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  He turned toward the woman beside him. His brush-off hadn’t sent her packing. “What are you having?” he asked.

  “Appletini.”

  She sipped the pale green cocktail through a tiny straw, her eyes giving him hints about what she’d be willing to suck on if he presented it to her.

  “Wanna taste?”

  She held her glass out to him, but he lifted a hand and shook his head. He didn’t want to lead her on. It wasn’t his style. She was hot, and normally he’d have loved to have a great time with her, but he wasn’t interested. Not tonight. Having always been driven by feelings and needs, Steve wasn’t one to overthink why he didn’t want her. He just didn’t.

  “Do most chicks like those drinks?” he asked the bartender, who shrugged. Steve sighed. “Give me an appletini.”

  While he waited for the bartender to mix the vile-looking concoction, he glanced over his shoulder and saw that the crowd had finally thinned around Baroquen; Max had entered the room, and crowds naturally gravitated toward him. Even five hot chicks in corsets and short skirts were less of a draw than Exodus End’s exasperating lead singer.

  Steve scraped his drink and the newly mixed appletini from the surface of the bar, gave Logan a nod—though he was deeply immersed in conversation with Toni now and didn’t notice—and crossed the room, unable to take his eyes off a certain keyboardist. Perhaps she sensed the weight of his interest because when he was about ten feet away, she sent a few exceedingly sharp eye daggers in his direction and turned her back on him.

  Steve stopped walking and gawked at her very cold shoulder. It had been a while since a woman had rebuffed him. Been even longer since one had posed any challenge. The corner of his mouth curved upward as he resumed his current trajectory. He stopped about two feet from her.

  She tried so hard to ignore him that her body went stiff. If he shifted into her peripheral vision, she turned away slightly, until they were practically twirling in circles.

  “The asshole brought you a drink,” he said.

  “No, thank you.”

  “He also wanted to apologize for calling you a hooker.” Surely that would make her at least glance at him, maybe even smile. But no. “I didn’t really think you were a hooker. It was a joke.”

  “Not a very funny one.”

  “Yeah, well, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  She angled toward him—finally—and their eyes met. Hers were a deep green with a beguiling rim of gold around the iris—undoubtedly the most beautiful eyes he’d ever stared into. His heart skipped a beat and began to pound as familiar lust scorched his veins. She licked her lips and turned again. “Apology accepted. Excuse me.”

  She walked away. From Steve Aimes. Like he was just some random douchebag on the dance floor hitting on her. What the fuck? He trailed after her and tapped the edge of her drink glass against her shoulder.

  She stopped and turned slowly.

  “Your drink.”

  “I don’t drink,” she said, her eyes cold as she stared up at him. “And in case I wasn’t clear, I’m not interested, so go bother someone else.”

  He actually felt a stab of hurt with the added knife twist of insecurity. He hadn’t been rejected in a great long while, and he wasn’t sure why instead of turning him off—he could have his choice of easy pussy in the room—it made him ache for her.

  “I think you’ve misjudged me,” he said.

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I seriously doubt that.”

  At least he had her talking. “I wanted to welcome you to the tour and ask if there was anything I could do to make this transition easier, but I guess you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself.”

  She stiffened slightly.

  “So I’ll be on my way.” He tossed back her drink, forcing himself not to wince at the sweet and tart flavor of it. “Thanks for the drink.” He tilted the empty glass in her direction and nodded.

  When he turned to walk away, she touched his arm. Her fingertips seemed to burn into his flesh.

  “Wait,” she said, shouting over the loud Pantera song blaring in the background. “You probably think I’m some ball-busting megabitch.” He liked that about her. “If you want to talk business, I’d love to hang out with you, but if you’re just trying to get in my pants . . .” The fire was back in her sensational eyes as she quirked an eyebrow. “. . . still not interested.”

  “I assure you,” he said, “I only want to talk business.” When had he become such an accomplished liar? He almost had himself believing his words.

  “Do you want to go out on the balcony?” she yelled. “It’s a little quieter out there, and I could use some fresh air.”

  And privacy? Was she looking for privacy? Hell yeah, he wanted to go out on the balcony and be alone with her.

  “Do you want to grab a drink first?” He jerked a thumb toward the open bar.

  “Just water for me, but you go ahead.”

  He didn’t want to drink if she wasn’t drinking. “I could use some water myself. I get dehydrated onstage, and we played three encores tonight.” That statement usually made a woman gush her appreciation of his skill on the skins—he knew for a fact that he was the most imitated drummer in all of metal music—but Roux merely nodded.

  “I know exactly what you mean,” she said.

  He wasn’t sure how much sweat could pour off a keyboard player, but the stage lighting was brutal regardless of the amount of energy one expended onstage. She followed him to the bar, and Steve got more than one odd look when he ordered two waters. He handed her a little plastic cup brimming with ice water, took his own, and followed her toward the balcony. He tried not to stare at her ass and legs too much as they crossed the now-crowded dance floor. Max, who loved to dance, was surrounded by two-thirds of the women in the room as his dance partners. The charismatic lead singer even managed to give each one of them a bit of personal attention. Steve concentrated on following Roux as she navigated the edge of the undulating crowd, pulling his eyes off her ass every few seconds to make sure she didn’t catch him checking her out. But who could blame him? The woman was fucking exquisite.

  A cool breeze stirred against his heated skin when she pushed the balcony door open. Dare was standing alone, staring out into the lights of the city. He turned toward them and nodded, a greeting that Steve returned. Steve wasn’t sure how Dare managed to be a loner no matter the size of the crowd around him. Was even less sure how he could like being alone, but there was no denying he did.

  “Hello, Dare,” Roux said. “Is it okay if I call you Dare? Or should I call you Mr. Mills?”

  Dare chuckled, his good-natured smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Dare is fine. You’re Rrr-raww-roxie?” He squinted, as if that would make him recall her name.

  “Roux,” Steve said. “She’s the one who plays keyboard.”

  Roux slapped his forearm playfully. “An instrument Steve does not approve of in a metal band.”

  Fuck. So she remembered all the stupid shit that had spewed from his mouth in the limo? Sam had been there. Steve could not be expected to maintain good manners with that greedy son of a bitch in close quarters. Regardless, Steve shouldn’t have insulted her. He was sure Roux was an excellent musician. Because greedy sons of bitches like Sam wouldn’t waste time on a band that wasn’t phenomenal, no matter how sexy they looked. Unless Sam planned to market their look rather than their sound. Steve wouldn’t put it past the guy. He kept trying that stupid shit with Reagan, and Reagan wouldn’t have it, but these young women seemed a bit more accommodating to Sam’s bullshit. Steve wondered if he could protect them from the wolves. Or at least one wolf.

  “I’m sure you could prove me wrong,” Steve said, tossing back his water and wishing it was whiskey. “Maybe a keyboard isn’t completely stupid. Progressive rock bands seem to like them okay.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him, and he couldn’t help but smile. He’d known at first gl
ance that she was beautiful and sexy, but it seemed she was playful and fun too. He did love a good time.

  “A lot of metal bands are introducing new elements to their music,” Dare said. “Keeps things interesting.”

  “I prefer the standard bass, rhythm and lead guitars, and most importantly, drums, but I’m old school,” Steve said.

  “Are you sure you’re not just old?” Roux smirked as she sipped water through a tiny red straw.

  Was that why she wasn’t interested in him, because he was old? Since when was thirty-four old? Since she was probably twenty. He tried not to think about the logistics of the age difference too much. She was definitely a fully grown woman.

  “You’re not even old enough to drink, are you?” he asked. “That’s why you refused that apple shit I tried to give you.”

  “What?” She shook her head. “I’m plenty old enough to drink and have been for several years. I just don’t.”

  “And why not? Afraid you’ll fall for my charm if you’re drunk?”

  “That’s the only way I’d fall for a guy like you.”

  A guy like him? What kind of guy did she think he was?

  “He’s actually pretty cool when he doesn’t drink,” Dare said. “But judging by the size of the party in there, that condition’s not going to last long.”

  “I don’t have to drink to have a good time,” Steve said.

  “But it helps.” Dare shifted away from the railing and turned to the glass doors that led back to the good time inside. “It was nice talking with you, Roux. If you or any of your bandmates need to vent, I’m told I’m a pretty good listener.”

  She beamed. “You’re a real class act, Dare Mills,” she said, toasting him with her half-finished glass of water.

  Unlike your friend here remained unspoken, but Steve felt the insinuation clear to his bones.

  Dare opened the patio door, and the blare of an old Aerosmith song punctuated his return to the party. Steve would have bet his favorite drum set that the guitarist would seek out his little brother, Trey, within the next few minutes and then leave the party early. Dare was predictable that way. It was not a trait Steve shared with him.

  He turned to Roux, who was admiring the city lights of the New York City skyline. “I’ll miss this while we’re in Europe,” she said.

  “Not if you’re doing it right,” he said with a laugh. He’d made so many plans with Zach regarding what they’d do at each stop along the tour—hadn’t been much sightseeing in those plans. Steve stared down into his glass of water—was he seriously drinking water just to get in this chick’s pants—his mouth set in a hard line. Technically, it wasn’t her fault that Zach’s band had been kicked off the tour prematurely. That was all on Sam.

  “I’m sorry I called you an asshole,” she said.

  He shrugged. “I’ve been called a lot worse.”

  “I’m the only one of my friends who doesn’t drink, so I’m always the designated driver, and drunks are really fucking annoying when you’re sober.”

  “Never noticed that.”

  “You’re probably one of the drunks, then.”

  He chuckled. “True. Is there a reason you don’t drink? Or do you just not like it?”

  She stared at him for a moment, as if trying to decide if he was worthy of knowing her secrets. “My father was an alcoholic.”

  “I see.” He felt there was a lot more to the story than that, but he didn’t press her. “How did you get into music?”

  Her body relaxed slightly. “My foster mother was a music teacher.”

  Foster mother? There was definitely more to the alcoholic father story, then.

  “So she introduced you to music?” He moved closer to Roux at the railing until their arms touched—a little test of her receptiveness to him—and she produced a little shudder. When she didn’t move away, he knew he wasn’t the only one feeling the attraction between them.

  “Not just me,” Roux said. “All of us.”

  “All of who?”

  “My bandmates. Mama Ramona raised us all. Gave the gift of music to as many of us that would take it.”

  “You grew up with your bandmates?”

  “For the most part. We’re foster sisters. I didn’t start living with them until I was twelve. Lily—she’s our drummer—was Mama’s first foster daughter. Mama’s had twelve of us in her care at one time or another. I guess that would be thirteen now. I think a new little one moved in a few weeks ago. I’ve lost track now that we moved from Boston.”

  Boston? She didn’t have an accent that he could detect.

  “You don’t seem bitter about your family situation at all,” he said, watching her face and the genuine love that shone in her eyes as she spoke of Mama Ramona.

  “Why would I be bitter? That woman took me in, showed me love, taught me how to believe in my dreams, how to make a future for myself, gave me the gift—and curse . . .” She laughed, the soft sound making him want her even more. “. . . of a dozen sisters. On top of it all, she taught me how to play the piano.”

  “So what happened to your real parents?” he asked, genuinely interested.

  “It’s not a fun story,” she said, her hand fiddling with something dangling from her bracelet. After a moment, she released what he assumed was a charm of some sort and pressed her wrist out of view behind her back. “Aren’t we supposed to be celebrating tonight?”

  “If you don’t want to talk about it—”

  She shrugged. “Telling the story doesn’t bother me. It bothers the people I tell.”

  “I think I can handle it.” He leaned against the railing, expecting to hear a story of abandonment. As her focus shifted inward, the flash of pain that crossed her face and the unexpected tug at his heart made him wonder if he could handle seeing her hurt.

  Three

  Roux didn’t want to like Steve. Lust him? She was okay with that. She could appreciate his gorgeous face, the deep and expressive brown eyes, and the lean, muscular body without taking their attraction any farther. But liking him as a person made him all that much harder for her to resist. And she absolutely refused to sleep around with anyone on this tour. This was her job—unbelievable as that still was to her—and business and pleasure should never mix. So maybe she shouldn’t let him see her heart, because if he saw it—damaged as it was—and he accepted it, she knew she wouldn’t be able to walk away from the lust between them. So she’d be perfectly okay with him deciding her past was too fucked up for him to handle. Maybe that was why she was so willing to share the details she usually kept to herself.

  Without speaking, Roux tugged the bodice of her dress down to expose the inner curve of her breast. His eyes widened, and he licked his lips, taking an eyeful without apology. She knew the exact moment his gaze found the puckered round scar just to the right of her breastbone, because he stiffened, and his eyes lifted to meet hers.

  “Is that . . . ?”

  “My father gave me that the night he shot my entire family and then turned the gun on himself.”

  “Your father? Your father shot you?”

  He lifted his finger toward the scar, the only external reminder of all her other scars. Ones that ran so deep, she’d never forget. But she didn’t want to forget what had happened that night, and she would never forgive the drunk who’d taken everything from her. Steve’s finger hovered an inch from her skin, but he didn’t touch her, not with his flesh. She could feel his soul reaching out to hers, however, as they stared into each other’s eyes.

  “He shot my mother first. He always got paranoid when he was drunk, thought she was fooling around on him. I was upstairs in my room, but I could hear her down in the kitchen screaming that she was leaving for real this time and that she was taking the kids with her. He told her that she’d never leave him. He wouldn’t allow her to take his kids from him. When she tried to run upstairs, he shot her in the back.”

  “God.”

  “I heard his footsteps on the stairs. Panicked, I hid in
my closet. Instead of trying to stop him, I hid. My little sister was running down the hall to my room for protection when he shot her in the face. She was eight.” Roux could have provided more details, but the cruelty of her father’s actions was gruesome enough without sharing the full reality of his crimes.

  “Roux, I don’t know what to say.”

  She could feel him pulling away from her, shielding himself from the dark corners of her past, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop herself from telling him the rest.

  “My baby brother was in his crib. Not quite two years old. He was screaming in terror; the sound of gunfire had woken him. My father silenced him next, and then he came for me. He was as angry as he was insane by the time he grabbed my ankle and dragged me out of the closet. Maybe that’s why he shot me in the chest instead of in the head. I was still conscious when he put the gun in his mouth and finished what he started.” Lost in memories, she could feel the rain of his hot blood over her face followed by the heaviness of his arm across her hips. She didn’t remember what had happened next or how she’d survived. She’d been unconscious when the police arrived.

  Steve covered his mouth with one hand and swallowed. Did her story make him sick? Good. Let it fester in him the way it had festered in her until she’d found an outlet for her anguish. She wasn’t sure she would have ever moved on without music in her life. The classical piano she’d been introduced to first had soothed her aching soul. The angry rock she’d later discovered had become an outlet for her rage. The closeness of her bandmates and the pasts that tried to destroy each of them in a different way had finally given her the ability to look to her future instead of being crippled by her past.

  Words tumbled from her lips, each delivered to push the rock god before her farther away.

  “The bullet meant to end me grazed my heart and lodged in a rib in my back. I still don’t know why I’m alive. The doctors said it was a miracle. The bullet missed the major blood vessels behind my heart by a fraction of an inch.” She showed him her bracelet that had a bullet dangling from it like a charm. The only thing lucky about it was that it hadn’t killed her, but it had given her strength for years. If she could survive being shot point blank in the chest by her own father, she could survive anything. “A truly amazing surgeon took this out. They were afraid the bullet would work free and end me long after the bastard who put it there was cold in his grave, so they risked the surgery.”