Bruce nods. “Got it. Not afraid at all.”

“You two assholes keep patronizing me,” Rye says with a laugh. “See if I care.”

“Tell me, Ryland.” I turn his way. “When did you start calling Brenna ‘Berry’?”

He goes bright pink, kind of like the berry in question, which is such a sight, I want to pull out my phone, take a pic, and send it to all the guys. “Fuck off, pretty boy. It was an insult, not a nickname.”

I grin. “Sounded like a nickname to me, son.”

Rye’s jaw bunches. I’m playing with fire. Long experience tells me how far I can push Rye before he’ll tackle me. When we were young punks, we’d often end up pummeling each other. All in good fun, but it didn’t mean someone wouldn’t walk away with a busted lip or black eye. In my teens, it was a good way to work off steam. At thirty, I’m thinking I’ll regret it and be popping aspirin for a week.

When Rye finally talks, though, his tone is unexpectedly hard and pained. “You guys gotta let this thing between Brenn and me go. She hates my guts, and for good reason. That shit ain’t happening. Ever.”

Silence descends, awkward and thick. Bruce raises the glass divider, leaving me alone with Rye. Outside, horns blare, and the car bumps over the pitted road. I clear my throat and risk a glance. Rye’s staring out the window, his body a big bulge of clenched muscles.

“Why do you think she hates you? Because I don’t get that vibe, even though you two are constantly sniping at one another. I assumed it was some sort of perverse foreplay.” Even when we were kids, and skinny, knobby-kneed, sixteen-year-old Brenna started hanging around our jam sessions, she and Rye bickered. But they also looked at each other like the other was candy just out of reach.

Rye snorts softly. “Maybe at first it was flirting. I’m not gonna lie and pretend I don’t think she’s hot. Yes, we bicker. Yes, it’s fun to get at her sometimes. And maybe she gets some similar sick satisfaction out of bugging me.” He shakes his head slowly, like it weighs a ton. “But the rift is real and nothing I want to talk about.”

“Hey, you brought it up.”

He shoots me a glare. “No. I said you guys need to stop expecting something, because it’s a dead horse. I didn’t say I wanted to talk about my feelings or whatever.”

“Mate, I’ve never seen a guy more in need of talking out his feelings than you.” I laugh shortly. “You’re the poster child for repression.”

Rye relaxes against the seat, his expression opening once more. “Maybe. But I’d rather we talk about your feelings and shit. You happy, Jaxy?”

“Chicken.” We’re pulling up to my apartment. “And, yes, I am. Because I talk about my feelings and shit.”

The car stops and I open the door before Bruce can get to it. I’ve never liked him, or any of our staff, having to open my doors. It’s too reminiscent of my childhood and the way it made me feel isolated, stuck with my prim-and-proper family when I’d rather laugh and play like a normal kid. There’s a fair bit of irony that, while trying to use my music to get away from everything my family was, I’ve put myself in a situation where I often need guards and excessive security. I’m just as isolated as I was back then, only now I can choose to live by my own rules.

“You guys want to come up for a beer?” I ask. Surprisingly, I’m okay with being alone right now. Frankly, I’m feeling pretty fucking great in general. I have a date with Stella tomorrow, and the fact that I get to touch her, that I get to spend the whole day with her simply because we both want to, makes me giddy as a kid waiting on Christmas. But Rye looks like he could use some company, and I’m never leaving my guys to deal with shit on their own when I can offer a hand.

Rye brightens. “Yeah, sure.”

“I could go for a beer,” Bruce says with a shrug.

We’re halfway to the door when a guy approaches, his gaze locked on me as if I’m a target. Instantly, Rye and I stiffen. We know how to defend ourselves, but if this guy has a weapon, fighting won’t do shit. In my peripheral, I see Bruce stalking close, putting himself between us and the unknown.

The guy, a wiry older dude with shaggy, reddish-gray hair, halts, his pale blue eyes going wide. “I’m not trying to cause trouble,” he says, wisely reading the situation. “I only wanted to talk to Jax.”

“Then talk,” I say, standing at the ready. I could tell the guy to piss off, but it’s easy sometimes to let the person speak their piece and say no thanks to whatever they’re selling. Unfortunately, this could also be about one of the women I slept with. This guy could be a pissed-off father. Hell.

“Saw a picture in the tabloids of you with a girl.”

My back stiffens. “I’m often pictured with women. If that’s all you’re interested in, I suggest you take up another hobby.”

I start walking, and Rye moves to my left, Bruce taking my other side. They’re flanking me, which is nice but unnecessary.

Unfortunately, the dude is undaunted. “You were carrying her across a puddle.”

My steps falter. I’ve only carried one woman. Ever. Someone took a picture of that? Fucking hell. There goes my Clark Kent disguise. The thought of Stella’s privacy being taken then makes me queasy.

“Old news, man. That was weeks ago.” I wave the man off and start walking again.

His raspy voice follows. “There was another picture of you two from yesterday. Looked real cozy coming out of Milk Bar. I thought you’d like to know who you’re dealing with, is all. Stella Grey isn’t what she seems.”

Ice flows through my veins, and I halt, turning to face him. “What did you say?”

Dude shrugs his bony shoulders. “She’s cute, but she isn’t as innocent as she looks.”

The ice turns to hot steam, a red haze clouding my vision. I’m advancing on him before I even think. Bruce steps in front of me, blocking my path, as Rye’s big mitt grabs hold of my elbow.

“Easy, man,” Rye says low and hard.

My attention is on the little rat who stares back defiantly. “You stay the fuck away from Stella,” I grind out, pushing at Bruce’s back. My bodyguard is unmovable, though. “You want to hound me like some nutter fan, fine. But stay away from my friends.”

The guy just smiles, and the sight is oddly familiar. “Friend, is she? Looked cozier than that. Stella has a way about her. Very effective in sneaking under a man’s defenses.”

I surge forward, trying to break past Bruce and Rye. They both hold firm.

The guy holds up his hands. “Easy now. I’m trying to help you out here. The information I have for purchase might spare you some headaches along the way.”

“Like hell,” I spit out. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

He stares back at me, totally placid. “I’m her dad.”

All the fight goes out of me as I gape back at him. I feel sick. Sick on Stella’s behalf. Her dad is trying to shake me down for money. The fucker who abandoned her as a teen and she hasn’t seen since.

“Get the fuck out of my sight,” I say through clenched teeth. “Because these guys aren’t going to be able to hold me forever, and I really don’t give a shit about repercussions if I pummel you into a pulp.”

Rye’s grip on my arm eases. “We might even help him,” he says in a cold voice.