The following morning, I stagger into Louis Armstrong International Airport, hair unwashed—hell, I’m not even sure I brushed it—and smelling like an ashtray. The place is packed with hungover travelers, most of whom look as ridden-hard-and-put-up-wet as I feel. Some have yet to come down from the high of Mardi Gras last night.

A guy wearing a T-shirt whose sleeves appear to have been forcibly removed at knifepoint staggers up to me. The twelve pounds of beads swinging around his neck narrowly miss me as he leans close and says, “Show me your tits, and I’ll give you one.”

The alcohol on his breath singes my nose hairs. He whips off a strand of cheap green beads and dangles it in front of my face.

Fueled by a raging case of you-picked-the-wrong-bitch-to-fuck-with, I stare him down like I’m a bottle of Raid, and he’s the ant about to take the money shot. “Show me your dick. If I don’t laugh, you can keep your fucking beads.”

Maybe it’s my winning personality or the punchy aura I’ve been told I project. Maybe the moron’s too drunk to remember where he is, let alone who he is. Whatever the reason, he loses his balance and falls on the tile so hard, he may have pounded a new cleft into his butt crack.

“Ah, FUCK! My ass-ah-hole!” He rolls to his side, rubbing his rump. “She got the voodoo eyes,” he complains to passersby, who change course to avoid his histrionics.

What can I say? I do have the voodoo eyes.

I continue past the idiot and lower my sunglasses into place. The sun is too fucking bright, even inside. I puff my e-cig, making yet another (probably empty) vow to quit the real shit. Head throbbing, I try to convince myself what happened last night didn’t really happen as I hurry toward baggage claim.

A security officer stops me just before I reach my destination.

“Excuse me, lady. You can’t smoke in here. It’s against the law.”

I grip the fake cigarette with my incisors and point it at him like an accusing finger. “I’m not smoking,” I grind out around the stick.

“But you have an electronic cigarette in your mouth. Can’t have those inside.”

“Come back when you see smoke following me. Until then, kindly fuck the fuck off. I know the law. I’m not doing anything wrong.”

His feathers ruffle, so I fire off a Jillian Frost Mega Bitch Special—the look reserved for special occasions, such as dealing with lawyers, record company execs, and Letty Dillinger when she hasn’t had her Corn Pops. It puts the fear of God into every man, woman, and child within a fifty-foot radius.

The guy shrinks a couple inches. I keep walking, cigarette and all.

Jinx and Toombs wait by the carousel, bags on either side. They aren’t touching, but they stand close enough to make it clear they’re together. Her long, blond hair springs with a little extra curl around her shoulders. He scours the crowd like he’s Secret Service and she’s a dignitary’s virgin princess daughter with an ass to kill for.

I don’t know what happened between them and Rax last week, but tensions have been high. I’m ninety percent sure they’re all fucking each other. Or were fucking each other. And now Rax is the one getting fucked. Perpendicular to the normal flow of current.

“Hey, Jillian.” Jinx smiles and meets me halfway, Toombs tagging gingerly behind with a slight limp. She starts to reach out, seems to think the better of it, and lowers her arms.

“Nice trip?” I say crisply, nodding toward the exit. I walk. They follow.

“Great trip.” The quiver in her voice pegs her as a bald-faced liar.

“Good. Then you’re refreshed and ready to record. Our first session is this afternoon.”

“Any chance we could stop at a convenience store on the way home?” Jinx asks. “I need to pick up a few things.”

Rounding on her, I huff. “Next time give me a list. I can grab shit while you’re in the studio. We’re on a tight timeline.”

The two drummers exchange looks, and Jinx ducks her head. “Sure. Sorry.”

We exit the airport and head toward my rental car in silence. Toombs lags behind.

All this adulting after last night is killing me. Life rarely slows down long enough for me to catch my breath, let alone try to comb through the tangles to straighten shit like this out.

Toombs loads their bags in the trunk, and Jinx lays a hand on the back handle as I unlock the door. “Is everything okay?” she asks quietly.

I sigh. “It’s fine. I have a lot on my mind. Hop in.” I guess I can officially add “chauffeur” to my job description. Fuck, I need a raise. And a vacation.

When I woke up this morning, I was certain Siren, Miles, and Red had all been a dream. No harm, no foul. But then I found the business card, and the dream transformed into something between a fantasy and a nightmare as the details filtered in.

Miles and Red and me.

Fucking like the dirty rock star children I babysit every day.

While I made googly eyes at a woman I was crushing on.

With an unknown observer/bodyguard who witnessed everything.

I scrub my face and start the car.

If that guy filmed us … Jesus. Thank God for the masks. I clutch my jacket tighter around me and drive toward the exit.

I flick on the radio for a distraction from the two lovebirds talking quietly behind me. An occasional laugh out of Jinx and rustling of fabric triggers a rush of envy. I try to mind my own business and keep my eyes on the road.

Visions of Red’s dick ravaging my husband’s—ex-husband’s—ass haunt me. Miles’s head yanked back, his lips parted with moans of pleasure. The two of them forging the same sacred connection Miles and I used to share.

Miles belongs to Red now.

It’s human nature to desire what we can’t have. Miles has moved on to bigger and gayer things.

But the Siren had been within my reach. So close, I could almost taste her. What I wouldn’t give for another shot with her. She opened my mind to a world of opportunities I’d never considered before.

I stuff a hand into my jacket pocket and trace the raised numbers on the card with my thumb.

Is it her personal line? The voyeur’s? I stalked the phone number on Google when I got to the house last night. It’s an unlisted cell phone. No other details. For all I know, this might be the number for a taxi service. Maybe the guy just wanted to ensure I got home safely.

Yeah. Right.

I pull into a convenience store lot, slam the car into park, and turn around. “Make it snappy,” I tell Jinx.

She nods. “I’ll be right back.” And out the door she goes, Toombs staring longingly after her.

He slowly cranks his head forward and fixes his unnerving, silvery eyes on me in the rearview. The guy grins, an odd and somewhat disturbing sight. I’ve only seen him smile a handful of times since I met him a couple years ago.

“What’s with you?” I puff my e-cigarette, unroll the window, and blow out the vapor.

The grin widens. “I was about to ask the same question.”

I scowl.

“Have fun last night?” Now he’s just antagonizing. Making assumptions that, because this is New Orleans and yesterday was Mardi Gras, I got wasted and woke up with a whopper of a hangover. Well, he got the hangover part right, but it wasn’t from booze.

“Not really,” I lie. Sort of.

I turn away from the creepy eyes dissecting me in the mirror and focus on a cute girl filling up her tank. Naturally, the tank and the filling conjure memories I should reject. If I let them seep in too deep, they’ll just rot my brain and give me the female equivalent of blue balls. But what’s new? It’s not like I’ve ever been able to leap the hurdle of orgasm anyway.

“You got beat.” Toombs’s deep voice rips me out of my daydream.

Dropping my cigarette in my lap, I whip around to face him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He lifts a brow. “I know the look. You got your ass whooped by a Top.” He barely winces as he adjusts in the seat.

Ohhh …

Wait.

What?

He’s …

Wow. I did not see that coming.

He glances casually out the window. “I bet you liked it too.”

I balance verboten thoughts of Jinx tearing Toombs up in the bedroom with the notion that I’m somehow projecting a desire for the same treatment. I laugh off his accusation. “You’re nuts.”

“So, you didn’t get off to the tune of a whip crack? Could’ve fooled me.”

Shit, my body language has a big fucking mouth.

“What makes you think I’d buy into that sadistic bullshit?”

He keeps his focus away from me and shakes his head.

Jinx bops up to the car and slides in next to him. He talks softly to her, as if our conversation never happened.

I grip the steering wheel tightly the rest of the way to the French Quarter and think about guitars and drums and vocals and all the money that’ll line our pockets once Killer Buzz Float’s album is recorded. I do not think about floggers or riding crops or butt-fucking men fucking me. Or beautiful sirens who get their kicks watching strangers fornicate and then disappear before the lady stranger can beg a good-night kiss off her.

I rub my eyes.

Toombs steals glances at me in the mirror, setting me further on edge. The corners of his lips curl upward into the same knowing smile from before.

Fucker.

Am I the last to know I’m an uninitiated member of a covert, submissive society that recognizes its members by their “bottom” pheromones instead of secret handshakes? What kind of conspiracy is this?

I park at the thirty-five-bucks-a-day lot and shack up my cheap-ass rental. It’s a short walk to the homestead, which is a gorgeous antebellum number that’s way too good for the likes of Killer Buzz Float, but these kids need some mood for the new record, and NOLA reeks of it.

The dynamic drummer duo follows me up the steps with their suitcases. I storm into the place with a grumble.

“Navigating the goddamn airport and getting through the shitty post-Mardi Gras fallout blew half my day. Next time I’ll send a taxi and let someone else deal with it.” I hurl a meaningful look at Toombs, smacking him right between the eyes. He doesn’t notice. He’s too busy jacking up an alpha male peacock puff, pawing at Jinx for Rax’s sake as they make a pass of the kitchen.

The whole crew’s here. Letty in a belly shirt and flannel PJ bottoms, Shades with his fucked-up hair sticking out everywhere, and Rax. For a fleeting second, my heart bleeds for him. His eyes are exhausted, lined, and very red. He looks ten years older than he did yesterday. Whatever drives him to drink is gonna kill him one day if he doesn’t get his shit together.

And Jinx and Toombs’s collective body language has totally shifted since they saw him sitting at the kitchen table. The sickly sweet, lovey-dovey shit from the car has soured into something stinky and chunky.

Their personal lives are not your business, Jillian. Business is your business.

Still, I can’t help but hurt for Rax. Sometimes, I watch him when he’s not looking. A sad, lonely man lives under the smart-ass, bad-boy façade. He likes to wisecrack and pretend he owns the world, that he doesn’t give a fuck about anyone but himself, but deep down, he cares more than he’ll admit. Especially about Toombs.

Letty and Jinx catch up and head upstairs.

The vacation has ended. I shift gears into first, full-speed ahead, and assume my Mommie Dearest attitude. I wave Toombs into a seat and read the boys the riot act.

“Mardi Gras is over, and it’s time to get serious about recording this album. We’re scheduled in the studio in a couple of hours. Griff, the new producer, wants to share his vision for the record. Give him input. If you don’t like something, tell him. He knows what works and what sells, so I want you to be open to trying different things.

“Rax, I need you sober for the next couple weeks.”

He rolls his eyes.

“I’ll let you off the hook on the weekends, as long as I don’t get any more calls from the police station or hospital. But I’m dead fucking serious. You fuck this up for the rest of us, and I’ll put your ass on a plane back to Athens and find someone who can handle it.”

The petulant child flings himself against his chair, barely suppressing a fit. Well, at least he has the courtesy to try to control himself.

I point a finger at him and then Toombs. “And whatever this silent treatment shit is, get the fuck over it. As guitarists for Killer Buzz Float, you two have the tightest musical relationship in this band. I want to feel every harmony, every lick, and every syncopated rhythm like an orgasm in my ears. Audio jack-offs. Got it?”

Avoiding each other, they both nod. I pull out a real cigarette (I think I’ve earned it), exit the kitchen, and head for the courtyard, shaking all over.

God-fucking-damn it.

The door shuts behind me, and I nearly drop my Bic while lighting up. The tobacco catches fire and flares red. I hug myself around the middle with one arm and suck in a long drag, savoring the burn on the way down.

My phone rings. Miles.

I blow out a long breath and hit the answer button.

“Hello, darling ex-husband,” I say with more enthusiasm than I feel. How am I more drained than usual after everything that happened last night?

“Ex-wife. How are you this lovely morning?”

“These kids, Miles. These fucking kids. If I didn’t love them so much, I’d be plotting their murders tonight. Well, maybe not Shades. He’s the least abrasive of the bunch.”

“So, work is treating you well?”

I sigh. “Sorry. It’s been nonstop since I woke up.”

“I won’t keep you,” he says. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. And I need to apologize.”

“For what?” We both know what, but he can say it for clarity.

“The setup. I didn’t mean any harm by it.”

“I know you didn’t.” My voice softens. I take a quick puff and flick my ashes on the ground. “And I’m fine.”

“You’re smoking again?”

“What are you, outfitted with bionic hearing? Jesus.” I consider the cigarette and start to throw it away, but then I think the better of it.

“The scene last night was supposed to de-stress you, not make you chain smoke. Did I fail to achieve my goal with you yet again?”

I laugh. “No, I’m pretty sure you hit the jackpot.”

He laughs too.

Silence fills the airspace.

“But, in all seriousness, if you ever want to try something like that again—”

“I’m good. And I appreciate what you did. It was … fun.” That’s not a lie. It was fun. But my session with Miles confirmed that we really aren’t compatible anymore, despite how much I wish we were. It’s a good lesson to learn. Hard, but necessary.

“You gonna be around tonight?” he says.

“No, I’m booked solid for the rest of my stay,” I lie. “The band. Recording. Negotiating contracts. You know the drill.”

It takes a few seconds for him to answer. “If you change your mind—”

“No, thanks. I’m done with that scene.” Remembering Siren’s face as she came, I remove the card from my pocket and touch the end of my dwindling cigarette to its corner. Smoke wisps around my knuckles with a sudden breeze.

“Okay,” Miles says grudgingly. “Call me before you leave?”

“Sure.” The fire gains a stronghold over the paper and devours the numbers one by one until they’re all gone. “Goodbye, Miles.”