Memphis, he’s another story.

When Memphis takes the stage and starts belting out “Bang, Bang,” the crowd roars, reaching a new climax. With his injured arm from the bar fight in Miami, he can’t play lead, so Billy is taking his place.

Tonight, I’m not singing. X-man and Nickie D weren’t all too happy with that. Then again, they know, when I’m done tweaking, when I’m ready, I will put on a fucking show for the people paying my bills while I’m doing what I love, what I do best, and that’s creating music that is balls deep.

***

We all head off stage at the end. They didn’t want us to stop playing. Fuck, I was so deep in the rhythm and beat, still buzzing from the hit I took when we came off stage for a set change, that I’m pretty fucking amped, too.

Tonight, we decide on not going out. Tomorrow, we’ll party.

I walk by Taelyn, who congratulates me. Then I look up, and standing next to her is None-ya. That fucking look on her face is still there.

“Thanks.” I nod at Taelyn and keep walking.

River and Billy, who have chicks surrounding them, wave me over. However, I draw my hand across my throat and point to the back exit.

I walk outside and see the chick who plays drums for Stevie Daniels’ band—I don’t know her fucking name—leaning against the brick wall, smoking a cigarette. She has long, dark hair tucked under a black beanie; and she’s wearing a black, tight-ass tank top, showcasing her rack nicely; a red and black flannel tied around her waist; and a short skirt. She’s hot, but not my type, which is perfect right now.

“You got a smoke?”

She looks me up and down. “Not menthol.”

I must look at her funny ’cause she smirks as she reaches into her black, little purse thing that’s slung across her chest.

She hands me one. “Pot heads smoke menthol.”

“Thanks. I’m not a pot head,” I say as she holds out her lighter. I inhale and let it burn. I haven’t smoked in years—not pot and not cigarettes—but something changed today, and I need it.

“Right.” She shrugs, then tosses her smoke to the ground, crushing it out with her thigh-high, black boots. “What are you looking at?”

“Your legs,” I answer bluntly. Why hide that shit?

“Like what you see?”

“Sure do,” I answer.

“You going out tonight with the crew?”

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Kellie.”

“Kellie with the boots. Thanks for the smoke.” I walk down the steps to my bike, then stop and look back. “I’m not going out.” I grab my helmet as she walks toward me, and I hand it to her.

“Nice bike,” she says as she puts the helmet on. I go to mount the bike, but she puts her hand out, stopping me. “I’m driving.”

“Is that so?”

“You sure as hell aren’t, four-twenty.” She mounts my bike like a pro and cranks her to a rumble.

I stand there in a cloud of confusion and exhaust. She did not jus—

“Where we headed?”

“My place,” I grumble as I swing my leg over and get on.

***

I wake up in the morning in a fog, feeling like a troll shit in my brain. I don’t miss that shit at all.

I roll over and see a note on the nightstand next to a half pack of Camel Lights. Grabbing the yellow piece of paper, I lie back.

Finn,

Thanks for the ride. I liked it better when you were in control. Hope you can keep that beast on the road. Would be a loss to all those women who haven’t had the opportunity yet.

Meeting with your management and my band.

May see you around. If not, it was a pleasure.

Kellie.

I take in a deep breath. I shouldn’t have brought her back. Not that it wasn’t well worth it since she was a fine piece of ass, but I crossed a line by fucking her.

I swing my legs over the side of my bed and force myself up.

Today is another day, a new day.

I can only hope I was just in a funk last night and that None-ya isn’t going to be an issue from here on out.

Today, I will force myself to walk alone … again.

I close the book and set it on the hotel room nightstand, taking a deep breath before throwing my legs over the bed, ready to take my first step of the day. Each step should become easier, but it doesn’t.

Seeing Finn Beckett yesterday brought on a plethora of emotions I wasn’t ready for. I have hated him for years now, so I was prepared for that emotion. What I wasn’t prepared for was the look in his eyes, those deep brown pools of muck.

The hair stood on the back of my neck. I could hear the blood rushing through my veins, feel my temperature rise. Then hate mixed with anxiety, and I could swear he saw something in me, something I couldn’t afford for him to see.

I walk across the floor and hit brew on the single serve coffee pot. I gave up coffee a long time ago, but today, I knew I would need it. Today, I had to face Xavier Steel, Stevie, and the band.

I stand under the steaming hot shower and tip my head back, allowing the water to hit my face. I take pleasure in the heat and the feeling. It reminds me of the days not long ago when I allowed myself to feel emotions and cry when I was sad. I don’t allow myself to feel sad anymore.

“Never again,” I whisper as I rub the washcloth across my stomach, then my arms.

After my shower, I dry off while looking at my reflection in the mirror. I am now a redhead. I don’t like that much at all, but it’s necessary. My body isn’t the same as it was when I was younger, dancing around the pool without a care in the world in a bikini during one of my mother’s parties.

Little girl is what he called me. I proved to him otherwise.

Johnny.

How is it that, when everything is right in the world, when everything is an abundance of perfect hues of pinks and sunshine, you can be so blind?

Johnny was older than me, the son of my mother’s gardener. He had dark skin and brown, wavy hair that hung in his eyes. His eyes were almost black, and deep inside, there was a darkness that teased me. He wasn’t like the boys at my prep school who wore khakis and blazers, the boys with a part just to the left of center and not a hair out of place. The boys whose immature and adolescent attention sickened me.

He was in his early twenties. I was sixteen.

I didn’t hate Johnny. I hate Finn.

***

I walk into Forever Four and sit down, waiting to face whatever it is that will happen today. For all intents and purposes, Forever Four is STD’s agent slash management slash producing label. They found them and made them who they are today: a group of four men—if they can even be called that—who are musically talented, which I can’t dispute, and out of control.

I sit back and straighten my skirt as I wait, looking around the large space. There is exposed brick, unenclosed steel beams and piping, a very industrial look, but it’s surprisingly appealing to the eye.

After yesterday’s catastrophes, I was ushered around by Taelyn Steel. Her hair is an auburn color, and as far as I can tell, it’s natural, unlike mine. She is tall, thin, beautiful, and seems more … refined than the others she works with.

She never once treated me like the enemy, which was kind of silly since I did have the file of Stevie and Memphis Black going at it with every intention of doing the job I was paid to do, the one I weaseled my way into. I was going to make it public, make it go viral. Not that I had a damn thing against Memphis Black, but a job was a job.

Stevie Daniels was hoping it would make her band soar on the coattails of STD, inevitably bringing her into the spotlight. She also has a thing for him. I can tell by the way she has looked at him.