Jared stepped forward as well, told the crowd to “Make some fucking noise!”

Much feet-stomping and clapping ensued, and Jamison was right there with the rest of the audience, screaming herself hoarse as Ryder and her brother teased them into a frenzy. And then, just when it felt like the amphitheater was going to explode from excitement, they dueled.

It was the most beautiful, the most perfect, thing she had ever seen. Her brother was in his element, huge smile on his face, fingers flying over the guitar strings so fast at times that they seemed to blur. On and on he played, his talent as mind-blowing as his grin was infectious, until finally he reached a shattering crescendo.

The last notes of his solo were still ringing through the amphitheater when he stepped back and Ryder took over.

Though he was the band’s front man, Ryder was almost as good a guitarist as her brother. But where Jared was totally engaging and fun to watch, listening to Ryder play was like opening a conduit straight to the rawest part of the human soul. It was amazing and terrifying in equal measures, and so spellbinding that he caught an audience of thirty thousand in his web and held them there, suspended, as his guitar wailed in agonized ecstasy.

Suddenly Ryder hit a particularly complicated series of chords and the fans behind her shouted their approval. He grinned—a dark, haunting twist of his lips that came and went so quickly that she almost thought she’d imagined it. Except she was pressed up against the stage now, so close that she could see his eyes. Deep and dark though they were, for a minute, just a minute she’d glimpsed a flash of pure enjoyment. And then she lost it as he tilted his head forward so that his chin-length black hair fell over his face, obscuring him for long seconds from the prying eyes of the crowd.

She took advantage of the moment, studied him the way she’d always wanted. Normally, when he was around, she was too afraid of being caught watching him to look her fill. But tonight she didn’t need to worry about that. He’d already proved he couldn’t see her clearly when he failed to recognize her earlier. That was all the encouragement she needed to gawk at him.

At his long, lean body that towered seven inches above her own five-eight.

At his tanned, muscular arms with their gorgeous sleeves of tattoos—black tribal bands on one and a phoenix on the other.

At the nipple piercing outlined by the tight fit of his black V-neck T-shirt.

He was gorgeous—wicked, dark, and so, so lovely with his too-pretty face—and she knew when she crawled into her lonely bed tonight, this image of him would be burned into her brain.

Head bowed, lost in his own little world, Ryder played another complicated set of notes that ended so abruptly the audience flinched a little, she along with them. Then he stepped back so that Jared could once again take the spotlight.

On and on it went, the two of them dueling until their fingers had to be burning. The audience was beside itself, women—and men—screaming themselves hoarse, the crowd literally seething with delight.

And then Jared and Ryder backed up to each other and played the last section together, their fingers flying faster and faster over the guitar strings until their separate notes blurred into the most amazing sound she had ever heard.

Their shirts grew drenched, their faces grew taut, and still they played.

Their arms trembled visibly at the strain, their shoulders bowed in protest, and still they played.

Finally, finally the last notes rang through the amphitheater—loud, gorgeous, flawless-- along with a kickass pyrotechnic display that took her breath away, and she didn’t know whether to weep or to cheer. They’d always wanted to include special effects like those, but had never been able to afford it before this tour.

Shaken Dirty really had hit the big time.

The crowd behind her didn’t have any of her confused reticence. They went crazy as fire exploded across the stage.

Jared—ham that he was—stepped up to the microphone and thrust both fists in the air as he claimed victory.

Ryder only laughed, his low, husky voice carrying through the amphitheater as he told the crowd, “Just go along with Jared. We like to let him think he wins, or he’ll spend the rest of the night pouting.”

“Fuck you, Ryder! I did win! Right, guys?” Jared held his arms out to the crowd and gestured for their support. Soon half the place was chanting his name.

“Good job!” Ryder said with a sexy wink. “He’ll never suspect a thing. But just to be clear. We all know who really won, right?”

The other half of the audience began screaming for Ryder, and once again Jamison found herself right there with them. Oh, she knew Jared was technically the better guitarist, but Ryder’s sound was amazing. He was dark to Jared’s light, brooding and dangerous to Jared’s good time. He attacked his guitar, made violent love to the instrument while Jared cradled his like a baby.

Both sounds worked, and worked well, but watching Ryder was like watching sex in motion. It totally revved her engine, even as she knew nothing would come of it. She’d thrown herself at him once when she was seventeen and been rejected—albeit as nicely as Ryder was capable of rejecting someone—but it had still stung. She wouldn’t make that mistake again, would have to be content to worship him from afar instead. Just like every other woman in the place.

As they launched into “Battleground,” their most famous single to date, Ryder ripped off his shirt and tossed it into the crowd. It landed a little to the right of her and the people around her went nuts trying to get to it. Jamison didn’t move, though. She couldn’t, not when all that bronze skin and that perfect eight-pack of abs was on display. Not when he was standing up there, the black tribal tattoos that covered his torso just adding to the image of the sex god the media portrayed him to be.

She shuddered, pressed her legs together to stop the burn even as she crossed her arms over her suddenly aching breasts.

No, she thought as Ryder continued to sing. The need was nothing new. But this brutal intensity—that had come when he’d thrown that I-want-to-fuck-you look her way and made it impossible to do anything but feel—sure as hell was.

After clawing her way through a mob of crazed fans and flashing her backstage pass at the security guys working the side entrance, Jamison slipped into the small crack they’d opened for her. As the door slammed shut, she couldn’t help the feeling of unreality that overwhelmed her.

All those screaming fans in the audience had been for Shaken Dirty.

All those frantic girls clawing at security—and each other—had been for her brother’s band.

It was beyond bizarre. Oh, from the very beginning, the guys had had girls, lots and lots of girls, sniffing around them. More than once she’d had to push her way through them to get to the guys. It was part and parcel of the shaggy-haired, rock and roll band thing. But that had been at dingy little clubs when they were just getting their start, back when she’d tagged along anywhere they were willing to bring her. But this, this was different. It was out of a movie—or a Rolling Stone article. The band had hundreds upon hundreds of groupies, all desperate to be shaken. Dirtied.

It was going to take a little while for her to adjust to the new reality, especially when that new reality left her a little bruised and battered. Nothing like battling through a throng of screaming women to take it out of a girl.

Glancing around, she tried to get her bearings. She was at the end of a long, windy hallway. There were a bunch of doors on each side, but none of them were labeled, so she had no idea if one of them was her brother’s dressing room or not. And considering there were four other bands on tour with Shaken Dirty, it probably wouldn’t work for her to just start knocking on random doors. The last thing she wanted was to be kicked out for disturbing “the talent.”