“We’ll shape around your face and give your hair some movement,” Lia explains.

“She’s got great summer highlights,” Brenna adds. “But maybe add a bit of richness to her base color?”

One hour later, my hair is wrapped in tin, and I’m stuck under a heater while two women do my nails. Brenna has been dancing around me, almost giddy.

“Next we’re getting your brows tinted a shade darker and shaped. And then we’ll go shopping for clothes. No, lunch first. Then clothes.”

“Don’t leave out my carrot,” I remind her.

“Oh, the massages we save for last. We don’t want to ruin our chill.” She gives a happy sigh. “I might even throw in a facial. Yeah. That sounds heavenly.”

It’s hard to resist her enthusiasm. In lots of ways, she’s a female version of Killian with her easy charm and bull-in-a-china-shop method of taking over. In some ways, that helps. It isn’t in my nature to make easy friends or do small talk. With Brenna, I simply sit back and let her roll.

“Oh,” she exclaims, “I forgot about the shoes! And—you think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

Caught giving her a bemused smile, I can only shrug. “I kind of envy the way you enjoy your excitement. I’m more contained, and sometimes I’d rather not be.”

The manicurists leave, setting my hands under mini dryers. My nails are now a dusky, pale blue. After my hair is done, Brenna and I will get pedis to match. I’ve never had one, and suddenly I find that sad. Living under a rock was a waste of life.

Brenna toys with a hair clip. “I’m not always like this.” She leans in, her eyes wide behind her retro glasses. “Most people think I’m a bitch.”

“I get that from people too.” Mainly because I have no idea how to talk to others without wanting to swallow my tongue.

Brenna’s nose wrinkles. “Damned if you’re too quiet, and damned if you’re too confident.”

“Sounds about right.”

“My friends are all guys.”

“I don’t have any friends,” I counter.

We both laugh, each of us almost shy.

“Killian is not only my cousin,” Brenna tells me, her expression wide open. “He’s one of my closest friends. He’s clearly nuts about you. Honestly, I’ve never seen him write a girl notes before. The fact that he cajoled Scottie into delivering them is nothing short of miraculous. I swear, Kills must have some major dirt on him.”

She’s rambling, which is kind of sweet. But I won’t say that; I’m pretty sure she’d be mortified.

At any rate, she keeps talking. “What I’m trying to say, rather badly, is that I hope we can be friends too.”

Either it’s a sign of how lonely I’ve been or I’m hormonal, because I damn near get weepy and have to blink a few times before answering. “I could use a good friend.”

Killian

Truth? I don’t have to be playing for an audience to get a hard-on over music. It just has to click, and I’m lit up.

That said, Scottie set up a gig at the Bowery Ballroom. It was our first time out in over a year. We’d grown used to stadiums, fifty-thousand fans at least. Singing for five hundred?

It’s golden. My body throbs with the sound, sweat coating my skin. Lights burn my eyes, turning the crowd into a moving haze, limed in brilliant reds and blues.

I’m full-on pumped when we start playing “Apathy”.

It isn’t planned. I’m not even sure who decided to do it. One second we’re playing random notes, the next we’re a cohesive unit, hammering out the song that made us stars.

I lean into the mic, singing the lyrics, my guitar pick flying over the strings. In that place, there is no thought, no fear, nothing but rhythm and flow. Nothing but life.

I hit the high note in the song. Sound vibrates in my chest, throat. My guys are around me, supporting the song, elevating it to a new level. The Animal roars, cheering, a mass of bodies pulsing up and down. They’re in it with us, feeding us love and energy.

And I’m home, back in that place where everything makes sense.

Until I look up, and I see her in the wings. Liberty. Watching me in my element. It’s like I’m hit with an electric current. I sing for her, play for her.

Libby’s eyes hold mine, a smile lingers on her lips. I can’t help grinning back. Fucking hell, she’s beautiful. I’m so happy to see her, it’s all I can do not to walk off the stage and grab her.

We finish the song, and the Animal howls.

It wants more. Always more.

But we’re done for now. Bowing, I toss my mic to a stage hand and jog off.

Whip gives a shout, twirling his sticks on his fingers. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

The guys laugh and talk as they move on to the dressing room. Press waits, along with record execs and fan club members who won the meet-and-greet lottery. Someone hands me a bottle of water and a towel. I’m operating on auto, my body humming so hard my fingers shake.

Cold water goes down my burning throat. But I’m looking at Libby.

She hangs back with Brenna, about twenty feet from me, just inside the edge of the stage. The same push-pull I’m feeling is reflected in her eyes. The need for contact, the awareness that we can’t do anything about it here because she won’t let my guys know about us.

I resent the hell out of that. But she’s here, and that overrides everything else.

And no one has noticed her. The only people left around us are the stage crew. Brenna gives me a wink and follows the guys backstage.

My entire body throbs, amped up and jittery. Holy hell, she’s beautiful. Did I ever think of my Elly May as plain? Her skin is golden from endless summer days on the beach. Her hair, in shades of honey brown and pale blond, flows around her face like shining ribbons.

Then I notice her dress. And my brain skids to a halt. Fuck me sideways. My dick, who’s already rising to his happy stance, jerks against my jeans.

The pale gray dress isn’t short; it comes to her knees. It doesn’t show cleavage, because it’s one of those halter tops that exposes her arms but fastens around her neck. And yet it’s fucking indecent. Because it’s thin silk and shows the shape of her, clinging with loving care to the points of her perky tits. Everyone that looks at her knows exactly what she has to offer.