I’m painfully aware of Rye staring at me, but I ignore him. “What else has Scottie been telling you?”

Scottie merely grunts. The sound I know to mean: Fishing, Brenna? How needy. Yeah, well, my ego needs the occasional stroking. Sue me.

“All good things,” Marshall says. “But, really, your work record caught my eye long ago.” At this, he glances at Rye. “Kill John is arguably the biggest band in the world right now…”

“No arguing about it,” Rye quips. “It is.” His voice has dropped about two octaves and is hard as concrete. I have no idea if he realizes this. Right now, there’s a wall of humming tension dividing us even though he’s standing so close, his arm brushes my shoulder when he reaches for his drink. His proximity to me is far too possessive. And irritating.

“Fair enough,” Marshall says easily. He smiles down at me. “Let’s just say I’m impressed with your work.”

Rye makes a noise under his breath. It’s intelligible, but I swear I hear it as “I’ll bet.” The urge to elbow him is high. Instead, I focus on Marshall. “Likewise.”

“I’d love to trade notes.” He shakes his head slightly as if he’s laughing at himself. “No. That’s terrible. It’s a party. Here’s to not working.” He salutes me with his beer bottle, and I raise my glass.

“Hear, hear.”

“Let’s talk of more pleasant things. Such as, do you care for tacos?”

“Tacos?” I chortle. “Random but, yes, I love a good taco.”

Blue eyes crinkle with mirth. “Why, so do I. We have exceptional tacos in LA. But I’m willing to go in search of some here if you’d like to join me.”

“A taco hunt?”

“If you’re willing?”

Rye lets out a breath, the sound just shy of a snort. “I’m going to get some air. Maybe give Jax a run for his money on the dance floor.” Tight lines bracket his mouth as he nods toward Marshall. “Nice meeting you, man.”

I don’t watch Rye leave, but I feel the separation between us with an intensity that unsettles me to the core. My teeth hurt from the effort of maintaining my smile. I probably look deranged, but Marshall simply eyes me with interest, patiently waiting for me to answer. What had we been talking about?

Tacos. Right. A date.

On paper, Marshall Faulkner is perfect: hot, successful, and slightly dorky. I’ve admired his work for years and would love to talk to him about it. I even get a pleasant warm tingle in my belly when I look at him. Sure, it’s no wild flip, skipped heartbeat, fluttering pulse, can’t decide if I want to strangle him or kiss him. But that’s a good thing.

So why am I still smiling up at him like a frozen doll? Snap out of it, girl. This is the first good date prospect you’ve come across in months. Get on it. Not all great loves start with a bang.

The sharp spike of my heel hits the floor with a definitive click—a trick I cultivated to keep my focus when all else fails. It has the expected effect: I stand a bit straighter, thrusting my boobs out and lifting my chin. Marshall’s eyes dilate.

“I’d love to go taco-hunting with you.”

“Great. Let’s set a date.” His smile is warm and inviting. He’s a beautifully put-together man. And yet I feel faintly sick to my stomach.

Freaking Rye.

Rye

 

Fucking perfect. Brenna is making eyes at Mr. LA Charm. Horny, needy Brenna. Shit.

I need to let this go. Brenna is lonely. Faulkner, though cheesy as fuck with his “let’s hunt for tacos” line, seems like a good guy. Scottie wouldn’t throw him in Brenna’s path if he wasn’t. Maybe he can make her happy.

One thing is certain, if the guy has any brains, he’ll make a serious play for Brenna. How could he not? She’s smart, has a killer wit, and looks like a wet dream. I nearly swallowed my damn tongue when I saw her poured into a cream-colored dress that hugged her toned body and fluttered around her knees, highlighting her sleek, endless legs.

She’s wearing yet another pair of killer heels—rainbow patent-leather with red soles. Rainbows, for fuck’s sake. And still, I took one look at those wickedly high heels and instantly wanted them digging into my back.

Fucking Scottie. Matchmaking? Seriously?

Never have I wanted to kick his proper British ass more than I do now. Yeah, he’s a bruiser under those damn suits and likes to pit fight for fun, but I’m a grappler; I can take him.

“Everyone knows the best MMA fighters are grapplers,” I mutter.

A surprised laugh to my right snaps me out of my fuming haze. A pretty brunette leans against the balcony railing. Tiny tank barely covering her toned belly, tight jeans riding low, and a wide, glossy red smile.

“I don’t know if you were talking to me, but I agree.” Her wide smile turns seductive, and she tosses a length of silky curls over her shoulder. “Grapplers have the best takedowns. All that sweaty writhing on the floor…”

Like that, it’s on. She’s looking for a hookup, preferably with one of the band members—because we always get first choice. It’s all right there in her body language and eye contact. I’ve lived this life long enough to know that I could do the bare minimum of mundane flirting, touch her skin—maybe caress her forearm or a fleeting brush along her cheek—to show I’m interested, and I’ll be in like Flynn. That’s not ego talking; it’s experience.

She turns more fully my way and extends a hand. “Hi, I’m Jenni, with an I.”

I take her smooth hand in mine. “Hey, Jenni with an I. I’m Rye.”

My younger self would have done a goofy comeback and said I was Rye with a Y, but I think I might gag if I tried that shit right now. My younger self was a dillhole.

“I know.” She steps into my space, her lips parting. “I’m a huge fan.”

She’s beautiful. The fact that she knows a little about mixed martial arts, or is at least willing to humor me, is a plus because I like to at least have some conversation with potential hookups.

I roll my shoulders to ease the tight ache there and give Jenni a practiced smile. “You like bassists, huh?”

This particular game of seduction is as easy as sliding into a pair of well-worn jeans. I haven’t had sex in a while. A nice physical release couldn’t hurt.

Her finger trails down my biceps. “I like you.”

She doesn’t know me from Adam. But that’s okay. It’s all part of the game.

I’m so fucking tired of games.

She’s stroking my arm now, feeling the definition of my muscles. And I’m utterly numb. No, not numb exactly. All of my nerves seem to be focused along my back. The urge to turn around and see what Brenna and Taco Tuesday are doing rides me hard.

Forget about them. Brenna isn’t interested. She thinks I’m a joke and out to humiliate her, and there’s nothing I can do to make her see otherwise. Focus on the hot chick feeling you up.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Jenni says. “Was that a Moog Modular IIIp you used on ‘Walk on Days’?”

My attention yanks back with a jolt. Brows raised, I look at Jenni anew. “It was. How did you know?”