Two days later . . .

Devin studied the outside of his new tour bus. No gigantic image of his grinning face, no signage at all about who was on board. But there was no doubt this still looked like a rockstar’s bus. The inside was even better. He had a big master bedroom and decent-sized master bathroom. The promotion company had even found a bus with only two bunks instead of the standard four. This one had a second bathroom as well as a small alcove where the bunks would’ve been. The main living area had a half-wall on both sides that allowed for separation from the kitchen. The driver’s area was enclosed like the cab of a semitruck. The only access was through a sliding glass window.

His roadies had unloaded his bags in his bedroom and stashed his favorite guitars in the closet. He didn’t give a damn if his clothes got wrinkled; he cared that his guitars were protected and accessible.

Crash wandered over with an update. “We’re loaded. The equipment trucks are gone. The roadies’ bus is following. We’re waiting on Tay, but the rest of the band is ready to roll.” He peered over the top of his sunglasses. “Where’s your new personal assistant?”

“Who knows? I haven’t heard from her. If she ain’t here in ten minutes . . . we’re still leaving.”

“Nope. Sorry. I got my orders, Dev. We’re waiting on her.”

“Goddammit. This is so f**king stupid. I don’t need—”

As he spoke, two arms circled his waist and he jerked away violently.

Yeah, maybe he was a little on edge.

He whirled around and saw the shocked face of his string player and songwriting partner, Odette.

“Geez, Devin, jumpy much?”

“Sorry, darlin’.” He hugged her. “You all set?”

“Yes. Thanks for scoring us a new bus too. It’s sweet. Steve and I will be breaking in that king-sized bed very soon.”

“TMI, little O. And if you tell me that my drummer’s got the right rhythm, I will put you two lovebirds in a single bunk and rotate Tay, Gage, Leon, and Jase into the bedroom.”

She whapped him on the chest. “That’s just plain mean. Sounds like someone needs to get laid.”

“You have no idea.” Although he had groupies lined up for him before and after shows, in the past eighteen months, after all this shit started going down, he hadn’t f**ked any of the women he’d invited into his ready room. He’d kept sexual contact to blow jobs and hand jobs. If those women lied and bragged he’d banged them, well, he didn’t give a damn. He couldn’t go back and change the manwhore reputation he’d built over the years—most of which had been exaggerated anyway.

A jacked-up Ford truck screeched into the parking lot and the driver slammed on the brakes. A scrawny, bearded guy leaped out of the cab and climbed onto the back bumper, lifting suitcases out of the truck bed and tossing them to the ground.

Just then Tay came around the back end of the truck, yelling obscenities at the man.

“You have got to be f**king kiddin’ me,” Devin said. “Is Tay an ass**le magnet?”

“Yep. This dude followed her to Denver from Kansas City. They were going at it like rabbits. We were in the room next to theirs,” Odette said.

Then Tay took a swing at him with her laptop bag.

The guy ducked, jumped back into the truck and sped off, tires spitting gravel.

“Looks like another breakup to me,” Crash muttered. “Can’t wait for her and Jase to start f**king and fighting again . . . Not.”

Jase, the laid-back lead guitar player, and Tay, his keyboard player and backup singer, had an on-again off-again relationship. Their fights—and subsequent makeups—were loud, obnoxious and the main reason after Odette . . . Devin never got involved with a woman he worked with.

“Is Jase here?” he asked, watching Tay head toward the band’s bus, Odette hot on her heels.

“He left with the equipment truck,” Gage said behind him.

“Wise choice.”

“A hundred bucks says they’re back together by Friday,” Leon, his steel guitar player, said.

“Whose turn is it to run the pool?” Steve asked.

“Gage did it last time,” Crash said. “I reckon it’s Devin’s turn.”

“Get your bets and money to me by showtime.”

“Who’re we waiting for?” Gage asked.

Just then a gorgeous baby blue Mustang pulled up. The driver’s-side door opened, and a pair of boots hit the concrete. He saw only a flip of the woman’s hair and her jeans-clad backside—and sweet baby Jesus, what a sweet backside it was—before she was hidden, rooting around in the open trunk.

Even as his suspicions surfaced, his head was telling him no, that couldn’t possibly be her.

The trunk shut, and she started toward him. Wind tousling her shoulder-length auburn hair, her hips swaying in jeans that hugged her every curve. With a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and another one clutched in her other hand, she flexed her well-defined arm muscles. Her cherry red lips curved into a smirk as she fastened her gaze on him.

Holy mother of God. It was a miracle that he managed to keep from drooling. Or from cursing at the sky because the f**king universe had a sick sense of humor.

Or maybe this is karma beating you with the stupid stick for boldly proclaiming that you didn’t find Liberty Masterson attractive. And for challenging her to look the part of your groupie entourage.

What a cruel joke—his groupies never looked that goddamn good.