I’m in hell. Who knew it served such good drinks? Shooting Scottie a glare, I answer Rye. “Doesn’t everyone talk about murder at some point?”

“I don’t know…” Rye scratches the dark-gold beard on his chin like he’s thinking about it, when I know he is not. He gives me a sly smile. “You seem to be inordinately preoccupied with murder.”

It’s so weird seeing him in the flesh now, I don’t know where to look. I aim for somewhere around his ear. “Oh, please.”

He shakes his head. “You’re always threatening to kill me.”

Scottie raises his Manhattan in cheers. “The woman is extraordinarily bloodthirsty.”

I huff out a laugh. “First off, everyone wants to kill Rye.”

“True,” Scottie concedes.

“Hey!” Rye scowls at us.

“And I wouldn’t be throwing stones.” I point my glass at Scottie. “There are Instagram accounts devoted to the people you have made cry in public.”

Rye grins wide. “Didn’t you start most of those accounts, Bren?”

I shrug. “If the content is real, does it matter?”

“Good point.”

“Your attempts at shaming are wasted on me.” Scottie turns to mix another drink. “I enjoy making entitled gits cry.”

“It’s a form of relaxation for Scottie,” Rye agrees with a nod. “Thing is, Brenna loves doing that as well. It’s like you two are the evil Wonder Twins. Partners in terrorizing the music world.” His gaze bounces between Scottie and me. “So, why does Brenna want to kill you?”

I glance at all available exits. It won’t do any good. Rye will find me.

Scottie sets a cocktail before Rye.

“Your cocktail of choice is a Moscow Mule?” I blurt out when Rye gives a smile of thanks and takes a drink. Honestly, these past few years, I rarely see him drink any alcohol other than a beer or a few shots of whatever liquor is on hand.

“It’s refreshing.” Rye gives me a sidelong look. “And stop trying to change the subject.”

Damn it, he’s like a tick on a dog’s butt.

“Brenna objects to my matchmaking efforts.”

Scottie might as well have dropped a stink bomb. Rye’s nostrils pinch on an indrawn breath. I hold in a curse and force myself to act natural, knowing I’m doing a shit job of it, knowing Scottie is far too observant.

Rye leans an elbow on the bar top. “Matchmaking isn’t your usual style.”

I give Rye credit. He’s clearly trying to appear unaffected; his smile holds its usual smirk, and his stance stays relaxed. The problem is, if it’s clear to me that he’s upset, then it’s obvious to Scottie. We all know one another too well, which is both a gift and a curse.

Scottie’s eyes narrow a fraction, then his expression smooths out. “I loathe the very idea of matchmaking.”

“Then why are you doing it?” Rye retorts.

They’re both staring at each other like gunslingers in a cheap Western. I want to run away from this nightmare, but I’m pathetically frozen in place.

A sly curve twists Scottie’s lips. “I’m a problem solver.”

“Oh, God,” I moan, unable to help myself. “Make it stop.”

Rye eyes me and offers a fake frown of concern. “You got a problem, Bren?”

He knows very well what my problem is: him.

“Need a little loving?”

I glare at his smug face. “Yes. And since Scottie cares, he’s going to procure a fine piece of ass for me. Aren’t you?”

Scottie’s grin is a quick flash of calculated evil. “Of course, love. Let’s bring him over so you can have a look.”

“What?” Blood rushes to my toes. “Now?”

No, no, no…

“Yes, now.” He quirks a black brow. “I told you there was someone I wanted you to meet.”

“I thought you meant to give me his number.”

“And not be there to intervene if you don’t find him acceptable? I don’t think so.”

Before I can stop him, Scottie turns and hails someone in the crowd.

Rye laughs, though there’s an edge to it that prickles along my skin. “This should be interesting.”

He sounds like he’s gritting his teeth. Good. We can suffer together. I shoot him a quelling look then straighten my shoulders. When there’s no escape, the only thing to do is let it ride. I can’t imagine who Scottie has in mind; I’ve vetted the guest list. But there are always a couple of strays invited last minute by one of the guys. I never suspected Scottie would offer an invite; the man basically hates everyone.

Despite the agony of this public matchmaking spectacle playing out in front of Rye, I’m now curious. Who the hell would Scottie like enough to set me up with? Because I know one thing to be true: he would never do this unless he was serious. But I don’t turn to see whoever it is that he’s called over. Neither does Rye. He watches me from under his lashes. White edges his knuckles as he grips the copper mug of his drink.

In my head, his offer makes a mockery of my outward calm. I want it to be me. I want to be the one you use.

Damn it all, I actually feel guilty, as though I’m somehow cheating on him. But I haven’t accepted his offer. I don’t even know if I’ll like Scottie’s friend. All I know is that I want to be anywhere but next to Rye right now.

I’m ready to tell him to go away, stop with the disapproving silence, when someone steps up to the bar next to me. And then my mind blanks because, holy hell, he is gorgeous. With dark-blond hair the color of butterscotch, lake-blue eyes, and an easy smile that promises a good time, the guy towers over me. He’s built like a boxer, lean but stacked with muscles that strain his shirtsleeves.

“Marshall,” Scottie says by way of introduction. “This is my mate Rye Peterson, bassist for Kill John. And this is my better business half, Brenna James, publicist for Kill John.”

Marshall reaches out to shake Rye’s hand. “Huge fan, man.”

“Thanks. Good to meet you.” Rye’s answering smile is tight. The ropy muscles along his arm shift and bulge when he shakes Marshall’s hand, and it hits me like a slap. They look so similar, both in face and form, they could be brothers.

Heat swarms my cheeks, and I glance at Scottie. The bastard is smugly composed. But I know he’s done this on purpose, dangling a Rye doppelgänger in front of me like a dare.

Marshall turns toward me and smiles. It’s a great smile, warm and friendly, with just enough interest to flatter. “Ms. James, I’ve wanted to meet you for some time.”

“Have you?” My mind sticks on his name. It sounds familiar. And then it hits me. “Marshall Faulkner, from Artists Inc.?”

“The very one.”

Wow. Faulkner is one of the top artist managers in Hollywood. His clients are legends. Hell, he is a legend.

“I thought you’d be older,” I blurt out.

Marshall laughs as I wince.

“God, that was rude. I’m sorry.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t appear offended but truly amused. “No, no, I get that a lot.”

“It was still rude.”

He leans against the bar. “Scottie said you were wonderfully blunt. I like that.”