“Those fucking cunts!” Lizzie seethes. She flings her gaze around the front of the tricked-out pink bus, grabs the nearest shoe, and wings it at the Plexiglas window. The stiletto bounces off with a thud and falls to the floor. Then she whirls on me, wagging a finger in my face.

“This is your fault, Jillian! I told you. Richard told you. We all,” she swings her arms in a wide arc, “told you. Everyone should be focused on Banging Betties, not some two-bit hillbilly losers from Redneckville, Georgia. We are the winners. We are number one. We are the famous ones.” She unleashes a high-pitched shrill that threatens the security of my tympanic membranes.

Shaken by the vehemence of her hissy fit, I pull out a cigarette, light it, and level her with the most neutral expression I can muster. “You finished?”

“No!” she screeches.

I shrink back, wishing I had a camera. Of course, I can’t get to my phone to record this tirade without her noticing.

She grabs a graffiti-trashed folder on the table labeled “Property of Lizzie Smith” and shakes out countless leaves of paper onto the rug. Scooping them up, she says, “This is what a bestseller looks like. These lyrics touch the hearts and souls of millions. Do you have any concept of what a million fans look like?”

I shrug and puff the cigarette.

“Of course not. And you never will.” She flings the pages into the air, and words fall like rain around her fiery red head.

“Why don’t you go and have a shower,” I suggest. “The hot water will relax you.”

Not only is she freaking me out, but I also desperately need access to her phone, laptop, or any other source of information I can get my hands on.

She bares her teeth and lowers her voice. “What fucking right do you have to tell me what to do? For a submissive, you’re worthless. You never do what I ask. You constantly defy me. I don’t know why I keep you around.”

Neither do I. But this isn’t the time to rile her further.

Damage control. That’s the plan.

“I thought you liked my spunk.” Smoke rides the words down the slope of my tongue.

“I did.” She lifts her head and stares at me. Some of the anger melts away, but not enough to restore my faith in her mental stability. “I do.”

I question those two words with the cock of an eyebrow.

She catapults onto the couch and throws an arm across her face. Desperation replaces some of the madness behind her eyes. “Why don’t you ever tell me how much you love my music, Jillian? The truth.”

It’s all I can do not to laugh. So, now she has confidence issues? Because Killer Buzz Float put on a hell of a show tonight, and Banging Betties were mediocre?

Each passing minute with Lizzie evinces deeper hatred of her. How could I have ever thought she was the one for me? Oh right. Because … orgasms.

In hindsight, I wish I’d never met her. I wouldn’t have found out I am capable of climaxing, if only at the mercy of a talented Top. I wouldn’t have convinced the band to join this stupid tour. And I wouldn’t be trying to push Lizzie off to the shower as I plot illegal searches to out her as a fucking cunt.

Private investigator: the latest addition to my Jill-of-all-trades résumé.

“Well?” she demands.

One thing she did give me, however, is thicker skin. These tongue-lashings of hers are little more than puppy licks now that I’ve unmasked the Siren and exposed her as the spoiled brat she is. Now to prove it to everyone else.

“Your music … is what people want,” I skirt around the truth.

Face flushed, she peeks out from under her arm. “Meaning?”

I heave a sigh, steal another drag off the cigarette, and blow the vapor toward the pink leopard-print ceiling. Sitting next to her, I say, “There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just not what I normally listen to.”

“Pop metal? Really?” She hugs a pillow to her stomach. “Your band isn’t much different. Aside from sucking.”

That’s it. “You know, I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop slagging on Killer Buzz Float. These guys have worked hard to get where they are—”

“And I haven’t?” she snarls.

“Does everything have to be about you, Lizzie?”

She settles into the cushions and holds out a hand. “Give me a cigarette.”

Grr … I drop the box and a lighter in her palm. She fires up.

“When we first met in New Orleans, you were mesmerized by me. I could see it in your face.” She thumbs my chin like I’m a child. Gray pours from her nostrils in a long, pale rush. “The slackening of your jaw. The stars in your eyes.”

She nailed it. But that was then. This is now.

“Your voice sounded totally different when you stood on that stage. Wouldn’t you agree?” I say.

She frowns.

“You want me to lie and say I love Banging Betties’ music?” I don’t mean to trigger her narcissism, but Letty was right. Banging Betties do suck.

There. I thought it.

“Get out.” Her voice chills to a subzero temperature. She flicks her ashes into the tray.

I narrow my eyes. “Fine.”

I stand just as Eliza mounts the steps with baby Gabrielle in tow. She waves a hand in front of her face.

“It’s smoky in here,” she says to Lizzie. “I thought we agreed no cigarettes, for Gabrielle’s sake?”

“You too?” Lizzie shouts. “Why does everyone have to bitch me out for shit I don’t do?”

The baby grunts a couple times and cranks up to full-blown wailing. Eliza cups the back of her little head and holds her closer to her shoulder.

“Cut the shit, Lizzie. You are smoking. I asked you politely not to. The rest of us have put up with it for ages and no one complained. I’m looking out for my child, not attacking you. As a courtesy to those of us who don’t want to kill ourselves with lung cancer, you can at least go in your bunk, open the window, and shut the curtain. Stop being such a bitch.”

I strangle the smile forming with a bite to the lip and turn my head away from Lizzie. I think I just fell in love with Eliza.

“I’m sick of your shit. And that kid,” Lizzie lashes out, stubbing the cigarette to a violent death.

Wow. Megabitch level unlocked and remastered by the queen herself.

“Yeah? Well, we’re even. Now shut it.” Eliza marches past me, cooing to calm the fussy baby, and climbs the stairs to the top level of the bus. I continue toward the exit.

“Wait a minute,” Lizzie calls after me.

I pause, barely shaking my head, my back to her. “What.”

“I’m sorry.”

No, she’s not. She wants sympathy. And someone to Yes, ma’am her.

“I’m gonna grab a shower,” she says.

“You don’t need me for that.”

“I need you afterward.”

And I need to snoop.

I turn around, arms crossed, jaw set. “Then, I need an apology.”

“I just gave you one,” she snaps.

I cock my head to the side. “Not good enough. Try losing the attitude, and we’ll go from there.”

She huffs. “I’m sorry.” Her tone cools by a few degrees.

“For …?”

Another huff, this one more forceful. “I’m sorry for lashing out at you and calling your band stupid. Good enough?”

Nope. But it’s probably all I’ll get out of her.

“Passable.”

“Wait for me in my bunk. Bring your cigarettes and an ashtray. And open the damn window.” She glances to the stairs and curls her lip.

Lizzie grabs pajamas and a towel from her mini closet and trudges off to the shower.

I dart my gaze up. Eliza’s singing softly to the baby, who’s quieted now. I slip down the aisle, peeking into bunks to see if anyone else is home. The coast is clear. I tiptoe back to Lizzie’s cabinet and rifle through it. Nothing here but smoky-smelling clothes, way too many shoes, and a bag of marijuana buds. I’m sorely tempted to nab the pot, but I don’t touch it.

Easing the curtain back, I inspect the bed. The sheets are a balled mess of red satin. I smooth them flat. Her phone tumbles out. I slide the unlock bar at the bottom of the screen. Naturally, it requires a passcode or a thumbprint, neither of which I have.

That means I have to trick her into using her code and track her fingers when she does.

Like everything else in our “relationship,” she’s not going to make this easy.

The water shuts off. Tossing my cigarettes and lighter onto the bed, I pull out my phone and access the voice recorder app. Then I open the window as she asked, sit on the mattress, and wait for her footsteps. The second I hear them, I switch on the voice recorder and shove the phone into my jacket pocket lying at the foot of the bed.

The curtain slams open, and Lizzie flops onto the bed, hair wet. She tosses her towel and dirty clothes on top of my jacket. Fuck. So much for getting any clear audio out of her.

She shuts the drape, lights a cigarette out of apparent spite, and offers me the pack. I shake my head no.

“When we get to Denver, we’ll have a couple days off,” I say. “Shades can get us rooms at his dad’s hotel there.”

“What do I care?” She exhales through the window.

“If you wanted a break from this box, I could probably find a free bed there for you,” I offer, clenching my butt cheeks at the thought of spending another night with her. On the one hand, the sex might be worth it. But the fallout afterward gets worse and worse every time we’re together. What we have here is the definition of a Toxic Relationship™. At least I recognize it as such. Doesn’t make it any easier to live every day, but she’s gotta get tired of me eventually, right?

“What if I want to share it with Beth?” she snipes.

Have fucking at it, bitch.

“The offer stands.”

She lies down, lowers the cigarette to her lips, and sucks. Her words come out as an animated smoke dancer. “I’m not up for fucking tonight. Got an early day tomorrow with the documentary crew and shit.”

I straighten. “What documentary crew?”

“Dodge has some people from Megamusic TV onsite for the tour.” She looks away.

“The tour. That means all the bands are included.” Holy shit. A spot on the Get Your Rock Off documentary would give Killer Buzz Float a huge promotional push.

She stares at the cancer stick between her fingers. “Mostly just Banging Betties.”

“Mostly. But also …?”

“I don’t know. WitchSMUT, I guess. Maybe DomMob and a few others. It’s no big deal.”

Hell yes, it’s a big deal. I nail her with a hard stare. “I want Killer Buzz Float included.”

“No.”

“Yes. Are they really that big of a threat to your ego, Lizzie? Come on, you’re better than that.”

Another drag off her cigarette. Smoke billows out the window.

She can’t stand it. She can’t bear the thought of KBF kicking her band’s ass onstage, and she’s petrified if we get involved with this documentary, they’ll upstage her again.

I finally found the chink in her armor. Hubris has brought down far better warriors than Lizzie Smith. And I’ve got just the weapon to slice her Achilles tendon.

“You’re the number six band in the country, remember?” I wheedle. “Killer Buzz Float doesn’t come close to where you guys stand on the charts. Throw us a bone, at least.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Think hard,” I warn. “We may not have as many fans as you do, but it’ll be obvious if the second-billed band on the tour isn’t included in this thing. Even you have to protect your reputation. We’ve all seen how fast the mighty can fall with the rise of social media.”

“Are you threatening me?” She drills me with a cold stare.

“Never,” I lie and caress her cheek. “I’m protecting you, baby.”

The blush of a smile fans over her face. “That’s more like it.”

She flicks her cigarette through the open window and drags my mouth to hers. “I changed my mind about the sex. Get down there and make me scream.” Her legs fall open, and she rakes my fingers over her pussy lips.

Muff-diving Jillian saves the day once again. I only hope the members of Killer Buzz Float will appreciate what I had to go through to keep them on top.