Her warm brown eyes met mine, and she smiled and held out her hand for a shake, which I accepted, highly suspicious.

“Hi, I’m Mike O’Flaherty—”

Gasping, I cried, “Shut the fuck up!”

“Have a seat, Mike,” said Phil.

“You’ve heard of me?” she asked as she sat across the booth from me.

“You’re only one of the greatest music journalists! I think I’ve read every article you’ve published. I thought you might have quit since I haven’t seen anything from you in a while.”

“Mike’s been more behind the scenes, I think, right?” said Phil.

She smiled. “Been doing a lot more editing than writing for the magazine. My schedule got a bit screwed for a while, and I couldn’t travel as easily.”

“Wow,” I breathed. “I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you.”

“Baby Girl, you weren’t even half this excited when we met,” huffed Phil.

“Were you?” Mike asked Phil.

“When I met Kenna, I nearly had a heart attack. I was that fuckin’ excited. She was like a damn cucumber, actin’ all cool—well, except she had some sweaty-ass hands.”

Tara and Stephen busted out laughing while my face went up in flames.

“So, are you conducting an interview with these guys, or…”

Mike swung her eyes to Phil. “You didn’t tell her?”

“Nope. I like surprisin’ her.”

“Tell me what?” My heart rate accelerated tenfold.

Mike smiled. “I’ve read your reviews—”

“What?” I gasped, suddenly wanting the ground to open up and swallow me—right after I punched Phil in the throat.

“Phil has been sending me your reviews of the up-and-coming talents, and I wanted to meet you.”

“I…okay,” I replied, feeling woozy and light-headed after the blinding rush of embarrassment.

“I like your style, the sophistication of your writing. I think it’s something I’d like to work with and promote. You have a brilliant way of expressing the music in words, and I think it’d be worth it to give you a shot. Your grammar is top-notch. I’d hardly have to edit a thing.”

My jaw hanging open, I swiveled to look up into the smiling face of my Dark God of the Universe. Pride and adoration just poured off him. It made my heart trip in my chest, feeling how much faith he had in me.

“I’ve got an interview with tonight’s headliner in about an hour,” said Mike.

My attention was pulled back to her.

“Would you like to join me?”

“I would love to.”

“Awesome,” she said, smiling.

Two hours later, Mike and I were exchanging phone numbers and email addresses, and we headed over to where Phil was hanging with a few other famous musicians, Dean, the guitarist for Black Prophecy, and his girlfriend, Robin, among them.

Phil’s face brightened when he caught sight of me. “How did it go?” he asked, holding out his hand to me and pulling me in close.

“She was great,” said Mike, a dazzling smile aimed my way. “We’ll be in touch.”

“You’re leavin’?” asked Phil.

“Yeah, I’ve got other responsibilities.” She laughed. “Kenna told me you just bought an apartment here, so hopefully, I’ll be able to see you all more.” With a small wave and a smile, Mike made her way out of the VIP balcony overlooking the stage.

“Phil?”

“Yeah, Baby Girl.”

“Please tell me you never slept with her,” I whispered.

His eyebrows shot to his hairline. “I’ve never slept with her. I’ve never done anythin’ with her.”

Slumping against him in relief, I hugged him hard around his tapered waist. “Cool. Because I really like her.”

He busted out laughing, and I gave Robin and Dean hugs. Then, I met some of metal’s New York elite.

The interview I had joined Mike on was for the band Freedom to Speak, a highly controversial and political hard rock–punk group that had been stirring up some serious interest in the northern East Coast. We had gone in armed with a recorder, and even though I had no questions of my own prepared, Mike had seemed impressed with the fact that I had busted out with my own notebook and pen, ready to scribble away.

“I take notes of the bands,” I’d sheepishly told her.

“I want you to take notes and write up a review on them. If it’s anything like your other reviews, I’ll include it in the article and give you credit, of course.”

Holy shit!

Meeting the band had been a blast. As much as they took their music and message seriously, they had been extremely open, non-chauvinistic, and friendly with us. They wrote and played on everything from the war in the Middle East to the abhorrence of rape culture, and I was really looking forward to listening to their set.

“Do you have any demos or albums out right now? Are you with a record label?” I’d asked the lead singer, Jeremy.

Fishing through a box, he’d handed me a few demos. “We aren’t signed with anyone.”

I’d gotten all their information, and I would be giving it to Phil if their music was worth it. Having a balls-to-the-wall band like Freedom to Speak might just be the direction NOLA Records would like to go.

Watching Freedom to Speak on stage and listening to them and their hard, edgy sound was perfect. Already, I was writing up a review in my head, and when I casually mentioned to Phil that they were unsigned, he nearly jumped over the balcony to get to the backstage area.

Grabbing my hand, he marched us down there, easily getting access from security. Freedom to Speak were walking off the stage when Phil accosted them.

“Oy! You guys aren’t signed?”

“Holy shit, that’s Phil fucking Deveraux!” croaked Jeremy.

His eyes darted to me, and I gave him a thumbs-up.

“Yeah, and he’s with the reporter chick. Cara?” asked the guitarist, Jimmy.

“Kenna,” corrected Phil. “My Baby Girl said you guys weren’t signed yet.”

“Kenna is Baby Girl?” asked the bass player, Larry.

“She is,” said Phil impatiently. “NOLA’s Junk has started our own label—”

Jeremy nodded. “Yeah, we’ve heard that.”

“If you guys are interested, I think we’d love to produce with you.”

Jeremy beamed from ear to ear. “Hell yeah. You guys wanna join us for a few beers?”

Phil looked to me. “If you wanna, Baby, I’m down.”

“Sure,” I replied.

Buzzing, we hailed a taxi and headed back for our last night at Stephen and Tara’s painfully colorful penthouse. Phil was feeling frisky and continuously groped me while waiting for the cab and then while in the cab. In the elevator, we were full-on making out. I would’ve been embarrassed, but Stephen and Tara were dry-humping up against the elevator wall anyway, so whatever. When the doors let out the soft ding, Phil tossed me over his shoulder and marched into the apartment.

“See y’all tomorrow,” he drawled at them, cavemanning it to our room.

“Oof!” I grunted as he put me on my feet.

“Baby Girl,” he panted, kicking off his shit-kickers, “I’m about to come in my fuckin’ pants.”

Seriously, the bulge was enormous.

“You fuckin’ looked like sex on legs all night, and I was watchin’ you flirt with everyone—”

“I was not!” I huffed, bending over and unzipping my boots.

“Stop!” he cried.

“What now?”

Hand whipping out, he pointed to the corner of the room. “You see that fuckin’ chair?”

“I do, yes.”

“I’m gonna fuckin’ sit in that fuckin’ chair, butt-ass nekkid, and I’m gonna watch you fuckin’ strip out of those second-skin jeans you’re wearin’. Don’t fuckin’ move until I fuckin’ tell you.”

With the level of profanity used, I could hazard a guess as to how painful his erection must be. Tearing himself out of his clothes, he threw them haphazard all over the room before settling his nekkid ass in the squishy-looking armchair.

His big hand wrapped around his huge cock, and my knees nearly buckled beneath me. Phil looked confident and delicious as all hell.