Jax’s smile is barely a curl of his lips. “Remember that phase when we tried to sing like Kurt?” He glances at Killian. “And you lost your voice?”

They all laugh as Killian winces. “Ah, man. I sounded like a bull being castrated.”

I snicker at that. Especially since Killian’s voice is closer to Chris Cornell’s. “In college, someone fed me ‘special brownies’” I tell them. “I had no idea what they were. I ended up dancing around the dorm, singing ‘Heart-Shaped Box.’”

“I’d pay money to have seen that,” Killian says. “Big money.”

“Apparently, I had food on the brain, since I kept singing, ‘Hey, Blaine, I’ve got a blue corn plate! Falling deeper in depth on piles of black rice.’”

The guys crack up. I join them until our laughter drifts off.

We stand silent for a minute more, lost in our thoughts. Then Jax lets me go, and we head back to the van. On the way I notice Killian’s bloodshot eyes. I’d been so worried about Jax, I hadn’t thought about how it would be for the rest of them. They very well could have done what I did for their friend.

But Killian gives me a small, quiet smile. “Thank you,” he says, glancing at Jax, then kissing me softly. “He needed that.”

Hours later, my subdued mood hasn’t lifted as we attend Kill John’s record label party at the hotel’s rooftop pool area. The views of Puget Sound are breathtaking, the food excellent. The people? Loud and plastic comes to mind.

“You’re with me tonight, kid.” Whip appears at my side and pulls me into a hard half hug. I almost choke on my salmon puff.

“To what do I owe this honor?” I ask as I wipe a crumb from my lip.

His pretty profile is stern as he surveys the crowd. “The piranhas are out in full force tonight. A guy could get eaten alive.”

There are a lot of gorgeous women here, and a lot of suits, as Killian calls the record label execs. I don’t know which makes Whip more wary. I’m definitely not liking the way the suits keep looking at me as if I’m a stray that wandered into the party uninvited. Though it’s probably all in my head.

“You need to be my beard,” Whip tells me for clarification.

“You’re bi?” I ask, because I really don’t know.

He glances at me, blue eyes twinkling. “Well, as a teen, I thought a little variety would add to my sexual mystique. But, alas, dicks do nothing for me. I’m all about the kitty.”

I’m rolling my eyes when another male hand wraps around my wrist. This touch I know well.

Killian gives Whip a look. “Dude, get your own woman.”

“I tried. You cockblocked me.” Whip winks at me.

“What happened to that reporter you were all over at the movies?” I ask.

“You saw that?”

“Everyone saw that,” Killian and I say in unison.

Whip makes a face. “Turns out she thought the best way to get info out of me was to suck it through my dick.”

“Sounds labor-intensive,” Killian says with a laugh.

“More like a lost cause.” Whip’s nostrils flare then his expression clears. “But she had great technique.”

“La-la-la,” I sing. “I can’t hear you.”

Laughing, Whip lets go as Killian fits himself behind me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders.

“See,” Whip quips. “Cockblocker.”

Killian’s cheek rests against mine for a second before he gives my temple a kiss. “He thinks because we’re faux cousins I won’t kick his ass. He’s wrong.”

They’re grinning, so I ignore the boast. “Faux cousins?” I ask.

“Chicks used to think we were related because we look so much alike,” Whip tells me. “We said we were cousins. For some weird-ass reason, that got us a lot of play.” He frowns. “Women are strange creatures.”

I laugh, snuggling back into Killian’s embrace. He’s warm, solid, and all mine. “If you say so. Though I think it probably had more to do with you both being hot, as opposed to related.”

“See?” Whip says brightly. “She thinks I’m hot.”

“She thinks I’m hotter,” Killian counters. “Don’t you, babe?”

“Scottie’s really the hottest of you all,” I tell them.

Killian chuckles darkly, and his hand slips down just a bit. Under the cover of his bent arm, his fingers graze the side of my breast, his warm palm giving me a gentle squeeze. I squirm a little and feel his grin against my neck. “If you say so, baby doll.”

Cheeky ass.

Whip rolls his eyes, but leans in and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Any time you want to dump this bum, you know where to find me.”

He gives Killian a tap on the shoulder as he heads into the crowd.

“Can we leave now?” Killian murmurs. His hand is still busy, slowly fondling me, each touch getting heavier, more direct. I squirm again, my butt pushing against his rising interest. He grunts low, nudges me back.

“We can’t,” I whisper, though I really want to agree. “You promised Scottie you’d make nice with those journalists.”

Killian sighs, grinding his dick against my bottom one last time before letting me go. “Okay, fine. But we’re not staying long.”

I watch him walk away, because his ass in those well-worn jeans is a thing of beauty. I’m already regretting being good tonight.

“Wow,” says a male voice in the dark. “You’ve got Whip Dexter and Killian James wrapped around your finger. You must be good.”

The bar table next to me is tucked in the shadows, away from the bulk of the party. I hadn’t seen the guy until now.

He steps my way, clearly thinking he’s the shit. Tight black, leather pants, flowing white silk shirt. I want to ask him which ’80s hair band’s wardrobe he raided. He’s extremely good looking, in a slick, pretty boy way—dark hair falling over his brow, pouty lips, fine, almost girlish features.

I stare at him, unimpressed with the way he casually flicks his hair back from his face. “Good at what?” I mean, I know what. I just want him to say it.

“You doing them both?” He shows his teeth. “Or maybe taking the whole band on?”

“Let me ask you something. Do you actually think that’s acceptable to say to someone?”