Not that Killian appears bothered by their teasing. He sits across the way, his long body lounging against the seat, his thighs spread wide as if he means to take up as much space as possible. As we drive along, the lights of the city slip in and out of the darkened car, illuminating his face, then throwing it into shadow.

He doesn’t say much, only stares out of the window and occasionally snorts at a shit joke. But then, as if he feels my stare, he glances my way. Our gazes clash, and it’s as if someone’s pulled a rug from under my feet. My insides swoop, heat prickles over my skin. And on the heels of that comes a rush of emotion, squeezing at my heart, catching me by the throat.

It’s always this way. He looks at me, I fall. I have an awful feeling it will be this way my entire life. Killian James wakes me up, makes me whole.

I want to tell him this, to put my hand in his and ask that he never let go. But he glances off, leaning over to say something to Jax. I can’t hear what—my heart is thundering in my ears.

The car halts, the door opens. I’m ushered out to follow the flow of the guys into a club. We head up to a VIP section at the top of a massive circular steel staircase. People watch as we go.

Gazes crawl over my skin. For years the guys have lived this way. I don’t know how they manage. Perhaps they love it. They’re all smiling, clasping hands with people they know, pausing to hear someone whisper in their ears.

Killian is ahead of me, walking with Jax. They’re practically mobbed by women, until just their heads are visible above the swarm. I set my jaw and follow. This is part of Killian’s life. There isn’t a thing I can say here because, in the world’s eyes, I’m just his friend. This hasn’t bothered me before now. It felt more like a secret we shared between us. Women could hover, but they’d never go home with him.

Now it just hurts. Because it suddenly seems as though I’m glimpsing a future where I’m not there. I can’t even pinpoint why I feel this way. Only that Killian and I have been moving along at full-tilt and the slightest knock might push us off course. Or maybe it’s because I know that Killian doesn’t need me as much as I need him. Why would he? He has the world. And I am completely out of my element when it comes to this life.

“I need a pity party cocktail,” I say in Brenna’s ear as she comes alongside me.

Her gold eye shadow glints in the light. “Extra strength?”

“And fruity,” I add. “Pity cocktails should always be fruity.”

She grabs my elbow and leads me to a somewhat quiet little booth in the far corner of the room before she goes off to get us drinks. There are times when the band requests a small room just for them. This is not one of those nights. People flow in and out—mostly in—like cattle through a gate. The music isn’t as loud in here, but it’s enough that conversation isn’t going to be on the agenda. Whip is already standing on one of the tables, dancing with a brunette in a tiny silver dress.

I regret not putting on a little dress as well. In a sea of itty-bitty dresses, I’m the conservative one in black skinny jeans, heeled boots, and a green silk camisole. I’m comfortable, but I don’t feel sexy. There are times when a girl needs sexy. That’s the thing no one ever tells you. Sexy can be both a weapon and a wall of defense.

The booth I’m sitting in wiggles as Rye plops down next to me. He drapes an arm along the back of my shoulders and leans in. “What’s shakin’, bacon?”

My lips pull in a reluctant smile. “Nothin’, stuffin’.”

He takes a sip of what appears to be a gin and tonic—because of course he’s already been served. There’s probably a waitress on standby for him. “You look like you’ve swallowed a goat.”

“A goat?” I laugh. “How the hell does that look?”

“Faintly ill and fighting a gag.”

“You really know how to make a girl feel good about herself, Rye.”

He sticks the tip of his tongue between his teeth in a lewd gesture, but then his expression turns gentle. “I’m serious, Buttercup. You all right?”

“Buttercup?”

“Yeah, you kind of look like Princess Buttercup.”

“That’s about as far a stretch as saying you look like the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

“I could totally rock a mask. It’d be kinky as fuck.” He takes another sip, his eyes roaming before coming back to me. “So, what’s going on? Someone being mean to you?”

“What? No. It’s nothing.”

“You sure? Because I don’t have these massive biceps just for show. I’ll gladly put on the hurt for you.”

“You’re sweet. But it’s really nothing. This is just not my scene.”

“It’s no one’s scene. You have to own it to make it yours.”

“Well, I’m not interested.”

A glance across the room and find Killian’s familiar form. He has two women clinging to his arms, though he doesn’t seem to notice them as he talks to John, one of our sound engineers. The blonde on his left clearly doesn’t like being ignored and begins to stroke his chest. My own chest tightens, and I look away.

“Right there,” Rye points to my face. “Goat look.”

“Argh, would you stop using goat? I’m going to develop a complex.” My laugh feels forced. “I’m fine.”

“Here we are,” Brenna announces brightly as she sets down two martini glasses, filled with lime green liquid. “One fruity, pity-party cocktail—industrial strength.”

Rye gives me a look. “You were saying?”

“What was she saying?” Brenna asks, sitting down and taking a sip of her drink.

At this point it’s a miracle she’s including Rye in the conversation, so even though I’d rather not talk about it, I answer. “That I do not look like I swallowed a goat.”

One finely plucked brow rises. “Of course you don’t, darling. It’s more like you sucked a lemon.”

I roll my eyes and grab my drink. It’s tart, sweet, and burns a little going down. Perfect.

“She’s in a mood,” Rye says. Without warning, he wraps a beefy arm around me and pulls me in for a hug, sloshing my drink all over the table. “There, there, Buttercup, tell me who put the frown on your face, and I’ll best them with my sword.”