“You didn’t have to. It’s like you live in a different universe, Jamison. One where it doesn’t even occur to you that you aren’t the first one—and probably won’t be the last.”

Rage filled him all over again at the reminder of how he’d found her earlier. He wasn’t happy about not calling the police, but he’d known it wouldn’t do much good. No real damage had been done to Jamison—or so Max’s side would argue—and Ryder had no doubt that Max would end up weaseling out of everything.

He was going to have a talk with Max later today. Make sure the singer thought twice before he ever pulled any shit like that again. Make sure he understood that it would be detrimental to his health.

“You don’t know that he’ll hurt anyone else.”

Bullshit. If all he wanted was to get laid, why didn’t Max go for one of the many available girls backstage? He wanted to hurt you, because he could.” Ryder’s hands clenched into fists of their own volition. “How many times has that happened on this tour alone, right under my nose? I played poker with that asshole. Jammed with him more than once. And all this time he was—”

“Damn it, Ryder! You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” Jamison laid a hand on top of his, squeezed tightly. “You’ve been beating yourself up for nearly a decade. It has to stop.” She tried to put her arms around him, to hug him, but he wouldn’t let her. He couldn’t. Not when a lump was trying to form in the back of his throat. He swallowed it down, refused to give in to the emotions swamping him like a tsunami.

Shit, he should have ignored her. Should have had those extra shots of tequila. If he were still drunk then he wouldn’t be sitting here like a total pussy, trying not to lose it completely.

“Maybe you’re right,” he told her, reaching for the remote so he could turn the volume up on the TV set. “Maybe Iron Man really is the best Avenger. Sure, he doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut, but I guess that isn’t everything. Right, Jamison?”

She gasped and he knew he’d scored a direct hit, but he refused to apologize. Refused to so much as look at her. Instead, he kicked his legs up on the coffee table in front of them and concentrated on the movie like his life depended on it.

And maybe it did. God knew, he wasn’t going to make it if he had to rehash the past tonight—especially with Jamison. No, it would be better for everyone if he sat here and watched the stupid movie. The fact that he couldn’t see a damn thing thanks to the red haze in front of his eyes was entirely inconsequential.

He waited for her to take the hint that was really more of a No Trespassing sign—in neon lights—but she didn’t turn back to the movie. For long seconds, she didn’t do anything at all. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t settle back against the couch cushions. Hell, he wasn’t even sure that she breathed.

Instead, she just sat there, watching him. Willing him to look at her. To talk to her. But he wasn’t going to do that. Not now. Not—

“Ryder, please. Don’t—”

“Watch the movie, Jamison.”

“I don’t care about the movie. I care about you. About the way you always beat yourself up over things you have no control over.”

“Didn’t you get the memo? I’m a rock star, baby.” He sneered at her. “I’m way too self-absorbed to worry about anything but where my next drink and fuck are coming from.”

“Bullshit.” She put a trembling hand in the middle of his chest, right over his heart. Figuring she must be cold, he reached for the blanket at the end of the couch, started to cover her up. But then he realized she wasn’t the one shaking. He was. Goddammit.

“You need to back off, Jamison,” he told her through clenched teeth. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“You never want to talk. Not about this. That’s why you need to—”

“I don’t need to do a damn thing except get some sleep.” He stood up, tossed the remote onto the couch. “Do you want the bed?”

“I don’t give a shit about the bed! I want to talk to—”

“I guess that means I’ll take it.” He started across the room, in total self-preservation mode now. He wanted—needed—to get away. Sure, there was a part of him that thought about staying, to bask in the warmth that was pouring out from her. To touch and kiss her beautiful body and listen to all the lies she was so anxious to tell. To tell some lies of his own. Lies that would shut her up and get her into his bed so that he didn’t have to think, didn’t have to feel. Didn’t have to do anything but fuck.

But this was Jamison, not some groupie just looking for a good time. He couldn’t treat her like that.

She didn’t understand. She hadn’t been there. She didn’t know what had happened to Carrie, not really. Didn’t know that he’d turned away from her because of his own guilt. Didn’t know that—

He cut himself off. There was a whole hell of a lot Jamison didn’t know and he wasn’t going to beat himself up over it. Just like she was the one who refused to acknowledge that he wanted to be alone right now. So to hell with her feelings and to hell with being gentle. She obviously didn’t give a shit about how he felt.

“Get the hell away from me,” he snarled right before he got to his bedroom door.

She’d followed him and though he refused to look at her, he felt her recoil at his words. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to help.”

“What am I, a fucking charity case? When are you going to get it through your head that I don’t need your help? I don’t want your help! I’m fine,” he roared, putting his hands on her shoulders and backing her up against the hallway wall. Her eyes widened, the pulse at the base of her neck suddenly beating triple time.

He slid his hand from her shoulder to her collarbone, then up so his fingers were resting against the hollow of her throat. “I told you to stop, told you to back off. I told you I didn’t want to talk about it. But you keep pushing and pushing.”

He could feel her heart beating wildly beneath his hand, her breaths coming faster and faster. In response, he stroked his fingers over her too-fast pulse, then waited to see what she’d do. He wouldn’t hurt her—would never hurt her—but he wasn’t above backing her off if it would get him some peace.

She licked her lips, whispered his name. But his plan had backfired. There was no wariness in her eyes, no trepidation. Only the same desire that was currently raging inside of him. “Ryder—”

“You’re still talking.” He skimmed his palm up to her jaw, pressed his thumb against her mouth, and rubbed. The final remnants of last night’s lipstick smeared across her cheek.

“I’m sorry.”

She was apologizing for a lot more than saying his name, but he didn’t want to hear it. She’d pushed him too far. “So am I.”

Still, they couldn’t stand here like this all morning. He shifted, started to back off. And that’s when she did the one thing he absolutely wasn’t expecting. She bit him, hard, her small, white teeth sinking sharply into the pad of his thumb.

Jamison watched, heart in her throat, as Ryder’s eyes darkened from black to oblivion. She didn’t know why she’d done it except that there were so many emotions roiling around inside of her that she hadn’t known what to do with them all. Pity, sorrow, nervousness, affection, lust…

She knew she should have heeded his warning, knew she had no right to push him the way she had. But he was drowning and he didn’t even realize it. She’d had to say something. Then, when he’d backed her up against the wall—like that would do anything but turn her on—he’d been so beautiful and so angry and so sexy that she’d just snapped.

Now it looked like Ryder was the one on the brink of snapping. She expected, was prepared, for him to back off. To yell at her or threaten her or storm into his bedroom and slam the door, effectively ending their conversation once and for all. But in the end, he did none of those.