My bandmate Spider thought I was just bored. Maybe.

I tapped my foot.

What was taking her so long?

“Is she naked? Otherwise, what’s the bloody point in spying on her?” Spider asked me in a stage whisper, coming up behind me in the darkness on the patio. The Englishman sipped on his Jack and Coke.

“She’s not out yet,” I said. “And, it’s not really spying. I just like her music.”

He snorted. “Uh-huh. She’s fucking hot, isn’t she?”

Hot as hell—but I wasn’t sharing. I was surprisingly territorial when it came to Violin Girl.

“I think some clubbing would cure you real fast, mate.” He did a pirouette dance move that was straight out of our latest music video.

“Dude. Not tonight.” I needed a break. The paparazzi were all over me now that I was “fake dating” Hollywood starlet Blair Storm to garner good press.

He threw his hands up to the sky. “You’re Sebastian Tate, the lead singer of the Vital Rejects whose YouTube video just clocked in at two hundred million views. We’re famous, and all you want to do is wait for her to come out.” He shook his head. “It’s right odd how you fancy her.”

I laughed at his theatrics. I suspected he was drunk. “Coming from the guy with a blue pompadour,” I said.

“Don’t be jealous.” He smoothed his newly dyed hair delicately. “Seriously, I liked you better when you got obsessed with The Vampire Diaries.”

I snorted. “Ha. Shut the fuck up. You love that show.”

He grinned. “Never. I hate blood suckers. Fucking pussies.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I watch macho shows, like wrestling and NASCAR,” he insisted.

“Bullshit. You DVR everything on The CW.” I snickered.

He lit a cig and sent me a thoughtful look. “You know, I haven’t had a shag in a while. You think Violin Girl would like me?”

I inhaled sharply. “She’s really not your type. I suggest you stick with your groupies.”

“If she’s female, she’s my type.” He waggled his eyes at me.

An image of her playing for him came to mind, and possessiveness zipped up my spine. I slammed my beer down on the patio table. “Keep in mind, we don’t know who she is or if she’s got a boyfriend. She could be married, and we don’t need another scandal.”

His lips quirked, and I suspected he’d played me all along.

I narrowed my eyes at him. I loved the blue-haired freak, but he could be a pain in the ass.

He popped me on the arm. “Wake up and smell the sexual tension, mate. You dig her, which is the most interest you’ve shown in a girl in five years. I can’t help but be fascinated.”

I shrugged. Whatever.

“Just go meet her. Knock on her door, pretend you’re lost, chat her up. Hell, take Monster with you. Girls love dogs, especially cute white Chihuahuas with ADHD.”

“You’re giving me dating advice?”

He paused and then grimaced. “Scary, huh?”

Spider was a notorious womanizer and generally treated girls like shit.

I sighed. “I don’t want to screw up the Blair thing.”

Spider got quiet, disapproval radiating off him. “Blair’s a piranha. You must really want this zombie movie.”

I nodded. “It’s directed by Dan Hing. Apparently, he had a bad experience on his set with a rock star-turned-actor and despises them. But, if I’m dating America’s Sweetheart, then I look like Mr. Nice Guy.” I paused. “Your arrest last year in Vegas didn’t help our image,” I said, reminding him of the heckler whose nose he’d busted. “We’ve had a shit-ton of bad press and I’m trying to fix it.”

He jutted out his chin, and I let out a sigh and rubbed my temple. Acting like his dad was wearing thin.

He changed gears. “Emma sent me an email asking if we’re going to the Briarcrest Academy reunion in September. Are we in or what?”

“She’s in charge?” I bit out.

He nodded.

Great. Old feelings of betrayal swept over me as I remembered the fool I’d been for her in high school. She’d used me to make her asshole ex jealous, but the kicker had been she’d gotten pregnant—and hadn’t known who the father was. Those had been the worst six months of my life waiting for the DNA test to come back. Me a father at eighteen? It had seemed like the end of the world.

I made the Catholic cross sign with my hands.

“Aren’t you a non-practicing Presbyterian?” He smirked.

“Emma,” I muttered. “Just thanking the heavens I escaped being her baby daddy.”

“Yeah, glad that award went to Matt Dawson. Total wanker. I bet they’re miserable together.” He shot me a concerned look. “You are going, right?”

My mouth tightened. “I don’t want to see Emma.” What if I still had feelings for her? But I did want to see my older brother Leo and his wife Nora, who’d been one of my best friends at the prep school in Highland Park, Texas.

He stewed on that. “I say we go, get hammered, wreck the school gym—maybe jump on stage and play a song—call it a regular day. I promise to not get arrested this time. Scout’s honor.”

Movement came from next door, and I put the lenses back on my face. “Shhh, she’s out,” I said as she walked outside to her patio, carrying her violin. She flicked on her porch lights, and a low whistle came out of me at the sexy red-as-sin robe she wore, its silky material flashing around her long legs as she moved about. Her hair was down, too.

This was new. Where were the usual yoga pants? The ponytail?

She looked like she knew someone watched, but that was impossible since our outside lights were off. Even the light from the moon hit our house at such an angle that she shouldn’t be able to see us just by glancing over. She’d need a high-powered lens to know I was here.

Spider mumbled something and went back inside, probably to watch The CW—or go clubbing. I barely noticed.

Usually she played facing her rose garden, but this time she walked to the right side of her patio, which faced us. Weird. But she didn’t play. She just stood there without moving. Staring toward our house. Uneasiness went over me.

What was she doing?

Could she see me?

As if it were a fragile bird, she positioned the violin under her chin and began playing, arms bent and wrist poised, making the most exquisite sounds. And I don’t mean classical like Beethoven or Mozart; I mean body-thrashing, blood-thumping, hard-as-hell music that had me rooted to the ground, like she’d slapped iron chains on me.