His arm wraps around me, a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand, his fingers wrapped around the neck of it. I feel chills run up and down my spine, and I know I should tell him to step back, but I don’t want him to.

“Take a drink, None-ya, and tell me what the deal is with you.”

“I don’t want a drink.”

Both of his hands grip the black leather of the sofa, never letting go of the bottle, caging me in. Shivers run up my spine as I feel his warm breath hit the back of my neck. Something about it relaxes me.

“I think you should. Just a sip. Take the edge off so you can tell me why you despise me.”

I can’t tell him. I can’t. I need this job, and I need to finish what I set out to do.

“I don’t despise you.”

“So it’s the other?”

“What’s the other?” I ask as I turn my body around, extremely aware I am rubbing against him as I do. I tilt my head up, my eyes meeting his, and the heat in them should frighten me. “I have a job to do.”

His eyes travel all over my face, his gaze penetrating me, wrecking me. “Which is?”

I clear my throat. “Making sure your band has a good social media following that doesn’t paint you as oversexed.”

“Rock stars are supposed to be oversexed.” His eyes travel down my throat, and the intensity of his gaze makes me burn like I have not burned in years. “Reckless.” He leans in a bit and inhales. “They’re supposed to take what they want, who they want. Rock stars seduce the crowd while onstage. They give the listener—”

“Stop,” I whisper as his hand takes mine.

“When you tell me what the deal is with you and me, I’ll stop.” He takes my other hand, the bottle now gone.

I should pull away. I should stop playing this game when it’s already clear I am in over my head.

“Whatever it is you’re doing here—”

“My job,” I say, summoning strength.

“Which is?” I feel his thumb brush across my knuckles, first my left hand then my right.

I take in a deep breath, fully prepared to be strong until he says, “Do you want to kill me or fuck me?”

The way he says it … God, the way he says it rattles me. It knocks me off my game, makes me forget the game. It makes me realize this isn’t a game. Everything has changed.

He leans in slowly, and I know it like I know the back of my hand. I know I’m … gone.

I lick my lips, readying myself for the inevitable as he leans left. The scruff of his beard softly scratches my cheek as his breath hits my ear.

I am supposed to hate him—I want to hate him—but right now, hate is not what I am feeling.

“I know you haven’t figured it out yet, Sonya, but when you do, will you let me know? You’re fucking with me, fucking with me hard. And I am telling you right now, I can’t handle wondering which one it is.”

As my head drops to his shoulder, I feel his arm pull me in closer. I feel emotions. I feel. I feel, and I don’t want to.

“I can’t find my coat,” I say as I push away from him. “My keys are in my coat. I need to—”

“Stay then. Stay here.”

Being free from his touch gives me back some of my strength. Not a lot, but a little. As a result, I shake my head.

He looks hurt or angry, possibly both.

I feel like I am betraying myself when I say, “Fine, I’ll stay. But we work.”

He looks down, confused, and then shakes his head. “You do know that wasn’t one of the choices, right?” He peers up through his insanely dark lashes and smiles a smile that, for once, feels sincere. I hate it and want it at the same time.

“You do know you’re high, right?” I retort, allowing myself to enjoy the moment as the muck clears and his eyes soften.

He holds his fingers up, pinching his thumb and pointer finger almost together. “A little.” He stands, looking at me, studying me in a way I have never been studied. “You’re not a redhead.”

My hand instinctively goes to my hair. “I am right now.”

He reaches out and touches my hair. “I like red.”

I know he does.

“I mean, I used to like red.” Like a stone being thrown onto a pond, the muck returns.

I turn away as he takes a drink.

“You wanna work, None-ya?”

I decide to take the opportunity, knowing he is too in a fog to try to get something done. “Sure.” I walk around and sit on the couch, “My coat is gone, so I don’t have my phone. I normally would take notes on it, but—”

He pulls his phone from the pocket of his black, loose-fitting jeans, reaches over the couch, and hands it to me. “You need to set up that social media shit, anyway, right?”

I nod. “Yeah.” I look back as he runs his hands through his thick, black hair. “Care to sit?”

“Probably not. I may fall asleep,” he answers, looking toward the door. “I’m gonna go have a smoke. Password is bass and the number one.”

I watch him walk to the sliding door and open it, seeming in a hurry to get away.

I know this is probably my only chance to get answers from him since his guard is down, so I get up and make my way out. I look to my right, expecting him to be sitting on the patio, but he’s not. Then I look out toward the water and see him in the moonlight, looking up, the cherry of his cigarette burns red.

I am just about to go to him when he turns around as if he knows I’m coming.

“Almost done,” he yawns out.

“Just thought I’d ask a couple questions out here, if you don’t mind?”

“Shoot,” he says, taking a slow drag off his cigarette.

“Just the normal bio stuff. Where did you grow up?”

“Ohio,” he answers on an exhale.

“Town?”

He looks at me and cocks his eyebrow.

“Is there a reason you don’t want to say?”

“It’s in the past, Sonya.”

“I can get the infor—”

“Next question,” he cuts me off.

“Date of birth?”

“November nineteenth, 1991,” he answers coldly.

I don’t want to lose him. I want to keep him engaged and comfortable, so I ask a simple question.

“Can you tell me your band members’ birthdays so I don’t have to bother them?”

He looks at me quizzically.

“I guess I could get that information from—”

“Memphis is August sixth; he’s the youngest in the band—1993. River is January twentieth, same year as me. Billy is March twenty-eighth, also ’91,” he answers without even thinking.

“Your musical inspiration?”

“Zeppelin. Memphis loves Eddie Vedder; River is a Nirvana junky, and God willing, I hope he doesn’t end like Cobain did; Billy likes all the old jazz.”

“Jazz?” I ask, almost shocked.

His lip curls up at the corner in a smirk. “Not sure this was ever in the stars for him, but I’m grateful he’s here.”

“Because he’s the responsible one?”

His head whips around, and he looks at me. “He’s one of them. I’m the other.”

“Right,” I say as I tap the notes into his phone that Finn Beckett is responsible. After all, it’s his bio, not mine.

He flicks his cigarette on the beach and kicks some sand around, covering it before he sits.

“Keep ’em coming, Sonya.” He digs his feet into the sand and places his hands behind his head, looking up at the stars.

“Hobbies include star gazing?”

He looks up at me. “I like a clear, night sky”—he points up—“and Orion, the Hunter.”

“Resident star gazer,” I confirm.

“Sure.”

“Do you have siblings?” I ask.

“Nope. You?” He looks at me, and I shake my head.

“When did you become—” I stop when a chilly night breeze captures my breath.

He stands up and smacks his hands together, ridding them of sand. “Cold?”

“Yeah.” I nod.

He reaches over his shoulder and grips his Henley, pulling it over his head. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a tattoo, a V, and light sprinklings of dark hair trailing down under the waistband of his jeans. Then he pulls down the white T-shirt, covering himself. “Here.”

“It’s okay.” I hold my hand out, stopping him from giving me his shirt.

“You’re cold, Sonya. Either go inside or put this on.” He sets it on my shoulder as he walks toward the house.