy here? He shoved a frustrated hand through his hair. He was the one she’d lied to. The one she’d pumped to get information. The one she’d talked into spilling his deepest, darkest secrets, all while she was with him under false pretenses. So why, now that he’d called her on it, did he feel like the asshole in this equation? Why did he feel like he was the one who had done something wrong? “I’m going to go now,” she said, after another minute or two passed in silence. “I have to pack.” “Pack? Why?” “I need to be out of the apartment by tomorrow morning. It’s for employees of the label, and I’m no longer an employee, so…” “Your father ’s kicking you out?” “Don’t sound surprised. You know better than anyone that Bill Germaine is all about the bottom line.”

She turned and started toward the door that led back in to the club. “So will you go to a hotel?” he asked. “Or—” “I’m going home, Wyatt.” Suddenly things felt like they were spinning totally out of his control way too quickly for him to be able to keep up. “Wait. You’re going back to New York?” How the hell were they supposed to get past this if she was running off to New York before they’d even had a chance to cool down? To get their heads on straight? “Of course.” She looked at him strangely. “Now that I’ve been fired, there’s nothing for me here.” He’d be lying if he said her words didn’t hurt like a bitch. “There’s nothing for you here?” he repeated, cursing himself and his total, utter gullibility. He’d actually believed her when she’d started to say she loved him a few minutes before. And now she was saying that it didn’t matter? That what they had was nothing? Nothing worth fighting for. Nothing worth trying to keep. He wanted to call her on it, to force her to admit the truth. But hell, she might very well be telling the truth. After all, he’d never been good enough before. Never been worth the trouble of sticking around for. Had he actually expected Poppy to feel any differently about him than his own mother had? “What are you asking? Why do you sound surprised?” For the first time, she sounded unsure. “Do you want me to stay?” He shook his head. “Don’t act like you give a shit what I want. What the hell did I expect, anyway? This has been about you from the get-go.” “Wyatt. I could stay—” She reached a tentative hand out to him, but he shook it off. If she touched him right now he was going to lose it, and that wouldn’t be good for anyone. So instead, he stepped around her, reached for the door. “Why bother? It’s not going to change anything.” He held the door open for her. “Do you want me to get you an Uber? Or the bartender can call you a cab.” “I’m fine, thanks. I’ve got the rental car for one more day.” “Okay, then.” He nodded at her. “I guess this is good-bye. Have a safe trip home, Poppy.” “Yeah, of course.” She smiled wanly. “Good luck with the tour.” “Thanks.” An awkward silence descended between them. She broke it first. “I really am sorry, Wyatt.” “Yeah. Thanks for saying that. And for getting us Drew. I’m sorry about what happened with your dad.” She looked like she was going to say something else, but he knew he couldn’t take it. Not on top of everything that had just happened. So he gave her a kind of half wave before diving straight into the chaos of the dressing room.

As he looked at the guys spread out over every available surface, all four of them still excited about Drew joining Shaken Dirty, he couldn’t help wondering how such a good night had gone to hell so quickly.

Chapter Twenty-Three “Hey. You need some help with that?” Several days later, Poppy glanced up from the box she was mindlessly packing, to find her brother standing at her office door, two cups of coffee in his hands. “No, I think I’ve got it, thanks.” “You sure?” He walked in anyway, extended one of the coffees toward her. “No, thanks. I’m trying to cut down on my caffeine intake.” “Seriously?” He snorted. “That’s the best you’ve got?” “At the moment? Yes.” She went back to clearing out her desk. It only took her a few minutes—she didn’t have a lot of personal stuff at the office because her father had always frowned on it—but she was conscious of Caleb’s eyes on her the entire time. Normally, they’d be talking, laughing, telling each other some work story or another. But not today, when she was packing her office to leave the company forever. Not today, when her whole body felt like she’d gone ten rounds in a boxing ring. Even her brain felt fuzzy. She figured it was because she’d left it in Austin along with her heart. God knew she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Wyatt—about that last night with him—since she’d left. Every time she thought about him, she wanted to cry. Wanted to scream. Wanted to run back to Austin and either slap him silly or fuck him until they were both exhausted. She wasn’t sure what that said about her—or their relationship—but it was the truth. Not that they’d actually had a relationship, she reminded herself. One week did not true love make. It was becoming her mantra, the thing she repeated to herself over and over again in the middle of the night as she stared up at the ceiling and tried to figure out what the fuck to do. With her life. With her heart. With the fact that, ever since she’d walked out of that hallway at Antone’s, she’d felt like a part of her was missing. And the worst part was it was her own damn fault. She was the one who had lied to him from the beginning. She was the one who hadn’t told him the truth once things started getting serious. And she was the one who had cut and run when things had gotten hard. In her defense, she’d asked him if he wanted her to stay and he’d told her to go. He’d made it abundantly clear that he was furious with her and that he didn’t understand, at all, where she’d been

coming from when she lied to him. The fact that he’d been so shocked that she was leaving didn’t matter. Not when things were so messed up between them. Nothing could have come from her staying in Austin. Or at least that was her story and she was sticking to it. Too bad she hadn’t stuck to it earlier. Maybe then it wouldn’t hurt so badly now. She knew she’d messed up, knew she’d broken his trust. But there had been a part of her that had thought he’d care enough about her to get over it. That he’d care enough to try to understand. Instead, his kneejerk reaction had been to think she was a whore. And though he’d apologized, she’d known at that moment that it was too late, known that he would always wonder, would always doubt her. She’d fucked up, badly. So why would he—why should he—forgive her? God knew her own father never would. “So how long are you actually going to be mad at me?” Caleb demanded after the silence between them dragged on too long. The question jolted her, brought her back to the present. It was a rough landing since nearly everything that mattered to her was back in Austin. “All things considered, a while longer, I think.” “Okay. That’s fair. I deserve it.” “You totally deserve it. You should have backed me about Drew.” This time when he held out one of the cups of coffee, she took it. “You’re right, I should have. And I’m sorry I didn’t.” She sighed as the last of her anger melted away. “It’s okay. It wouldn’t have changed anything if you had—you would have just ended up getting fired too, and this label needs someone around here who knows what they’re doing. Plus, Shaken Dirty gets Drew, so…it’s worth it.” “Is it really? The music matters to you that much?” “Of course it does.” Suddenly she became super absorbed in making sure everything in her box was packed tightly so it wouldn’t move in transit. “Why are you asking?” “Oh, I don’t know. I was talking to the guys from Shaken Dirty this morning, and they were asking about you.” “Were they?” She fought to keep her voice casual. “They were. Wyatt, especially, seemed to want to know what you were up to. And if you were doing okay after ‘everything that happened.’” He used his fingers to put air quotes around the last few words. “I hope you told him I was fine.” She rearranged her picture frames in the box for the third time. “I did. But maybe I shouldn’t have.” “What do you mean?” Her eyes shot to his. “I mean you look like hell. You’re not sleeping, you’re not eating, and I’m pretty sure you were wearing that exact same outfit when I came to your apartment two days ago.” “It was a different T-shirt.”

“Nope, pretty sure it wasn’t.” He walked over to her, put an arm around her shoulder, and pulled her into his side. “Want to talk about it?” “Not even a little bit.” “Okay. Fair enough. Want to get drunk?” “It’s nine thirty in the morning.” He shrugged. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.” “Yeah, well, I just got back from babysitting an addict. The idea of drinking myself into oblivion doesn’t really appeal to me.” “Good point. You know, you did a good job with that whole babysitting thing. I mean, even if you hadn’t figured out Drew was a perfect match for them.” She glared at him. “Are you making fun of me?” “No, I mean it. Wyatt’s been out of rehab for two weeks and he’s still sober. He looked like hell on the teleconference, but he’s not using. I figure part of that, at the least, is because of you.” Her laugh was bitter. “More like in spite of me.” “What does that mean?” “Nothing.” He pulled away a little, searched her face suspiciously. “I’ve tried to be patient, Soda Pop, but enough’s enough. What exactly happened in Austin that has you walking around like a zombie?” “I’m not this messed up because of Austin,” she said, the lie sticking in her throat. She, who used to pride herself on her honesty, was becoming quite the storyteller lately. She could call it selfpreservation, but that was just prettying up what it really was. And still she didn’t backtrack. Still she didn’t tell him the truth. Not when just thinking about Wyatt threatened to bring her to her knees. “I’m messed up because my whole life is a disaster. I have no job, I have to move because I can’t afford my apartment, considering I don’t have a chance of ever getting another job in my chosen field with the gossip that’s running wild about Dad firing me. Whatever relationship I had with my father is pretty much over after my latest stunt and I just lost the only guy I’ve ever loved.” Fuck. The last came out before she even knew she was going to say it, and the moment it was out, she wished desperately to take it back. But judging from the way Caleb’s eyes had widened to what had to be a painful degree, she figured that so wasn’t going to happen. “Wow!” he said, when he finally managed to get his jaw unstuck from its wide open position. “So that’s what’s up with Wyatt.” She looked at him sharply. “What’s up with Wyatt exactly?” “If possible, he looks even worse than you do.” “Don’t tell me that.” Her heart thumped painfully in her chest. “Okay, I won’t.” Caleb reached out and pulled her close in a one-armed hug. “Can we talk about the other problems on your list, then? And how we’re going to solve them?” “I didn’t complain to you because I need you to solve them. I was just blowing off steam.”

He rolled his eyes at her. “I’m a guy, Poppy. If you didn’t want my help, you shouldn’t have told me what was going on.” It was her turn to roll her eyes. “So how do you propose to fix this?” “Uh-uh. I’ll share with you after you share with me. Explain to me exactly what the hell happened in Austin?” “I fucked up.” She moved away from him, went to look out her window at the bustling, crazy city below her. “I mean, I still don’t know how it happened, but I just…” “Fell for Wyatt Jennings.” “How did you know it was Wyatt?” “I told you, he looks as bad as you do. Besides, who else would it be? Ryder and Quinn are taken, from what I understand, and Jared probably has bigger trust issues than you after what Micah pulled with his fiancée. Plus, I could tell when I was in the teleconference with the band that something had happened between you and Wyatt.” She turned to frown at him. “So this whole thing was really a fact-finding mission about me and Wyatt?” she asked, gesturing to the coffee. “Many birds, one stone.” “Oh yeah, then what are the other birds? I’m done talking about this one.” “Why? Did he hurt you? Or is this all about the fact that you lied to him?” “I hurt him,” she said. “He told me stuff almost no one knows and I let him, despite the fact that I was working for the label.” “So that’s what the fight’s about? You lying to him?” “It’s about more than that. He was so quick to turn on me, you know? It reminded me of Dad, and instead of trying to explain myself more clearly, I just shut down because…” “He hurt you.” “Yeah, but I hurt him first.” “Like that matters?” he snorted. “I’m still going down to Austin to kick his ass.” “Don’t. This is my fault, not his.” “And yet you’re just sitting here, licking your wounds instead of trying to make it right?” “Some things you can’t make right.” Caleb snorted. “Yeah, nuclear war. Poverty. Climate change. Those are things we can’t make right. Your relationship with Wyatt…I’m pretty sure that’s not in the same league.” “I don’t appreciate you belittling my feelings.” She glared at him. “And I don’t appreciate you wallowing in despair when we have bigger fish to fry.” “What bigger fish?” she demanded. For a minute, it looked like he was going to stay on the Wyatt thing for a while longer. But he must have thought better of it, because he said, “Like what we’re going to do now that we’re both unemployed.”

“Both unemployed?” Adrenaline shot through her. “Did Dad fire you, too? I’ll go talk to him, tell him it was all my idea. He can’t do that. He can’t—” “Relax, Braveheart. You don’t need to go charging into battle quite yet. Dad didn’t fire me. I quit.” “You quit? Are you crazy? Why would you do that?” “Because he was completely out of line when he fired you? Because he’s a jackass who doesn’t listen to reason? Because I’m sick of trying to fight his archaic ideas about music and women and the industry?” He shrugged. “Take your pick.” “So what are you going to do?” she demanded. “You know he’s not going to put up with you going to anyone else. Not with everything you know about the inner workings of the label. He’ll blackball you.” “Probably.” Caleb shrugged. “And yet you don’t look upset. Why is that exactly?” She was totally confused. Work was Caleb’s life. This company was his life. How could he be so calm about losing it all at once? “Because I have a plan.” “To get your job back?” “Hell, no. To make a label of our own.” “A label of our own? What are you talking about?” “I’m talking about starting our own company. With you scouting talent and me running things behind the scenes, we can’t lose.” “Umm, we can lose. We can lose huge and you know it. We can’t just start a label.” “Sure we can. I’m thinking…Gemini Records? Because of the—” “Twin thing. Yeah, I get it.” The initial shock was wearing off and in its place was a cautious excitement. “You know Dad will crush us the first year. No way will he let this happen.” “There are some things in the world he doesn’t have control over, you know.” “Yeah, but, there are so many variables in the music industry. What if we try and it doesn’t work?” “What if we try and it goes huge?” “Caleb—” “Soda Pop, we’re not going to know until we try. So I say we try. I know it’s hard for you. I know it’s not easy for you to trust in the unknown. But sometimes you just have to take a leap of faith and believe that you won’t fall.” “It’s a big leap of faith.” He shot her a look. “So’s going after Wyatt, but we both know you’re going to do that eventually, too.” “I’m not—” “Yeah, you are,” he said as he fired his coffee cup toward the trash can in the corner. It soared in and he whooped. “Nothing but net, baby. Nothing but net.” He grew serious then, and turned back to her. “If you hurt Wyatt, don’t you think it’s up to you to make it better?”

“He probably doesn’t want to hear from me.” “What if he does?” “What if he doesn’t?” “I saw him today. Believe me, he does.” Her hands were trembling so badly now that she almost bobbled her coffee cup. “I’m scared, Caleb. I don’t want to get hurt any more. And I sure as hell don’t want to hurt him any more.” “Oh, babe.” He pulled her in for a hug. “You really think talking to him is going to hurt any more than what you’re already going through?” “I think it might.” She rested her forehead against his shoulder and tried to just breathe. “Leap of faith,” he said again. “Leap of faith.” It was her turn to snort. “What happens if I leap and end up crashing to the ground?” “You won’t.” “What if I do?” “Well, then I’ll catch you.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Isn’t that what your twin is for?”

Chapter Twenty-Four A leap of faith. Five hours later, she was still thinking about her conversation with her brother as she poured herself a glass of wine. Caleb wanted her to take a leap of faith, to trust that they wouldn’t fall flat on their asses. Or worse, their faces. After she’d calmed down enough to listen to him, he’d laid out a pretty decent business plan, including where the funding was going to come from (they’d be using pretty much their entire trust funds from their grandmother and then borrowing the rest). She’d have complete autonomy over what acts they signed—no more hiding, no more going around her dad, no more pretending she didn’t know what she was talking about—and she’d also be in charge of marketing and publicity, her second favorite thing. Caleb would handle the rest. It sounded too good to be true, and if her life had taught her anything, it was that if it sounded like that, then it probably was like that. And yet…and yet she was tempted to do it anyway. Tempted to give it a shot even if it meant risking everything. Maybe that’s what Caleb had been trying to tell her—in reference to the label and to Wyatt. That life was worth living and she couldn’t get so busy protecting herself that she forgot to risk anything. Otherwise, what was the point? Her mind jumped to Wyatt for what was probably the millionth time in the last week. Was Caleb right? Was he as messed up as she was? And if so, could she stand knowing she’d done that to him? Could she stand knowing that she’d added another layer of hurt to the already huge burden the man carried? Just the thought had tears coming to her eyes. She’d screwed this whole thing up so badly. Had hurt Wyatt when that was the last thing she’d ever wanted to do. And then she’d left him. Just walked away when he got angry with her and lashed out. She’d been so busy protecting herself that she hadn’t thought, even for one second, that maybe he’d been doing the same thing. And Caleb thought she could just fix it? Thought she could just call Wyatt up and apologize, and everything would go back to the way it was? She shook her head, wiped at her tears. Caleb had always been the optimist of their duo. And yet… He wanted her to take a leap of faith. She took a long sip of her wine, then—because she was a glutton for punishment—went over to her

record player and put on the first album she came to in the box of rare vinyl Wyatt had gotten her. It was The Beatles’ White Album and as she put it on, she couldn’t help wondering if she was making a big mistake. Then again, if she was, it was just one more in a long line she’d made recently… She listened to “Back in the USSR” on autopilot, but when the lyrics to “Dear Prudence” came on, she couldn’t help but listen. Couldn’t help but pay attention as Lennon crooned about Prudence opening her eyes and coming out to play, about her greeting a beautiful new day. Fuck. Why the hell hadn’t the Sex Pistols album been the first one she’d come to? No hidden messages in that LP. It was like the whole damn universe was trying to send her a signal… And if it was…if it was, shouldn’t she listen? Again, she thought of Wyatt. The Wyatt who went out of his way to get her a present she would like. The Wyatt who’d managed to stay sober for at least three months, even with his terrible demons. The Wyatt who brought her unimaginable pleasure, who always made sure she was taken care of— in the bedroom and out. The Wyatt who had told three kids he didn’t know that he’d show up at their gig, just because he knew it would mean the world to them. That was the Wyatt she knew, the Wyatt she had fallen in love with. That was the man she’d hurt. Suddenly she was so incredibly lonely. So desperate to hear his sandpaper and gravel voice, to smell his clean water scent, to run her hands over his beautiful skin, his beautiful ink. She reached for her phone, started to pull him up on contacts. But then another idea came to her. One that was terrifying and exhilarating and so, so foolish, all at the same time. She didn’t have to call him. Instead, she could hop a plane down to Austin and see him. Tomorrow was Friday night. If he was the man she thought he was, he’d be at the Spotlight, watching a band of teenagers play one of their first gigs. She could show up there and take that giant leap of faith her brother had been talking about. It was a crazy plan, a desperate one, but it made perfect sense to her. So instead of calling Wyatt and listening to his voice, she pulled up an airline website and booked the first flight to Austin the next morning. It might be reckless, might be a fool’s errand, but that was okay. For once in her life she was tired of playing by someone else’s rules. She was making her own rules now, and nothing was going to keep her from seeing this through.

… “So, I’ve got a favor to ask.” “Sure,” Jared said, followed by a chorus of “You bets,” from Ryder, Quinn and Drew, just as he

knew would happen. The four of them had just finished working on a new song and they were all a little sweaty and a little tired. And still they were up for whatever favor he was going to ask, despite the fact that he’d been a real ass these last couple of weeks. He had no idea what he’d ever done to deserve friends like these—including Drew, who they’d all decided was a pretty damn good guy—but he was done second-guessing the universe. Done feeling guilty about it. He was just going to enjoy, and try to be the kind of friend they deserved in return. “What’s up, man?” Drew asked, settling down on the couch at the back of the studio and kicking his feet up onto the table. “I promised these kids I’d go hear them play tonight. It’s one of their first gigs over at the Spotlight. I thought you might like to come with.” “The Spotlight?” Ryder whooped. “Wow, there’s a name I haven’t heard in forever.” “Right?” Quinn agreed with a laugh. “Remember how you almost got knifed during our second show there?” “Pretty hard to forget,” Wyatt answered. “So you want to go?” It wasn’t that he needed them to come, it was just…he’d been feeling pretty fucking awful since Poppy left, and the last thing he really needed to do tonight was go sit, alone, in a bar. He didn’t think he’d drink or score—he hadn’t so far —but he figured there was no reason to tempt fate if he didn’t have to. “Sure,” Jared said, exchanging a long look with the others that Wyatt tried not to notice. “What time?” “Whenever. They’re starting in about half an hour, but they’ll play two or three sets. Or at least that’s what their manager said when I called to check.” “You called to check?” Ryder asked. “Who are these kids?” He shrugged. “Just fans who chased me down the street one day. They’re good kids, still in high school, I think. Big fans. They invited me to their gig and I said I’d be there. So, I’m going.” “That’s pretty awesome,” Drew said, pushing himself off of the couch. “I say let’s go, then. Does this Spotlight club have decent food? Because I’m starving.” “Yeah, um, maybe we should grab something on the way,” Wyatt said. “No maybe about that,” Jared said, pulling out his keys. “Right?” Quinn added as he finished texting Elise about their plans. “Since I’m not up for food poisoning, we’re definitely eating before we go.” An hour later they pulled into the parking lot of the Spotlight, bitching and moaning about the fact that Jared drove like an old woman. Jared just flipped them off as he got out of the car, telling them, “You’re all more than welcome to drive next time. Of course, that would mean one of you would have to get a vehicle bigger than a roller skate, and somehow I don’t see that happening any time soon, so…” “Yeah, but seriously, dude, there’s actually a minimum speed allowed for those roads we were driving on,” Drew said, pulling his cowboy hat low on his head as they walked toward the front door

of the club. “How would you know?” Jared demanded. “You’ve only lived here for like three days.” “It’s been a very educational three days.” Wyatt rolled his eyes but couldn’t help laughing at the bickering. Drew had fit in with the band so well it was like he’d been there all along. And their new sound, with him added in, was fucking brilliant. He didn’t know how Poppy had known, but she had. More power to her. He tried to shove the thought away as soon as he had it—not because she didn’t deserve credit, but because just that smallest idea of her was messing with his head, making him crazy when he’d promised himself he wasn’t going to go there anymore. This was why they told addicts not to get into a relationship right out of rehab—because if it went bad, if the woman you’d fallen head over heels in love with didn’t feel the same, it was ten times as hard to stay clean. Ten times as hard to fight the voices in your head, telling you that you were weak and worthless. Turned out it was pretty good advice. Too bad he hadn’t listened to it. But that’s what his friends were here for. A little extra support to make sure he didn’t score, no matter how much he wanted to. Last night, he’d lain in bed thinking about Poppy and wanting a hit so badly he’d nearly crawled out of his skin. He’d made it through it though, and he was going to make it through this as well. One day at a time and all that. Maybe if he strung enough of those days together he’d finally have the nerve to go after Poppy, to apologize for essentially calling her a whore. He’d been hurt by her revelation—blindsided by it—but that wasn’t an excuse for saying what he had to her. He’d apologized, but shit. How did you come back from saying something like that? For what had to be the hundredth time since she left, he pulled out his phone. Thought about texting her another apology. About begging her to come back to him. But he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to handle the rejection she was sure to send his way. Wasn’t sure he’d be able to stay sober if she told him to get lost. And he wanted—needed to stay sober. To prove to her, and himself, that he was a better man than he’d ever thought he was. Which meant no text. Not today. Not until he was sure he could handle the pain it would cause. Once they made it into the bar—which was about half full—they snagged a table in the darkest corner. It was just one of the tricks they’d learned through the years, on how to be as unobtrusive as possible. “First round’s on me,” Ryder said, heading to the bar. He didn’t ask what anyone wanted, but then again, after all these years, they all knew one another ’s preferences. Wyatt settled into a chair and turned his attention to the small stage at the front of the club. Big Bad Wolf was right in the center of it, playing a pretty decent song. He figured he’d go up when the set was done, say hello. Make sure they knew he’d come. But as the song came to an end, Jace’s eyes met

his. The kid’s face went slack with shock and then he was surreptitiously pointing him out to his two bandmates. The others turned to stare at him, too, huge grins on their faces. And then with what could only be described as a cackle of glee, they were launching into a pretty decent cover of Shaken Dirty’s “Closer.” All in all, he decided, it wasn’t a bad way to spend a Friday night. Ryder came back from the bar with five bottles of Dr Pepper. Wyatt thought about making a comment, but then decided, fuck it. If his friends wanted to look out for him this way, then who was he to say any differently. The band finished “Closer” with a drum riff that was pretty damn impressive, then launched into an earlier Shaken Dirty song that had all of the guys grinning and reminiscing as they filled Drew in on ancient history. At least until Poppy walked up to the table and stopped right in front of Wyatt. Then the whole group of them went wide-eyed and silent in a hurry. Including Wyatt himself. His brain was screaming at him to say something to her, but it couldn’t figure out what words he was supposed to say. How could it when all he could think was beautiful and sexy and mine. That’s what really kept his mouth shut—the fear that when he opened it again the only word that would come out was mine. And she wasn’t his, not anymore. Not ever, really, considering they were over before they’d actually had a chance to begin. But she was here now, bouncing from one foot to another and looking at him with those big brown eyes of hers. That had to count for something, right? He hated the hope he felt, the way his heart skipped a beat at just the thought of talking to her again. Of kissing her, touching her, making love to her. “Can I talk to you?” she said, shouting a little to be heard over the music. For a second, just a second, he thought about turning her away. About telling her he wasn’t interested anymore. It had nearly killed him when she’d walked away from him at Antone’s, had taken every ounce of willpower he had not to drown himself in the bottom of a bottle of tequila. But refusing to talk to her would be a lot like cutting off his nose to spite his face, so he nodded and said, “Yeah, of course.” He was aware of the others shifting restlessly beside him—they’d been none too happy when Poppy had run back to New York and taken his heart with her—no matter how many times he’d assured them that it was as much his fault as hers. In fact, Jared looked like he was going to say something, but a quick look from Wyatt shut him up. He followed her to the door, making sure to catch the attention of the band’s lead singer, to let him know he’d be back. The kid smiled a mile wide and sent him a huge thumbs up that he really hoped didn’t end up blowing his anonymity all to hell as half the bar turned to look at him. Then again, he had better things to worry about than whether or not he was going to get swamped

by fans. Things like what Poppy was doing in Austin and why she wanted to talk to him and— “I’m sorry,” she blurted out the second they got outside, the words tumbling over each other in her haste to get them out. “I should have told you. It was wrong of me to lie to you and wrong of me to push you to talk to me when I wasn’t being truthful with you. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” That wasn’t what he’d been expecting to hear, and for long seconds he couldn’t answer, not even to accept her apology. But then his brain finally kicked in and he said, “No. I get why you didn’t tell me. It took me a few days to calm down but…I can see why you thought it would only put more pressure on me. I shouldn’t have yelled at you the way I did. Shouldn’t have said those things to you. There’s no excuse for that.” He could still see her face when she asked if he was calling her a whore, and it killed him. “Yeah, but still. I was wrong not to give you the benefit of the doubt. I should have tried to talk to you after I got to know you.” “Okay. Sure. Thanks.” He didn’t know what else to say. He knew what he wanted to do—he wanted to drop to his knees in front of her and make her come three or a half dozen times right here in the middle of the Spotlight parking lot. He just wasn’t sure she’d be amenable to that. After all, it was a long way from apologizing to letting a guy go down on you. He waited for her to say something else, to make some kind of move that told him how he should respond. But all she did was stand there looking at him, and the hope he’d felt upon first seeing her started to whither. “I should probably go back in, then,” he said a little awkwardly. “I came here to see those kids play —I don’t want them to think I skipped out on them after two songs.” “Right, of course.” She stepped back. “Go ahead.” “But thanks for coming to talk to me. It means a lot.” Feeling like absolute shit, he gave her the best smile he could muster, then forced himself to turn away. To head back inside the club. He never made it. Instead, she threw herself at him so hard he stumbled. And then she was there, pressed against him, her arms wrapped around his waist and her face nuzzled into his neck. “I love you,” she murmured into his skin. “I love you and I’m sorry and I want to try again. Please, please let me try again.” He pulled her away from him—not because he didn’t want her touching him, but because he wanted to make sure he’d heard right. Wanted to make sure she meant what he thought she did. “Say it again,” he told her, voice hoarse with more emotion than he had let himself feel in a long, long time. Maybe in forever. She bit her lip, looked at him out of eyes he knew were going to break his heart again and again through the years—in the best possible way. “I said I love you,” Poppy told him. “I love you so much, and I know it isn’t going to be easy. I know we’re going to screw up. But I promise you, no matter what happens, that I’ll be honest with you. That I’ll be here for you. If you relapse, if you decide you

don’t want to drum anymore, whatever it is. I promise, I’ll be here. I love you, and if you’ll have me, I want to spend the rest of my life proving that to you.” “Wait.” Suddenly he couldn’t feel his hands. “Wait. Wait just a minute. Are you proposing to me?” She turned pale under the parking lot lights. “Ummm… Do you want me to be proposing to you?” “It doesn’t work that way! You can’t answer a question with a question!” he told her, panic and joy and love welling up in him like a crescendo. “Especially not a question like that!” “Why not? You just did.” “I did not. I asked— Oh.” So she had been proposing to him. Holy shit. Holy. Shit. “I know. It’s too soon. And we’re a mess.” She started backing away. “I’m sorry. Forget I asked. Just —” “I hate to be the one to break this to you, sweetheart, but I’m pretty sure there are no takebacks on wedding proposals.” “Oh, yeah? What are you, the wedding proposal police? Since when have you been so big on rules anyway?” “Since the woman I am head over heels in love with just asked me to marry her. You don’t actually think I’m going to let you weasel out of it so easily, do you?” “I don’t weasel out— Wait a minute.” If possible, she turned even paler. “You love me?” “Of course I love you! You’re smart and funny and kind and warm and beautiful, inside and out. Plus you have amazing taste in music and you love my band. How the fuck could I not love you?” “I don’t know. I just—I can’t feel my feet.” “That’s okay. I can’t feel my hands,” he told her with a laugh. She laughed, too, at least for a second. Then she sobered up. “No jokes, Wyatt. I can’t take them right now. What does this mean?” He pulled her into his arms then, cradling her head against his chest as he slowly rocked them back and forth. “It means yes,” he said, right before he took her mouth with his own.

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Acknowledgments Wow. Just Wow. This book has been a long time coming and I’m so, so grateful to my fans for waiting nearly two years for it. Your excitement for the series—and for Wyatt, in particular—means the world to me. Thank you for giving Shaken Dirty a try and thank you for making the series the success that it is. I love and appreciate every single one of you. I have to thank Stacy Cantor Abrams, who I adore and who put up with every excuse imaginable from me over the last two years—and whose patience, enthusiasm, and editorial skill finally managed to whip this book into shape. Thank you to Liz Pelletier for being such an amazing publisher and for sticking with me, and to Jessica Turner for being the best marketing director on the planet (and a great friend, too)!!!! Thank you to Emily Sylvan Kim, my amazing, wonderful, awe-inspiring agent, who is always, always, always there for me and without whom I would be lost. Thank you to Emily McKay and Shellee Roberts, the best friends and brainstorming/writing partners a girl could ever have—I don’t know how to thank you two enough for everything you’ve done for me through the years. A special shout-out to Emily for all the whining she put up with during the writing of this book and to Shellee for reminding me all those years ago that “Drummers are always the fucked-up ones.” Thank you to my mom, whose support means the world to me. Thank you to my very dear friend, Martin Torres, who has shown me in a million different ways just how kind and strong and wonderful a man can be. And finally, thank you to my guys, who put up with late dinners and missed movies and forgotten tae kwon do classes when Mom is “in the zone.” I love the three of you so much and am grateful every day that I have the chance to be your mother.

About the Author National bestselling author Tracy Wolff lives with four men, teaches writing to local college students, and spends as much time as she can manage immersed in worlds of her own creation. Married to the alpha hero of her dreams for twelve years, she is the mother of three young sons who spend most of their time trying to make her as crazy as possible. Tracy is the author of numerous romances that run the gamut from contemporary to paranormal to erotic suspense. Visit her online at tracywolff.com. Sign up for our Brazen newsletter and be the first to hear about new releases from Tracy Wolff and other fantastic Entangled authors! Reviews help other readers find books. We appreciate all reviews, whether positive or negative. Thank you for reading!

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