“Is everything all right?”

He shakes his head, heaves out a resigned sigh. I can already see the rigid tension creeping back into his shoulders and his expression is bleak and ragged. “I don’t know. I hope so. I’m sorry, babe. I’ve got to get over there.”

“Go, go,” I wave. “I’ll be fine, honey. Do whatever you need to do. I’ll be here when you get home.”

I really wish that statement could be true.

Sixty minutes after Tucker rushed to Mount Sinai, my own cell phone is chirping. I pick it up and look at the number, then immediately set it back down.

Ransom.

I know why he’s calling. Saturday Night Live begins in less than an hour. But I’ve already made a conscious decision not to attend. Granted, that decision was much easier to stick to when Tucker was here, but I’m committed to my word. I’m committed to my husband . . . to my marriage. Talking to Justice really put things into perspective for me. Letting Ransom into our proverbial marriage bed wasn’t the issue here—we both enjoyed that walk on the wild side. The problem was, and is, that he’s still in it, lingering in our unsaid words and unmet desires.

The only way I can exonerate him from our lives is to cut him off cold turkey. I’ll draft a letter of resignation, and we’ll split amicably. I mean, I was his publicist for less than a week. I’ve had relationships with badly cut bangs longer than that.

Still, I’m a glutton for punishment. And instead of changing the channel and picking up a book or magazine, I keep it on NBC. And soon I’m watching the show, anxiously awaiting Ransom’s musical performance.

As soon as Rebel Wilson introduces them, I’m on the edge of my seat, struggling to breathe through my undefined angst. The lights go up, revealing the band, and their singer positioned front and center, his head down. The music begins, and he lifts his chin slowly, dramatically pulling the audience in to his world. God, he looks good. Black jeans that fit him like a glove, charcoal gray tee, and a black leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The silver hoop in his nose matches the rings on his fingers and the crucifix hanging from his neck. He briefly spoke of the faith he was raised in, and how it affected his family ties. Maybe religion is his last link to his parents. Or maybe it’s merely a fashion statement.

The music curls around the first lyrics of the song, and I audibly gasp when I realize what song they’re performing. It’s the song—the song—he sang to me that night. The song that fell from his trembling lips as he surged inside me, filling my body and soul with his lustful submission.

I never thought I’d be able to hear that song again.

Yet, here I am, glued to the screen, watching him sing it with so much zeal and conviction that I swear I hear the rasp of his voice quiver with emotion. Not sadness or distress. Maybe longing . . . desire. As if he’s remembering the last time he sang it too. I’ve never heard it like this before. I’ve never listened with ears that have felt the brush of his soft lips and the tingle of whispered words. And now that I do, I’m right back to where I started. Drowning in denial, falling in the farce that I could somehow be over him.

The crowd erupts into wild cheers at the end of the song, and the show cuts to commercial. I force myself to turn off the TV. If I watch any more, I may find myself hailing a cab to Rockefeller Center.

I take a hot shower, and slip on my new pajamas, and resign to call it a night. It’s late, yet Tucker still isn’t home. I don’t expect him to be. The way he ran out of here, wearing that solemn look that spoke of death and despair, I doubt I’ll see much of him for the rest of the weekend.

Sleep comes easier than I expect, and I’m caught within the deepest, warmest parts of my mind when something startles me awake. I blink rapidly, wondering if it was a dream, when I hear the piercing ring of my phone.

“Hello?” I answer, my voice choked with sleep.

“You need to get down here.”

I clear my throat and push myself up on tired limbs. “What? Who is this?”

“Caleb. Now get your ass out of bed and get to the Monkey Bar, pronto.”

I look over at the red-lit numbers on my bedside clock. “Caleb, it’s 3 A.M. What the hell is this about?”

“Our client, that’s what this is about. And right now, he is pissy fucking drunk, high out of his fucking mind, and asking for you. I was able to get the bar cleared out, but the rest is on you. You wanted the job . . . now it’s time to work.”

“Caleb . . . I can’t . . . I don’t.”

He heaves out a frustrated breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is low and gravely. “If I could deal with this shit on my own, do you think I would call you? Obviously, you’re needed. So wipe the drool off your lip, and get down here before this kid completely ruins his career.”

With that, he hangs up, not even giving me a chance to ask for directions, or even an address. Luckily, the cab driver knows the place, and once I throw on some clothes, I’m whisked away into the wee hours of the morning to play babysitter to a shit-faced Ransom Reed.

“There she is!” I hear as soon as I walk in. I look around the dark, dingy place and cringe. Thank God, I’m up to date on all my shots. The bar top looks like it’s been spit-shined in Hepatitis. There’s music playing—piano—but it’s not from a stereo system. And while the place looks relatively empty, there seems to be some commotion toward the stage.

Caleb approaches me first, and the alarmed look on his face tells me that he is in no mood for jokes. “Took you long enough,” he grumbles. “Look, try not to stay here too long with him. The papzz are bound to show up any second.”

“Stay here with who? What the hell is going on, Caleb?”

“Ransom. He’s . . . having one of his moments. We’ve done everything we can to get him to come down, but nothing is working.”

Before I can inquire anymore, the ear-splitting racket of glass shattering sounds from the front of the room. There’re shouts, then laughter, just as Cash Colby comes stalking up to us.

“Is this her?” he barks, clearly pissed off. He runs an agitated hand through his sandy blond locks and sucks his teeth.

“Yeah,” Caleb answers. “Cash, this is Heidi DuCane. Heidi, Cash Colby.”

I extend a hand, but he completely ignores it, looking back to Caleb with eyes the color of polished steel. “I’m fucking sick of this, man. Every week, there’s something new with him. We can’t keep covering for his ass.”

“I know, I know,” Caleb assures, his expression anything but confident. “He just needs time. Maybe if he takes some time off—”

“Fuck that. We have an international tour in a matter of months. If he doesn’t get his shit together, I’m done.”

Cash stalks toward the entrance and disappears into the night without so much as a goodbye to the rest of his bandmates. Rude ass. Maybe he does have Bieber’s cuntiness, as well as his looks.

Soon after Cash leaves, Gunner Davies comes to stand beside Caleb, placing a hand on his shoulder. Caleb drops his head and nods. “I know, Gunner. I know. I’m just not sure what else we can do.”

With that, Gunner presses his hauntingly light blue eyes into me so intensely that I nearly gasp. They’re so pale that the stark contrast of his black hair and clothing make him seem almost otherworldly. He gives me a single, stiff nod and walks away without even uttering a word.

“What was that about?” I whisper to Caleb, unnerved by their one-sided conversation and the force of Gunner’s stare.

“He doesn’t want you to get involved in this. He doesn’t think it’s fair to make this someone else’s problem.”

“Not fair to who?”

Caleb shrugs. “To you. To the band. They’re a tightly knit group. Involving someone else is risking exposure.”

“Exposure? What would I possibly expose?”