"You're not going in?" I jerked in surprise and was met by the most beautiful blue eyes. They reminded me of the sky on a warm summer day. His blond hair looked messy, but in a sexy kind of way. The musky scent of his cologne tickled my nose and sent a surge of warmth all the way to my toes. My eyes traveled across his broad chest and down his tattooed arms. Holy shit, he was hot. He must be one of the roadies. I suddenly wanted to climb him like a tree.

"I'm just waiting on my friend." I nodded toward the door, swallowing the huge lump in my throat.

"So, why aren't you in there?"

"It's not exactly my thing," I said, looking down at my phone, trying to ignore the sparks flying between us.

"You don't like the band? Wait, let me guess, you're here for your friend." He cocked his head to the side, and a sexy smirk appeared on his too handsome face—blond hair falling over his right brow.

"It's not that I don't like the band. I don't like rock stars, period. They're arrogant assholes who think they're God's gift to the universe," I replied. A guy with a headset and a clipboard walked past and gave a quick what's up nod, which blue eyes returned. His brows pinched together as if he were considering what I'd just said.

"They kind of are, aren’t they?" He responded, sighed, and then laughed.

He placed his hand on the doorknob and looked back at me over his shoulder. It was almost as if he wanted to say something and changed his mind.

"You're going in?" I asked, cocking my brow this time.

"Yeah. I guess I am. Wish me luck." He flashed me a sexy grin, before stepping inside, and letting the door close behind him.

"Good luck with that," I mumbled to the wooden door, watching it close behind his muscular back.

Thirty minutes later and one very excited friend, we were ushered to our assigned area near the front of the stage. We were in the middle of a sea of half-naked women. Some staggered, obviously already drunk. It was frickin’ hot in there, women were pushing and shoving to get closer to the stage, and the cover band hadn't even finished yet.

"You should have gone in there with me. They are so unbelievably hot. I mean sex on a stick, even that Honor chick. She's beautiful. If I were a lesbian, I'd totally hit on her!" Jules giggled. "Did I show you the signatures?" She asked again for the tenth time, pulling down the low V of her t-shirt, to reveal the band’s autographs on her breasts.

"Yes, Jules. I've seen them. You do know; those will wash off when you shower. Right?" Her smile dropped as if she'd just realized there was no Santa Claus or Easter bunny, but recovered just as quickly.

"I'll have them tattooed on my skin!" My mouth dropped open, and I stared at her with sheer horror that she'd even consider inking their names on her skin, let alone her breasts. I couldn't imagine being intimate with someone, them sucking on my breast that bore another man's name. What the hell?

"You're obviously not thinking straight right now because that's nuts! We'll talk about it tomorrow when your head isn't so screwed up."

"Okay. You can talk, but I'm not promising I'll listen. I mean, after all, it's like when you sign your name on the bathroom wall. Jules wuz here! It's kind of a reminder that Levi Cross had his hands on my boobs! Wait, that didn't come out right. You know what I mean." She chewed her bottom lip, trying to come up with a better example than comparing herself to a dirty bathroom wall.

"Yeah. I get it."

Everyone around us screamed a high-pitched, ear-splitting scream, as the lights went down and the soft back glow of Dirty Affliction's purple guitar, lit up on the backdrop. The steady beat of a drum began, soon the sounds of a guitar and bass blended in, and the lights came up on the stage.

There was a guy on the left side of the stage, playing guitar. He was covered in tattoos from his fingertips to his neck. He had a blue Mohawk and was wearing a pair of long, black denim shorts that stopped just below the knee, which revealed tattooed legs.

There was a beautiful girl on the right side of the stage, playing bass. She had long, blond hair with pink streaks running through it. She was wearing a purple tank top and black skinny jeans. Her arms were also covered in tattoos.

The drummer was at the back of the stage. He had dark hair, almost black. He lifted his tattooed arms, twirled his drumsticks between his fingers, and counted in time, just as the lead singer rose from a lift beneath the stage. Holy. Shit. It's him! It was blue eyes!

"That's him! That's him!" Jules squealed and dug her fingers into my arm again. My heart rate sped up as I looked at him, I mean really looked at him up on that stage. His blond hair messier than before, probably from all the groupies running their fingers through it at the meet and greet. His muscles strained beneath his tight, white t-shirt with the band logo stretched across his broad chest. The colorful ink on his arms stood out underneath the stage lights like a beautiful painting on his skin. He was bigger than life and commanded the stage. I just thought it was hot in here before, but when he opened his mouth to sing and his beautiful voice floated through the crowd, a shiver ran down my spine all the way to my damp panties.

"Hold what ya got LA, because we're gonna burn this mother fucker down! Damn, it's good to be home!" He growled into the microphone. The crowd exploded as he thrust his crotch toward the women in the front row. Hands shot up, groping, grabbing, touching anything, and every part of him, they could reach. Part of me was so turned on by wishing that I was close enough to touch him, but another part of me was disgusted just thinking about it.

This was just one of the reasons my ex and me broke up. He started the whole groupie thing before the ink was dry on the contract. He, on the other hand, was perfectly okay with it. The proof was in the tabloids every time I went to the grocery store. New pictures, different women on the front pages grabbing some guys junk, just because they could.

"I bet that Rock God could fuck you six-ways to Saturday," Jules shouted from beside me.

"I believe the phrase is, 'Seven-ways to Sunday.'"

"Nah . . . I'm pretty sure with him, you'd need a day of rest," she nodded. Now that I'd gotten a really, good look at him, I thought she was probably right, and even after the seventh day, you'd probably still have issues walking. Oh God, how I'd like to find out. I still hadn't told her that I met him backstage before the show. I thought I’d keep that tidbit for myself.

After party

Peyton

The after party was at a very swanky hotel in downtown LA. It was known for catering to the who's, who in the entertainment industry. When we stepped inside, I was in awe at what I'd seen. It was what I imagined a party at the playboy mansion would be like. There were more half-naked women, walking around with trays filled with shot glasses containing some kind of blue, glowing drinks. Jules snatched a couple of them for us as one of the women weaved her way through the crowd.

"Wow," Jules commented, as she grabbed my elbow and pulled me through the crowd, toward the bar across the room.

"You can say that again." I answered, giggling nervously. I'd never in my life, been in a room with a famous person, but there must have been hundreds of them there. Not just musicians, but models, actors¸ and reality stars. "Is that Adam Levine?" My mouth dropped open, when I saw him walk through the crowd and head toward the bar on the far side of the room.