The other woman snorts. “They’re probably already doing it. And can you blame her?” She sucks at her teeth. “Rye is hot as hell.”

“Mmm…all those massive muscles.”

“Personally, I’d rather do Killian. Tight and lean, with those sinful eyes. And that walk of his. You know he’s loaded for bear.”

“I have no idea what that means,” her friend says with a laugh.

But I do. I turn away before I have to hear more speculation over Killian’s equipment. Or the women who clearly want a chance to find out how big it actually is.

After-parties are a fact of touring life I never really considered. Frankly, I think they blow. Oh, meeting true fans is fun. They practically vibrate with joy when they finally face one of the guys. It’s cute. At least, those types of fans are. Then there are the groupies. Women whose job, it seems, is to put another notch on their proverbial bed posts. I shouldn’t hate on them, and I try really hard not to. But watching them hang on Killian like he’s a steak thrown into a pack of lionesses isn’t easy.

And they will do anything—anything—to get attention. I’ve seen more tits in these past weeks than in the whole of my life. Tops coming off at the oddest times. Like, oh, hey, the music started? Let me rip off my top and shake what my mama gave me. Or my plastic surgeon. Same difference.

Doesn’t matter if it’s a room full of journalists, record execs, roadies, and other hangers on. In fact, that somehow appears to make a strip show more thrilling for them.

Killian doesn’t encourage them. If anything, he always shoots me a pained look that says, “See what our hiding is making me do?” I love him for it. And hate myself a little more each time.

Oddly, Whip is also shying away from women. I’d wonder if he didn’t fancy them, but his eyes always stay glued to the displays of female flesh as if he’s hypnotized. Jax appears as apathetic about women as he is about everything. Oh, he goes off with a few, but the enthusiasm isn’t there.

Rye is the only one who seems to enjoy it. At least he did until he blew up at Brenna. Now that they’re gone, it’s business as usual: overly loud and fake laughter, people looking around to see who’s looking at them.

“Always something to talk about,” says a female voice at my side as I lean against the bar and sip my drink. A pretty blonde who’d look right at home in a Southern sorority gives me a pleasant smile. “Or write about, as the case may be.”

A press badge on her chest identifies her as Z. Smith.

Protective of both Rye and Brenna, I give the woman a quelling look. “Must be a slow day if a little argument is something to write about.”

She shrugs, her gaze drifting over the room. “Depends on who’s arguing.” Her sharp blue eyes settle back on me. “I’m Zelda, by the way.”

I take her offered hand. “I love that name.”

“I hate it,” she says with a nose wrinkle. “But it’s mine, so what can I do? You’re Liberty Bell.”

“Which makes me an expert on oddball names,” I say with a laugh.

“I don’t envy the jokes you must have heard when you were younger.”

Though she’s simply chatting with me, I don’t relax. Brenna and her assistant, Jules, have drilled into me the importance of watching your tongue with the press. They can take anything you say and twist it.

“The best response,” I tell her lightly, “is to just yawn in the face of idiocy.”

“I’ll remember that.” Her expression becomes a bit sharper. “So what do you think of being on tour? This is your first public experience, correct?”

Here we go. Interview time. “It’s a learning curve, but I’m enjoying it. The guys have been very supportive.”

“Killian James brought you in, right?”

“Yep.”

“I heard some story that you were neighbors this summer.”

Probably because that’s what Brenna put in my press statement.

“That’s right.”

“Lucky you.” Zelda nudges my shoulder with hers as if we’re old friends. “Out of all the guys, there’s something about Killian. He’s delicious in that bad boy, charm-your-panties-off kind of way.”

“I try not to think of the guys that way,” I tell her, lying through my teeth, because her description is on point. “I have to work with them.”

“Are you telling me you aren’t fucking him?”

Her blunt question comes at me like a punch, and I recoil. “Excuse me?”

Zelda gives me a smile that’s all teeth. “Sorry. I’m pretty blunt with my words after all these years in this business. But honestly? Killian James is infamous for being irresistible. And there are the facts. First you’re neighbors, and then he’s bringing you, a complete novice, on tour with him.”

My heart thuds against my ribs. It’s not like I should be shocked; she’s saying everything I’ve warned Killian about. Almost verbatim. Expected observation or not, the humiliation I feel at being looked upon as nothing more than Killian’s whore, is nearly crippling.

And then I get angry—at myself for predicting this, at her for thinking the same thing.

I give her a long look, watching her fight not to squirm. “You’re kind of young to be a reporter assigned to Kill John.”

“What are you talking about? I’m twenty-six, which is probably older than most of these groupies.”

“Yeah, but they’re here for one thing. Are you too? Because most of the other reporters I’ve met are men in their thirties, at the very least.”

Zelda’s eyes narrow. “It’s a tough business.”

“And a girl’s got to use whatever assets she can to rise, is that it? Is that how you got here, Ms. Smith?”

“Oh, I get it. Shaming me, are you? It was a valid question, you know. You’re linked with James. No one has ever heard of you before now. I have to wonder—”

“If I fucked my way in? Of course you do. Because that’s what everyone wonders about attractive, successful women, don’t they? Did we get here on talent or by spreading our legs? If I was a man, would you ask the same?”

“Killian hasn’t been known to like men.”

“And that’s the reason you didn’t ask.”