“What’s up with Danny?”

Whip fishes a beer out of the mini fridge. “Mike ordered a pizza and brought it into the booth.”

Danny hates it when people eat while they work. Bitches about equipment and keys being greased up. He’s got a point, but it isn’t easy when you’re at it all day long. Some people would rather eat and work to get the job done faster.

“So…we’re staying out here until they finish killing each other, right?”

Whip grins. “Exactly.” He pops the cap off his bottle. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. ShawnE called me the other night. He’s putting together a session next month in Chicago, just for fun, trying new beats out and that sort of shit. He said he’d love if you came along too.”

ShawnE started as a hip-hop artist but is now a huge producer as well. Whip and I are fans and friends of his. Pure, creative excitement surges through me. Kill John is my own heart’s blood. But if I don’t stretch my musical wings now and then, I get stagnant and bored.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say hell yes, when Whip adds, “We’d probably be there for two weeks. We can either stay with Shawn or book a hotel room. I know you like the Langham, but I still think the Peninsula has the edge.”

I roll my eyes with good humor. Some days, I can’t believe how far we’ve come. When we were starting Kill John, we sneered at the luxury hotels our parents favored. We wanted to be “real” and “authentic” and stay at shitty dives. Rich kids trying to fit in with struggling artists. Truth is, we’d never known how it felt to be without. We were all born privileged and it showed. We eventually got our heads out of our asses and realized that we are who we are. Nothing would change that. The only thing we could truly do to make a difference is to help others who were less privileged and, hopefully, inspire people through our music.

Not exactly lofty goals, but I’m happy with who I am and what I’m doing.

Deliberating between staying with a billionaire producer or in a five-star hotel suite isn’t what gives me pause. It’s being gone for two weeks. Two weeks? My dick is about to fall off from need. I can’t be away from Brenna that long. I might…hurt something.

God, I’m whipped. And all I’ve done is kiss her.

“The Langham’s suite has a grand piano,” I say, distracted and resisting the urge to pull out my phone to just…I don’t know, text her. Call her so I can hear her voice. Shit. I’m in so much trouble.

“So, does the Peninsula. And it has an outdoor terrace with a hot tub.”

I shake my head and focus on Whip. “What?”

“The suite? At the Peninsula.”

“Right. We can play ‘What Overpriced Snob Suite Will Rye and Whip Pick?’ later. I’m not sure if I can go. Let me think about it.”

Lines on his forehead appear as he lifts his brow high. “You need to think about it?”

He doesn’t have to say that it’s totally out of character for me to hesitate on something like this. I’m not the type to think things through. I act—or react. I’ve got nothing and no one to hold me back from going wherever I want, whenever I want.

My hands are clammy as I stare at my best friend. Sometimes I think he knows me better than I know myself. Whatever he sees in my expression has him frowning. But he simply shrugs. “Yeah, okay. But you’ll need to let him know sooner than later.”

I nod, and his frown deepens.

“Rye—”

My phone rings, buzzing in my back pocket. I reach for it so fast the damn thing flies out of my hand and up in the air. I fumble for it in some weird slow-mo flail that has the phone bouncing from hand to hand like a juggler’s ball before I finally get a hold of it.

“Yeah,” I practically yell into the phone in my urgency to pick up before the call pushes over to voicemail. Because I saw the name on the caller ID.

Brenna.

“Shout much?” she asks with a laugh.

“Sorry.” I turn away from a sharp-eyed, smirking Whip. “I almost dropped the phone.”

I get up to find a private corner and trip over my bag. “Fuck!”

Whip snickers. “Graceful. Very graceful.”

“What the hell is going on?” Brenna asks, still sounding amused.

I glare at my bag and head for an empty sound booth. “I tripped.”

“Okay…” She’s definitely laughing at me.

I can’t blame her. Ordinarily, I’m not clumsy. I don’t know what the hell is going on with my body. It’s too focused on her and ignoring everything else. Scowling, I plop onto one of the overstuffed leather love seats in the dim booth.

“What’s up?” I ask. Aside from my dick, that is. Because he’s already getting perky at the sound of her voice. Which is unsettling. I have better control than this. Usually.

She takes an audible breath. “I heard Whip in the background. Can you…ah…talk?”

Brenna being hesitant means she wants to talk about one thing. My heart rate kicks up.

“Yeah, I’m in an empty sound booth.”

“Oh, right. You’re working on the album.” She sounds oddly fluttery.

“Bren. What’s up?”

“I thought of a few more rules.”

I hate following rules. Hell, I’d been breaking them most of my life. But for this?

“Okay, give them to me.”

Maybe I surprised her. I don’t know, but there’s a small stutter in her voice as though she wasn’t expecting my quick agreement. “Ah—right. As of last month, you were STI-free. Have you had sex since then?”

Her directness has me grinning. It isn’t as though any of this is a secret. Since Jax ended up with an STI last year, we all decided to be tested more frequently and announce our results to the group as a sort of united front. Weird? Maybe, but it cheers Jax up, so it’s worth it.

“No sex since then. I’m still in the clear and good to go.”

“Really?” It comes out with a slight squeak of surprise. “You haven’t had sex in a month? You?”

More like six months, but who’s counting?

“Jesus, Bren, you act like I’ve gone without for a year.”

“I’d say a month in Rye time is equivalent to a year for others.”

Snorting, I roll my eyes. Not that she can see it. “I don’t know if I should take that as an insult or a compliment.” Either way, she’s not entirely wrong. I like sex. Scratch that, I love sex. But a man needs a break every now and then. And I haven’t been feeling it lately.

Until her. Now, yes, a month waiting for her would sure as hell feel like a year.

“And you?” I’m compelled to ask, even though I really don’t want to think about her with anyone else. “How long?”

“Long enough,” she says tartly. “I’m cleared and have an IUD. But we’re using condoms.”

“Fine by me. I never go without them.”

“Okay. Good. That’s settled.”

“That’s it? Surely, not. I expected a whole list from you.”

“Right you are,” she says with a smile in her voice. “First off, when we’re doing this, we’re exclusive. No fooling around with other people.”