The music is loud. Really loud. The pounding rhythm starts at my feet, the vibration from the quad box so intense tremors shudder their way up my sweaty calves. My ribs are a cage rattling in time with the rhythmic drumbeat, and my head is a crucible of well-crafted lyrics. Strobe lights flicker blue, green, and red as they illuminate the four-piece on stage. The stench of heated bodies crushed together combined with the beer spilled on the sticky floor means on every inhale my nostrils beg not to have to do it again.
But I ignore the smell. I ignore the people in the mosh pit acting like human pinballs. I ignore the way my Converse high tops peel from the sullied concrete with every movement. Instead, I invest my sole focus on the music, this band, and Kai freaking Jenner.
“Oh my fucking God, Wil!”
Okay, I can’t ignore my best friend, Shiloh. She’s jumping up and down beside me, her double D’s demanding their own zip code. Long brunette hair swirls around her narrow shoulders, her chocolate eyes alight with excitement. She’s the frontwoman and vocalist of a heavy rock outfit, and this pint-sized pocket-rocket more than appreciates the man on stage.
“Can you believe this shit?” she squeals. “Remind me to tell Zeke I’m naming my next song after him.”
Reid wraps his hands around her waist and pulls her tiny frame against his front. Leaning down, he murmurs something in her ear, and the red tinge staining her cheeks tells me it’s something she likes.
I’m so happy for these two. It took years for them to find their way back to each other, and now that they’re together, neither one is letting go. And the fact we’re so close to the swarming mosh pit without Shiloh having a panic attack is huge. It’s a testament to how far she’s come with Reid’s help.
Kai steps out from behind the microphone, his straight brown hair hanging over broad shoulders. Swaggering to the front of the stage, he never falters in his guitar solo. Kai’s skills are insane, unbelievable, mind-blowing even. He’s also shirtless. His tall frame and sinewy muscles glisten under a blanket of perspiration. Ripped black jeans are slung low on narrow hips, and the hint of a tattoo peeks from below the waistband. Yep, he’s smokin’. There’s no doubt about it. Though, unlike the last time I saw him play live, Heathen’s lead singer doesn’t send that bolt of unbridled need through me.
Kai bends one knee, shifting his weight forward. He dips his chin, his fingers a whir on the fretboard. I scream. And jump. And scream some more. “You rock, Kai!”
I’m not the only one losing my sanity. To my right, Reid whistles piercingly while Shiloh screams her appreciation. To my left, Drake hollers through cupped hands. In front is a sea of writhing bodies, and behind a mass of swarming fans. Everywhere I look, people are going crazy for the musical geniuses on stage.
When the last song comes to a dramatic end, thanks to the heavy instrumental breakdown, Kai grips the mic, yelling, “Thank you, Bayside!” He lifts a free hand, his index and little fingers pointing toward the crowd in a universal signal for devil horns as the lights fade to black.
The house lights come up and Drake, Reid, Shiloh, and I face each other. We’re a bedraggled mess. Our clothes are plastered to our bodies, sweat-soaked hair sticks to our faces, and I’m fairly certain I’m standing in someone’s spilled drink. But our grins are enormous, we’re buzzing with energy, and the best is yet to come.
“Dude, that was fucking awesome,” Drake yells, forgetting he doesn’t have to talk over the music anymore.
Reid’s eyes are bright silver, a testament to his unbridled exhilaration. He claps our lead singer on the shoulder. “Did you hear that fuckin’ drum fill in their last song?” His strong tattooed arms mimic the movement with perfect accuracy. “Eli plays so fuckin’ tight, man. Every. Goddamn. Time.” He shakes his head in wonderment. “Fuck.”
“Forget the drum fill, it’s the lyrics that stole the show.” Shiloh bounces on the balls of her feet, too pumped to stay still.
Reid faces her, incredulous. “Forget the drum fill? Forget the fuckin’ drum fill? You’re kidding me, right?”
“Fuck no. They were way more powerful than sticks on skin. Don’t get me wrong, Eli was solid behind the kit, but even he can’t compete with Kai’s lyrics.”
The drummer buries his hands in his girlfriend’s hair, forcing her head back. “Darlin’, you’d better watch that mouth of yours or you know what I’ll do with it.”
Shiloh bites her bottom lip, her eyes mischievous. “Bring it.”
But before Reid has a chance to make good on his X-rated promise, Drake groans. “Keep it in your fucking pants, dude.” He shakes his head. “Let’s focus on what’s important here.” After a pause, a slow grin forms on his face. “The fact we can lord this concert over Jasper and Tobias for an eternity.”
Shiloh points her index finger at Drake. “Hey, you lay off Tobias. He’s already been through an epic shitstorm the past few months. He doesn’t need you adding to it.” She pauses, her smile wicked. “But go hard on my twin. Jasper deserves everything he gets.”
“Is that why Tobias isn’t here?” I ask. “Because of the temptation to drink?”
My best friend smiles sadly. “Yeah, he’s finding sobriety tough at the moment. The guy’s always used alcohol as a numbing tool, you know? So, he doesn’t know how to deal when life throws him a left hook. Putting himself in a situation where it’s easily accessible isn’t the best idea right now.”
I shudder, thinking back to a month ago when Tobias wrapped his car around a tree after drunk driving. There was a moment when we weren’t sure if he’d make it. It was beyond terrifying.
“Jasper’s hanging with him tonight, keeping him company and all,” Shiloh continues. “My bro and me rock, paper, scissored it to see who was on babysitting duty.” Shaking her head, she laughs. “Dude chooses rock every fucking time. It’s like he forgot we shared a womb for eight months. I mean, come on. Of course, I know what he’s gonna choose, that’s why I suggested the freaking game in the first place.”
We all laugh at Jasper’s predictability. For a long time, I harbored a monster crush on Shiloh’s twin. It’s hard not to because the guy’s seriously hot. Since we all grew up together, I watched him turn from a scrawny boy to a drop-dead gorgeous manwhore. Yeah, he knows he’s good-looking. He could even give Drake a run for his money in the number of bed notches he’s accumulated over the years. But there’s more to Jasper, and that’s what attracted me to him. He’s good-natured, compassionate, and he’d give his last penny to anyone who asked. He’s an insanely talented visual artist, musician, and writer. The guy’s a prodigy, really. Since he’s never looked at me as anything other than a friend, my infatuation’s been safely locked away and no one is any the wiser. Thank Zeus. It’s hard enough trying to deal with my emotions for Zeke, let alone my best friend’s brother.
As fans disperse toward the bar, exit, or toilets, I reach into the back pocket of my skinny jeans and pull out the lanyard with an access all areas pass. Holding it up to the others, I wiggle my eyebrows. “Ready to meet the band?”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Drake yells.
Shiloh squeals, “Hell yes!”
Laughing, I follow Reid as he leads his girlfriend through the sea of people between us and the side exit. Curious looks and not-so-subtle exclamations are thrown our way as we move through the crowd.
“It’s them, isn’t it?”
“Oh my God, they’re the band that won Rising Star!”
“Hang on, isn’t she the chick from the rival band?”
“Quick, where’s my phone? Where the fuck’s my phone? I need to film this.”
Thankfully, we make it through security without incident. The whole being-recognized-in-public thing is still new to me, so I never know how to act. As we walk along the exposed brick corridor, our shoes squeaking on the polished concrete, I’m beyond relieved to see a sign for the women’s bathroom. Holding up one hand, I call out, “Won’t be long.”
Drake throws his head back in a dramatic groan. “The fuck, Wil? Can’t it wait? We’re about to meet Heathen, for fuck’s sake.”
“No,” I call over one shoulder. “My bladder’s about to burst! I’m not going to stand in front of Kai with my legs crossed!” Turning to my friend, I raise my eyebrows. “Shiloh?”
“I’m good, thanks. Just gonna hang here and grope my man for a bit.”
Some low murmuring and a deep groan follow as I roll my eyes and scurry inside.
Soon enough, I’ve taken care of business, washed my hands, and am bracing myself against the chipped porcelain sink. When I stare at my sweat-soaked reflection in the mirror, whiskey-colored eyes gaze back at me.
“Stop it, Wil.”
Shaking my head, I clear my subconscious of the smoldering look that has haunted me since early this morning. After we accepted the tickets, Zeke spent the remainder of the day—when not immersed in his console—watching me. It was weird. And hot. And so freaking distracting I tripped over my guitar lead and almost head-butted Drake’s ass as he adjusted the microphone stand.
Not my finest moment.
Even now, when I’m moments away from meeting my idol, Zeke’s face, his body, his silent promise of dirty deeds circle my brain. Clearly, I need an intervention. Figuring Reid and Drake are the best people for the job, I quickly wash my face, tidy my hair, and dry my shirt under the hand dryer. After taking a deep breath, I step into the hallway.
They’re still talking about the set. Even from several feet away, it’s obvious that Drake’s animated hand gestures, Reid’s epic air-drumming, and Shiloh’s husky laugh recount Heathen’s performance. But they’re not alone. Zeke is leaning against the exposed brick, hands shoved deep inside the pockets of his worn jeans and feet crossed at the ankles. The sleeves of his black button-down shirt are pushed up powerful forearms, while the top few buttons are left undone. Through the sliver of space near his collarbone I spy tanned skin. My mouth waters.
Zeke nods at Drake, his dark hair catching the artificial light overhead. The usual chocolate strands shine a tarnished copper. I stop.
“Sweet Aphrodite.” My lazy perusal becomes fixed on his face, or more specifically the corner of his mouth that tilts upward by the smallest of increments. Zeke Danton is smiling, smiling. Granted, it’s tiny, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it quirk of the lips, but it’s there. His entire expression changes with the subtle movement. The harsh lines smooth and the dark scowl lightens. He transforms into a lethal version of his former self.
“He’s going to ruin me,” I whisper.
My bandmates and bestie are so busy gushing about the set they don’t even realize the unprecedented phenomenon taking place before them. But I do. Warmth blankets my heart, the gentle heat deceptive in its strength as it squeezes to the point of pain. I welcome it; a perverse part of me laughs in the face of the smarting hurt, wanting to bask in its cruel beauty.
Zeke notices where I stand motionless in the doorway and his smile drops. Rather than turn into a familiar scowl, his expression heats, then cools. It’s beyond confusing. He pushes off from the wall, leaving the others behind as he saunters toward me. It’s only when the ends of our shoes meet that he stops and those eyes peek from behind thick lashes. “Hey.”
“Hi,” I croak. Yep, awkward. One tilt of Zeke’s lips and I forget how to construct complete sentences.
He takes in my features as though committing them to memory. “What did you think of the show?”
His deep voice is rumbling thunder, and I shiver, the movement not lost on him. He inches closer. His huge body would be intimidating if it weren’t for the pleasure zapping through me from his close proximity.
“Amazing,” I murmur, unsure whether I’m talking about the gig or not.
He gives a slow nod, his gaze trained on my parted lips.
My tongue darts out to wet them. “Where did you go? I didn’t see you inside. You dropped us off, then disappeared.”
His jaw ticks. “I was backstage.”
“Yeah? With who?”
Pause. “No one important.”
“Oh.”
His eyes trail blazing heat as they skim my neck, my cleavage, my tight white tank, and black fitted jeans. Soon the tips of his fingers follow suit, his touch magnetic, possessive. It traces sparking flames across my skin.
I gasp.
He growls.
My head tips back, exposing the column of my throat. He stares at it, hungry, the pulse at the base of his neck jumping.
“Zeke, I—”
“Wil, come on,” Drake calls.
I jump, jolted out of my trance. Taking an instinctive step back, I lean to the side and glance at my friend. He’s gesturing for me to hurry up with an impatient wave of his hand. Shiloh’s nearby, her expression confused as she looks at me.
Straightening, I glance at Zeke and clear my throat. “We’d better….” My fingers do this weird shake flick thing that does nothing to aid what I’m trying to say.
He watches me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nods before turning and walking down the hallway. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s pissed Drake interrupted us.
As though on autopilot, I follow, and soon enough I’m surrounded by my friends. Since Shiloh and Zeke met earlier in the night, there’s no need for introductions, but I wish there was some social custom I needed to follow, if only to distract me from staring at him.
“Lead the way, all-powerful master,” Drake jokes, with a flutter of his backstage pass and a flamboyant bow.
Zeke grunts and shoulders past him, unimpressed by the theatrics.
Shiloh grips my arm and gives me a gentle squeeze. Blinking, I face her. She raises a questioning eyebrow, whispering, “What the hell is going on between you two? In the dude’s mind, he’s got you naked and is fucking you from behind right now.”
“Nothing’s going on,” I hiss, heat flooding my face. “He’s my producer, remember? It’s a business relationship, that’s all.”
Shiloh snickers. “Sure, Wil. You keep telling yourself that. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
After rolling my eyes, I glance to where Zeke has stopped up ahead. He’s standing in front of a bright red door flanked by two security guards who rival even his enormous size. He gives them each a quick nod before opening it and stepping inside.
“Holy shit,” Shiloh breathes.
There are people everywhere—drinking, smoking, laughing. All three bands from tonight’s show are here, along with band managers, roadies, girlfriends, and what are most definitely groupies. One of them is wearing a dress the size of my tank top. I can literally see her ass as she shakes it to the beat of the music. Another has a hot pink G-string on underneath a belt posing as a skirt. Beside me, Drake raises a fist to his mouth and bites it.
I roll my eyes before scanning the room. It’s not large, but the number of bodies filling the space make it feel microscopic. Black couches line two walls, with a low table between them. A makeshift bar is set up opposite with half-drunk beers, spirit bottles, and snacks of every description. The window on the far wall is blacked out. Heavy beats pump through the audio speakers mounted in each corner, and below one stands Kai Jenner.
I gasp, my hand fumbling for something to hold on to. Zeke’s eyebrows raise. He glances at my fingers gripping his forearm, then my face, but says nothing. Instead, he leans toward Drake, indicating to the bar. Drake nods and mutters something in Reid’s ear, who then murmurs to Shiloh.
My friend darts a quick look between Zeke and me. “You gonna be okay if I get a drink, Wil? It’s a bit quieter over there. All these people are kinda making me nervous.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
“Want me to get you anything? A beer?”
“Umm….” My mind is blank.
“Maybe a water.” She pats my arm before turning to Zeke and narrowing her eyes. “If you value your life, you’ll look after my girl.” Facing me, she winks. “Won’t be long.”
Reid wraps a protective arm around Shiloh, and the three saunter toward the drinks.
Once they’re out of earshot, Zeke positions himself in front of me and takes in what must be my freaked expression. “What? What is it?”
I try to speak but no words are forthcoming. I want to tell Zeke that Kai is mere yards away, that I’m probably going to embarrass myself by forgetting what instrument I play. I want Zeke to know I’m so freaking hopeful the guitarist is as amazing in person as he is on stage, that I’ll be devastated if he isn’t. And I want him to know how thankful I am for this chance to meet my idol, that I’ll find a way to pay him back someday.
So yeah, I’m flustered.
My chest heaves in a bid to drag air into my lungs.
Lowering his head until our foreheads touch, he rumbles, “You need to breathe, baby girl.”
That voice. His smell. Closing my eyes, I do as he says and focus on my breathing.
In. Out.
In. Out.
In.
It shouldn’t be this hard.
I’m not sure if it’s the realization that Kai is nearby, if it’s the tension radiating between us, or the fact that Zeke and I shouldn’t be this close in public, but remaining calm is next to impossible.
A large hand grasps the back of my neck, causing my eyes to spring open. “I’m serious. Breathe.”
“Can’t,” I gasp. “He’s—you—we—I… can’t.”
“Yes, you fucking can. Forget about everyone else and copy me.” He inhales, his broad chest expanding with the movement. I do the same, my ribs swelling on a shaky wheeze. When he exhales, warm air brushes my cheeks and my eyelids flicker closed.
“Look at me.”
Opening my eyes again, I wet my lips, part them, then slowly breathe out. His pupils dilate.
“Fuck.” He shifts closer, his free hand clasping my waist. Long fingers dig into my skin, bruising the soft flesh. I moan, shocked and turned on in equal measure.
“Zeke, buddy.” Someone claps him on the back, breaking the heady spell. Stepping out of Zeke’s hold, I run one hand over my face. Zeke releases my hip but refuses to let go of my nape. The rational side of me wants to shake him off, to put as much distance between us as possible. However, the irrational side loves the possessive gesture. It makes me feel safe, desired, like I’m his.
“Thought it was you over here. How you doin’, man?”
“Kai.” Zeke fist bumps Heathen’s lead singer. “Can’t complain. You?”
“Good, man. I’m really fuckin’ good.” Ice-blue eyes land on me. “And who do we have here?” He tips his head, inspecting me. Straight hair falls over a bare shoulder, and I find myself staring into a freakishly symmetrical face. It’s perfect, a work of art, and even though he’s only spoken six words to me, there’s a quick intelligence too. Wow. This guy’s the whole damn package.
Warmth heats my cheeks.
Kai’s grin is mischievous. “And where have you been hidin’, honey? Don’t tell me Zeke’s keepin’ you all to himself. Hardly seems fair.”
The fingers on my neck twitch. Figuring it’d be impolite not to, I hold out my hand to Kai. “Hi, I’m Willow. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Kudos to me, my voice didn’t even tremble.
“Willow.” He rolls the word on his tongue, a fine wine he’s savoring before taking a deep draft. Drawing my hand to his mouth, Kai presses a soft kiss to my knuckles. “The pleasure’s all mine.”
Smooth.
“Touch her again and I’ll break your fucking arm.”
Barbaric.
And yet butterflies swarm, teem, crowd my insides. What is it about Zeke? The man threatened physical violence on a musician I’ve admired for years, and I’m getting all hot?
Messed. Up.
Kai blinks, releases me, then throws his head back, hooting with laughter. “Zeke fuckin’ Danton, never thought I’d see the day.”
“Fuck you.”
But his exclamation makes Kai laugh harder. Soon there are tears streaming down chiseled cheekbones, and it’s only when chortles turn into chuckles, and chuckles turn into snickers that he wipes them away. Kai pats Zeke on the shoulder. “Just messing with you, dude. Never fear, I hear you loud and fuckin’ clear. Will spread the word so the others know it too.”
Zeke is silent.
I glance from one to the other, confused.
Kai shakes his head in amusement. When his eyes find mine, they’re openly curious. “How do you know Zeke, sugar?”
“Oh, um, my band was lucky enough to win Rising Star.” Glancing into Zeke’s stony profile, I murmur, “He’s producing our debut album.”
Zeke looks at me, his expression softening. His thumb traces small circles behind my ear and goose bumps appear on my skin. I shiver.
“You don’t say?” We both turn to the musician. Kai’s eyebrows are raised as he glances from me to Zeke.
Zeke gives a subtle shake of his head, and I have the sneaking suspicion I’m missing yet another crucial piece of information.
“How do you find working with him?”
I smile, relaxing into Kai’s easy company. “He expects perfection and won’t accept anything less. It’s a challenge, but one the boys and I are ready to face.”
Kai’s grin matches mine. “I hear you. He’s a moody motherfucker, but damn if Heathen’s last album wasn’t our best yet.”
Beside me, Zeke clears his throat. “Willow’s the lead guitarist. She’s self-taught. Thought you could give her some pointers since you never shut up about being classically trained.”
“Fuck yeah, I can. When? Now?”
It’s difficult feigning nonchalance when my inner fangirl wants to scream like the crazy bitch she is. I’m about to have a music lesson with Kai Jenner, for Hera’s sake. This is huge. Bigger than huge. It’s enormous.
Zeke glances at me and I swallow, then shrug. “Sure, why not?”
“Sweet. This party blows, anyway. Same crowd, same bitches wanting the same fuckin’ thing. Wash, rinse, repeat.” Kai gestures to the door on our right. “Let’s step into my office.”
Zeke and I follow him into the next room. When he hits the lights, my eyes widen. There’s equipment everywhere—instruments, PAs, leads. This must be where everything is kept before being loaded onto the tour bus. My eyes take in the amps, guitar cases, drum shells, mic stands. There’s high quality, state-of-the-art equipment filling most of the available space. It’s every musician’s dream.
“Wow.”
Zeke remains in the doorway, arms crossed, gaze trained on me.
Kai rummages through the guitar cases, his eyes alight with humor as he retrieves an acoustic. “Why don’t you leave us to it, Zeke? I’ll take good care of Willow, you know I will. Will even bring her back to you in one piece when we’re done.”
“Not a chance.”
Chuckling, Heathen’s lead singer shakes his head. “You’re killin’ me, man.” Pointing to the door, he grins. “At least shut the door. Don’t want just anyone waltzing their ass in here. This is a Kai Jenner exclusive. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“You wanted to leave the damn party,” Zeke grumbles under his breath as he slams the door shut and slides the lock into place. He then leans against the smooth wood and watches us, his expression shuttered.
“Here, sugar. I wanna see your style.” Kai hands me an acoustic guitar before taking another out of its battered case.
Looping the strap over one shoulder, I sit on a traps case and tune the strings. My fingers shake, but after closing my eyes and picturing the ocean washing into shore and retreating again, I’m centered.
Once I’m content with the sound, I play the opening few bars of the song we recorded this morning. Like always, time stops, the room fades, and music swirls around me. I get so lost in it, I end up playing the entire piece, including the solo between the second refrain and the chorus. This song is so elemental on the acoustic; I love being able to strip it back to the bare bones only to discover they sparkle under light. It’s magic.
Once finished, I glance up to see Kai sitting opposite. He blinks. My teeth worry my bottom lip when his eyes dart to Zeke.
Nodding, he murmurs, “I see it, man. I totally fuckin’ see it.” Giving me a lopsided grin, he adjusts the tension of his strings. “You’ve got some fuckin’ talent, honey. I’m impressed. Now, I’m gonna teach you about finger placement.” He wiggles his eyebrows before giving me a salacious wink. “Ready?”
I nod, too excited to do much else.
“When I play this riff, I want you to watch, then copy it.”
He begins. Dexterous fingers pluck the strings while the other hand slides up and down the fretboard. Kai hits each note just right; the sound is beautiful—crisp, clear, yet so unbelievably sweet. No wonder his record went platinum, no wonder he packs out stadiums. This man is one of the most talented instrumentalists I’ve ever seen.
And he’s teaching me.
My gaze finds Zeke. Slowly, I shake my head in awe. “Thank you,” I mouth, wishing I could say more, do more, to show him how much this moment means to me. He tips his chin, understanding my gratitude. And the deepest, darkest corner of those melted caramel eyes smiles back at me.