My leg bobbed uncontrollably as the cheers from the crowd filtered to the green room. “You okay, bro?” Cameron asked, looking me over with concern.

I wasn’t really sure of anything except the knot in my stomach and the lump in my throat, but I played it off well. “Worry about your own show. You’ve got a tough act to follow.”

He laughed. “I’m going to go find Logan and make sure he’s not stuck in a closet somewhere with …” He scratched his head. “Who knows?”

Distracted, I thumbed through my sheet music. “Yeah, see you out there.”

In an hour. I glanced at the clock above Cameron’s head. One hour and I’d be in front of the largest crowd of my career. Playing Austin City Limits was a dream come true for most. It just wasn’t my dream. Once it was my father’s. Now it was my brother’s.

But never mine.

That’s what rehab and six months of therapy will get you. A whole lot of self-awareness. I loved music. Loved the feel of the crowd. And hated just about everything else associated with the business.

I only hoped that once the studio opened, Cameron would stop trying to provide a “safe environment” for me to exercise my talent. The kid went to a few therapy sessions, and now he thought he was Dr. Fucking Phil. He’d been badgering me to help him with arrangements. Dragging me to band practice to “sit in.” And then he went and surprised me with an invitation to perform as Caged’s opener at the festival.

I get it. My life was a dichotomy. Living above the bar, but not working in the bar.

Really, it was just convenience. A way to stay on top of the construction project. But there was no use trying to convince my brother. And just because I was in recovery didn’t mean I needed to leave Sixth. I could live anywhere, but that little strip of asphalt was the only place I felt truly at home.

“Knock, knock,” came a voice.

And when I turned, Tori hovered at the door. She stepped inside, and my eyes widened.

“Hey … Tori …?” Intellectually, I knew it was my business partner. She was in there. Behind heavy eye makeup, tousled black hair … and the outfit. Ripped jeans, riding low enough to send any man under forty, hell fifty, into cardiac arrest, knee-high boots, and a shirt that hit her just below … don’t look at her tits. I locked our gazes and kept my eyes north of her neck. “You look … um … good. What are you doing here?”

And why do you look like you just stepped off the set of an MTV video shoot?

I was hoping the answer to the first question would give me some insight into the second. She walked into the dressing room, sidling to the catering table to peruse the items.

“Same as everyone else,” she said casually as she loaded a couple of appetizers on a paper plate. “Just catching some shows. Mingling.”

“Alone?” Logan’s gruff voice sounded from the door.

She paused, then walked to a folding chair and took a seat. “Not that it’s any of your business. But, no.”

He grabbed a beer from the bucket. “I’m guessing Dylan’s around?” He eyed her with a feral gaze as he took a slow pull from his bottle.

“Nope.” She nibbled on a cheese stick. “Leveraged is doing some interviews at Twin Souls for the press junket.”

Logan’s arm fell to his side, spilling beer onto the floor. “So who’s the lucky guy?” He didn’t even try to hide the edge in his voice.

She rose, then sauntered toward the plastic trash bin to deposit her plate. Fluffing her hair in the mirror, she met his gaze in the reflection.

“I’d say by your reaction, every guy here.” She chuckled. “You’re a jackass, Logan. But you’re good for a girl’s ego.”

The frost in his eyes didn’t thaw. “Glad to be of service.” He did a slow sweep of her body, starting at the back of her head and ending at the spiked heels on her boots. “But you really shouldn’t be walking around like that, sweetheart.”

“If you think I look good, you should see my friend.” After a beat, she shifted her focus to Logan. “You’re not really her type though, Cage.”

Logan took her comment as a challenge. “I’m every woman’s type, Grayson.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged. “I guess I’m not every woman then.” Smiling, she brushed her hands on her jeans. “Anyway, I just wanted to wish you luck, Chase.”

“Thanks,” I nodded, glancing at the clock for the hundredth time. “Are you sticking around for the show?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she said.

“Blink and you might. I’m only doing a half set. Six songs.”

“Maybe I’ll see you after,” she chirped. “You never know.” She slid past Logan, who hadn’t taken his eyes off her. “See y’all.”

Logan whipped his head to me. “What was that about? Are you two …?”

Closing my eyes, I shook my head. “You were there last week, right? When she stormed in and accused me of the hit-and-run on her best friend?”

Logan started to grumble, but I tuned him out. I had fifteen minutes to get my shit together. The nerves fluttering in my belly were not only uncomfortable, but disconcerting. I’d been on a stage before I could walk. The size of the crowd didn’t matter. You couldn’t see shit when you were under the lights. Which is why I never understood stage fright. You were alone up there.

Hands clammy, I recalled the half-ass pep talks my old man used to offer. It didn’t help. My chest hadn’t felt this tight since, well, since I barged into Taryn’s beach house. But that didn’t count.

I glanced at the beer in Logan’s hand. And I cursed inwardly. My counselor told me that my mind would always go there. It always had. Even when I was clean, I had dirty thoughts. The difference was, now I admitted to them.

“I gotta make a call,” I said as I shot to my feet.

Locking myself in the bathroom, I pulled the tattered piece of paper from my wallet. And then I called my sponsor.