Was the whole damn world crazy around him? He’d heard enough to know that his sex life had to be the only normal one in his group of friends. He didn’t even want to know what kind of shit Micah put Angelina through. It would probably only piss him off. And Faith. God. His sister, for Pete’s sake.

He shook his head. No, he didn’t want to know the depravities that his friends indulged in. He was perfectly happy to be the boring vanilla one in the bunch.

He turned to eyeball Micah after the girls had gone. “Any luck getting her to the altar?”

Micah snorted. “I’m trying. Believe me. I’m a persistent man. It’ll happen soon.”

Pop grunted. “The problem with men today is they’re too busy being politically correct. You ought to just snatch her up and haul her to a priest. Or to Vegas like Gray did with Faith. If you wait around for a woman to make up her mind, you’ll be old and impotent by the time your wedding night gets here.”

Connor cracked up. “This might explain why you’ve now embraced bachelorhood indefinitely.”

Pop shook his finger at Connor and Micah. “Mark my words. I’m right. Look at what happened when Nathan stopped pussyfooting around Julie. He went over to where she was and hauled her out over his shoulder. Then he told her how it was going to be and voilà. Now they’re married. He’s happy. She’s happy. End of story. Not like Micah over here who mopes around like a friggin’ kicked puppy because he can’t convince the woman he loves that he really loves her and really wants to marry her. Jesus has to be crying up there somewhere. Or laughing hysterically. I can’t figure out which one.”

Micah’s lips curled into a snarl. “Enough already, Pop. You know I fucked up with her. I can’t just run over her and make her do what I want.”

“No, but you could damn well put your foot down and make her believe how you feel.”

“I’ve tried!”

“Then try harder,” Pop grumbled. “It’s getting to be like some couples’ retreat around here. It’s damn nauseating.”

Connor knew when a good time to escape was. Right now, when Pop was busy bitching about something else. Maybe by the time he remembered what he wanted Connor to do, the record company would have given up and hired someone else.

He was almost to the door. One more step and he would have made it home free.

“Your airline ticket is on your desk,” Pop called. “You fly out tomorrow morning. Now go home and pack a suitcase.”

Fuck a goddamn duck.

The arena reverberated with frantic music and a rainbow of cascading lights. Connor stood at the top of the stands, staring over the railing at the stage below. His ears were going to explode at any second, and he felt so dizzy from the rapid staccato of flashing lasers that he gripped the cool metal bar in front of him to steady himself.

With his free hand, he reached back and massaged a kink out of his neck. He’d been tense ever since this circus had started. How in the hell could anyone stand this cacophony on a regular basis? This wasn’t his type of music. How could it be anyone’s? How the hell did anyone even understand the screeching, if they could even hear it over the band? He’d much rather throw down with some Montgomery Gentry or Jason Aldean if he was going to subject himself to a concert.

Finally, the screeching stopped. There was a god.

Connor glanced back at the stage to see Lyric Jones saunter back out after her last hasty departure. Costume change, though why she bothered with this one, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t even have to be close to the stage to know she was barely wearing anything at all.

He glanced to the side where the record executives from Cosmic Records were taking in the show with him. They’d met his plane and drove him out to the arena in a limo. The whole thing was ridiculous, and he was still cursing the fact that he’d gotten saddled with flying out to talk to the parties involved.

As the music assaulted his ears again, he turned his attention back to the stage, just in time to see another scantily clad woman stroll toward Lyric. Best he could make out, the words to the song sounded something like “Girl Love.” He snorted.

The two women faced each other as Lyric sang. They were a study in contrast, probably well coordinated. Lyric was small and blackhaired, if you didn’t count the god-awful pink streak in it. The other woman was tall, luscious and blond, with a set of tits that had to be bought and paid for. He didn’t need binoculars to see that.

Then they moved closer, undulating their bodies in a suggestive manner. The crowd went nuts as the women pressed against each other. Lyric held the mic to her chest as she swayed in the other woman’s arms. As the song continued, Lyric turned and nestled her ass right into the blond woman’s crotch. The two continued their little bump and grind as the crowd roared their approval.

Why couldn’t Micah have taken this job? This would be right up his alley. Watching two women go at it? Micah would be drooling like a rabid pit bull. Of course, Angelina might kick some serious ass over it, but still. All Connor wanted was a good stiff drink and a bottle of ibuprofen.

By the time the song was winding down, the two women were meshed tighter than a snag in a fishing line. When the music died, Lyric let the mic fall and got into a lip-lock with the blonde that a fire hose wouldn’t have separated.

There was no way he could do this. Everything about the woman got on his last nerve, and he hadn’t even met her yet. He didn’t have to. It was all there for everyone to see. The record executives would be pissed, and Pop probably wouldn’t be too happy, but if he wanted the gig so bad, he could either do it himself or make Nathan or Micah do it. Their women would just have to get over it. Connor would take good care of the girls while Nathan and Micah were gone. That image made him grin.

He was ready to turn around and walk out when a softer, melodious tone poured into the arena. It made him pause for a brief second and look back at the stage. Lyric stood in the middle, a single spotlight focused on her. The rest of the stage was blacked out.

Her eyes were closed, and he got the crazy image in his head that she looked vulnerable. Then she opened her mouth, and for the first time that night, he could clearly hear her voice. It poured out of her like smooth, sweet honey. It crawled right over his skin and sent a shiver down his spine.

He stared, entranced by the image of her alone, her haunting, beautiful voice filling every nook and cranny of the packed house. He was struck by the sadness he felt radiating from her. More than sadness, it was pain.

His hands gripped the railing as he moved closer, his attention focused entirely on the woman singing. It wasn’t one of those insipid, self-reflection songs. It was about going home. He could feel the ache in her voice. It made him ache. Hell, it made him want to go home.

Across the arena, cigarette lighters flared and bobbed as hands shot into the air holding them. They waved in time as she stood, so still, face turned to the ceiling. He imagined her eyes were closed as the last of the words spilled from her lips.

The music faded, and for a moment, silence descended on the crowd. Then shrill whistles rent the air, followed by raucous cheers.

Lyric stepped back and waved to the crowd. She bowed once and hurried off the stage.

The record executives shifted beside him, and Connor looked over to see them staring at him.

“You ready to go meet our girl?” Phillip Armstrong asked.

Connor nodded, forgetting for a moment that all he really wanted to do was get the hell out while the getting was good. With a resigned sigh, he followed the suits to the backstage area.

Security, if you could call it that, was minimal. Fans swarmed the corridor, pushing, shoving and screaming. When a beefed-up, musclebound security guard standing outside the backstage door looked up and saw them coming, he snapped to attention and started shoving rabid fans to the side so they could pass.