Sean

A cheer erupted from the crowd as the first of our four limos rolled through the back gate at the Frank Erwin Event Center. 

I shrank against the leather seat, watching the stampede of eager fans descend on the first limo. The decoy. 

“It’s working,” I said to Logan, who lounged in the seat across from me.

Shifting his disgruntled gaze to the window, he scowled. “Score.” 

 I rolled my eyes at his sarcastic tone. After a year of fighting off scurrilous claims from our old manager, arguing with our label over the band’s latest contract, and more or less getting our collective heads bashed in every fucking day, we deserved this break. 

From the reports we’d been given by the South by Southwest organizers, our show was the highlight of the event. 

“Dude, stop dwelling on the negative,” I grumbled with a shake of my head. “We’ve got sixteen thousand people waiting to hear us play. Do you really care if we all rode in the same limo?” 

Apparently, he did. And I saw his point. Caged had always presented a united front, us against the world and all that, but things had changed. 

Cameron was with Lily now. And though Logan originally chalked up their union to a bout of temporary insanity on the part of our guitarist, he’d warmed up to the cute blonde over the last year. 

But then Christian met Melody, and now that they were living together, the pendulum had shifted. Their girls were suddenly “besties,” which meant double dates and all kinds of other shit that Logan and I had no interest in since neither of us “dated.” 

I turned my attention back to the window in time to see Cameron and Christian emerge from the second limo with Lily and Melody glued to their sides. 

Ignoring the screaming fangirls vying for their attention, they ducked their heads and marched straight to the stage door. 

 Logan let out an audible groan, slamming the back of his head against the seat. “Did you see that? They didn’t even stop to sign any autographs.” His eyes found mine, frozen ponds of pale blue, iridescent in the dim light. “How do you think that’s going to go over with the press?” 

A part of me shared Logan’s concern, but I knew better than to give that worry a voice. 

 Clearing the pebble in my throat, I shrugged. “You worry too much. Plenty of musicians have girlfriends. Besides, you love Lily and Melody. Don’t even front.” 

 He frowned, pinning me with his gaze. “Yeah, they’re all right.” 

But I saw it in his eyes, the unsaid “but they’re not Anna” dancing on the tip of his tongue. 

In four years, Anna’s name had never passed Logan’s lips. Not since that last morning in the little apartment we’d all shared.

But I felt his resentment.

No, I didn’t make Logan choose. He just did. And now he blamed the hell out of me. 

I looked away, indifferent. “Well, you better get used to it, bro.” I swatted Logan’s leg and then scooted toward the door. “Lily and Melody aren’t going anywhere. Get your head on straight. We’re golden,” I tipped my chin to the fans chanting our name in earnest now, “unless you clock a reporter at the press junket.” 

Logan’s cocky grin returned, but like his mood, the smile was subdued. “No worries. I’m the picture of self-control.” 

The door swung open, and we greeted our security team. 

I slid out first. At six foot one, I stood eye to eye with most of the rent-a-cops, but Logan bested me by three inches, and since he was the fan favorite, it took all four of the behemoths to keep the crowd at bay. Instead of staying put in the tunnel the team had created for us, Logan splintered off and headed for the rope line before we reached the door. 

I followed, more than a little amped by the show of adoration from our fans. I tried to tamp down my expectations, the feeling that this show could yield us a new manager and put the band back where we belonged, rocking audiences all over the world, but somehow, I knew this was the turning point. 

And after a year in exile, I was more than ready to get out of here. The family dinners at my Aunt Melissa’s, seeing the same old haunts, even Sixth Street—it was wearing on me. 

Making my way down the row, I came face-to-face with a strawberry blonde, blinking up at me with big green eyes. 

Holding out a concert program with a shaky hand, she stammered, “I-I love your music, S-Sean. Could you sign this for me?” 

 Scribbling my name, I plastered on a smile and gave her the standard, “thanks, sugar,” before moving on. 

Redheads were off the menu. Unless I was drunk. And then I gravitated to crimson hair, porcelain skin, and green eyes like an addict to a needle. 

 Spotting a gorgeous brunette with olive skin and sultry come hither brown eyes, I smiled. Since she didn’t have anything in her hand for me to sign, the girl obviously wanted more than an autograph. 

 Obliging, I headed straight for her. “Hey, sugar. You here for the show?”

She tilted her head, amused. “What else?” 

I could think of a few things. But since I didn’t have much time, I cut through the bullshit and pulled a lanyard from my back pocket. 

“What do you say we meet for a drink after the show?” 

 She looked down at the VIP Pass, mulling over the offer that included much more than drinks. And then she brought her gaze back to mine. 

“Don’t you want to know my name first?” 

No.

Since that answer definitely wouldn’t get me where I wanted, in between those impossibly long legs, I smiled. “Of course, sugar.” 

Her thumb skated over mine as she took the lanyard. I guess I’d passed her test. 

“It’s Beth.” 

 I lifted my chin to the security guard trying to get my attention before leaning in to whisper in her ear, “I gotta go to work, Beth. See you after the show.” 

I gave her a wink and then headed for the door, ignoring the strawberry blonde with the pretty green eyes who reminded me of things I had no business thinking of.

Four hours later, I was behind my kit, rolling through a drum solo for our last encore of the night. Adrenaline pushed me past the point of exhaustion. Of pain. Of anything but the beat in my head, the sticks in my hand, and the roar of sixteen thousand fans.

Cameron’s incendiary guitar licks poured through my ear piece, and I backed off on the bass drum, passing the baton back to Logan who’d appeared from the shadows like a specter to reclaim the spotlight. Prowling the stage like a cat, he belted out the refrain to our latest hit while the audience chanted along.

And then it was over.

The last note died on Cam’s strings, and the stage went black. 

A sonic boom of applause erupted from the abyss, quickly followed by shuffling feet as the mad dash for the exits began.

Roadies scampered onto the stage, grabbing instruments and handing out water, while I sat anonymously on my perch, waiting for the feeling to return to my legs. 

The kid tasked with tearing down my kit approached cautiously, tools in one hand, a Pale Ale in the other. 

“Great show, man,” he said, holding out the beer. 

The burning in my lungs prevented me from offering more than a tip of my chin and a smile as I took the bottle. 

His eyes immediately darted away. 

Fucking promoters and their damn riders. Since Caged was currently without management, I’m sure the SXSW organizers threw together a standard list of “dos” and “don’ts,” including the super douchey “never look the ‘talent’ in the eye,” and “speak only when spoken to” clause.

But that wasn’t me. Or us. Caged was born right here in Austin—Sixth Street bred, and the kid probably played in a band himself. 

“What’s your name?” I asked after catching my breath. 

His hand froze on the nut holding my cymbal in place. “Um . . . Zach.” 

I smiled because his voice rose at the end like it was a question. 

“What do you play, Zach?”

From the expert way the kid was tearing down my kit, I’d say drums. But you never knew. I was proficient on guitar and bass guitar, not to mention the violin. But few people knew that. 

“Drums,” he confirmed. “Bass now and then.”

I nodded into my next drink. “Why the skins?” 

Zach’s eyes lit up, but he played it off with a shrug. “Dunno.” 

Now, I flat out laughed. “Own it, son.” I pushed to my feet and shook the cramps out of my legs. “Nobody purposely sits back here and abuses the shit out of their body unless they’ve got a beat in their head.” I took out one of my lucky sticks from my back pocket and gave it a twirl. “If you don’t have the beat, go back to playing the bass. Or better yet take some voice lessons.” Zach’s gaze followed mine to Logan standing at the side of the stage, surrounded by his usual flock of female admirers. “Lead singers get the most pussy anyway.” 

Zach let out a nervous laugh. “I’m not worried about that. I got a girl.” 

Reflexively, my thumb skated over the A I’d carved into the oak base of the stick a million years ago. The smooth initial that I felt regardless of the wear.

“Really?” I forced a laugh. “How’s your girl feel about all the late nights?” Again, my eyes wandered to the group of females waiting in the wings. Once the band took our pick of the girls for the after party, the roadies could usually score a little action with the ones who didn’t make the cut. “And, you know, all the other perks?”

Zach barely spared the fangirls a glance as he tried desperately to hide the small smile curving his mouth. “It’s all about the music. I’m not here for any of that.” 

The conviction in his voice struck a familiar chord in my chest. “Good on you.” I patted his shoulder. “Keep it that way.” 

I meant it sincerely, but I wasn’t about to share my own experiences, so I shoved my sticks back into my pocket and took off. Pushing aside the curtain, I bypassed Logan, who looked like he had his shit under control, and took my place next to Cameron. 

Ever since Lily had entered the picture, Cameron kept a safe distance from the fangirls and groupies. Easy to do at the Parish, where we performed a semi-monthly gig in front of a crowd of about four hundred. But this was an arena show, and the mob mentality had set in. It didn’t help that Cam was bare chested, having shed his vintage Damaged T-shirt sometime during the show.

He practically jumped out of his skin when one of the bolder girls placed a hand on his chest. 

“No touching,” he said, the strain in his voice evident through the smile. 

I felt a little sympathy for Cam’s predicament, but hell, he’d cultivated this persona for years.

“Keep your shirt on, and this wouldn’t happen,” I said as I took a concert bill from a petite blonde. “Nobody wants to see your scrawny ass anyway.” Winking at blondie, I flexed my bicep. “Ain’t that right, sugar?” When she nodded vigorously, I raised a brow at Cameron. “See?”

Just having me here, running interference, loosened up Cameron enough to coax a smile from his lips. “Don’t be hating.” He pointed to his six-pack abs. “We can’t all be built like this.”

I rolled my eyes. Cameron and I were about the same height, but I had twenty pounds of muscle on the dude and I was rocking an eight pack. 

Logan finally managed to tear himself away from his harem, and I was surprised to see that he hadn’t picked out a girl for some limo action. He slipped between Cameron and me, snaking an arm around each of our shoulders.

“Listen,” he said, his tone low with a hint of urgency. “We’ve got to wrap this up. I just got a text. We’re heading to the Four Seasons.” 

“What’s at the Four Seasons?” I asked, distracted by a willowy brunette propping up the wall a few feet away. 

It wasn’t Beth, but she had the same glossy brown hair, olive skin, and a body that wouldn’t quit. She gave me a brilliant smile when she caught me staring. 

Logan tightened his vise-like grip on my shoulder. “Pay attention,” he snapped. “The text was from some guy in Benny Conner’s camp.” 

All the white noise faded as I blinked at my best friend. Benny Conner was the biggest concert promoter in the business. If Conner Productions tapped a band for one of their globe spanning extravaganzas, you could write your own ticket when it was said and done. Benny turned nobodies into stars. Or in our case, stars into megastars.

I peeled my tongue off the roof of my mouth. “What did he want?” 

Logan grinned. “Us . . . at the Conner hospitality suite.” 

I knew there was a catch. 

Turning my attention back to the brunette, I muttered. “I’m not really into a dog and pony show tonight.” 

Cameron jerked a nod, concurring. “Me either.”

There was a multitude of parties going on to cap off the SXSW festivities, and Caged scored an invite to every one of them. The same assholes that had been avoiding our calls for months would surely be at Conner’s party, maybe even a rep from our label, and I wasn’t on board with being anyone’s window dressing. 

Logan heaved a sigh. “It’s not like that. The head of Conner’s acquisition team wants to have a chat.” He lifted a pale brow. “Plus, they’ve got a shitload of press over there.” 

Cameron’s back stiffened, his easy grin long gone. “We’ve got a press junket to do at the Parish. And don’t even think about bailing.” 

It was my turn to concur. Leaving Chase to deal with a mob of angry reporters wasn’t an option. We owed him more than that. He’d been propping up the band for the last year, keeping us in the public eye with our gig at the Parish. And that wasn’t just because he was Cameron’s brother. He was family. 

Logan thought for a moment before sliding his gaze to Cameron. “Call Chase and tell him there’s been a change of plans. Re-route everyone to the Four Seasons.”

Cameron pulled a face. “You sure about that?” 

“Why not? Have him book us some suites. If worse comes to worse, we’ll hold a few interviews there.” 

Cameron glanced at me, and I shrugged. If Conner was interested, he’d welcome the extra hype. And if he wasn’t, it didn’t matter anyway. Our reputation was shit; blowing the dude off wouldn’t hurt us any.

“Yeah, okay,” Cameron finally said, pulling his phone from his pocket. “I’ll shoot y’all a text when I get the details. Someone needs to find Christian.” 

Logan glanced around as if he’d just noticed our bassist had gone missing. “Where is the little dweeb?”

Cameron snorted as his fingers flew across the screen on his phone. “He took off with Melody as soon as the curtain dropped. I’d say he’s balls deep in a broom closet somewhere.” 

Logan barked out a laugh. “Nerd sex doesn’t take that long. I’ll go find him.” 

With his long hair and a full sleeve of tats, Christian could hardly be labeled a nerd. But he did have an IQ that rivaled Einstein, making him the resident brainiac of our group. 

Logan gave a quick nod, then took off with a security guard to search for Christian.

Hearing our fans’ disgruntled sighs, I decided to sign a few more autographs.

The brunette I’d spied earlier muscled her way to the front of the group. Bold little thing, and down to fuck from the look in her eyes. 

“Hey, sugar,” I said, giving her my full attention. “Did you enjoy the show?” 

Her gaze flicked to Cameron who was now beating a path to the dressing room. “Yeah, I did.” When our eyes met, a coy grin curved her lips. “But if you take me to wherever he’s going, I’ll make it worth your while. And his too.” Her fingers trailed up my forearm. “If you know what I mean.” 

Everyone in the vicinity knew what she meant. But threesomes were never really my thing, and a three-way with one of my bros was a definite no go. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t take her for a solo ride, though, if she were willing.

I dropped my gaze to her tits, sitting somewhere just south of her chin. The chick either had an amazing push-up bra or those babies were fake as hell. 

“Don’t you read the papers, sugar?” I kept my eyes on hers as I signed a playbill someone shoved in front of me. “Cam’s gone and got himself domesticated.” 

“Well, that sounds boring.” Her hand slid farther up my arm. “What about you, Sean,” she peered up at me through her lashes, coquettish pout firmly in place, “are you domesticated?”

I leaned in close. “Nope. There’s not a domestic bone in my—”

The sentence died when I felt the pull, the jolt that came when I thought of her. My Anna. It was happening more and more lately, likely a result of being here, home, where memories hung as thick and deadly as the ball moss coating the trees by the lake where I lived. 

Regrouping, I twined a lock of the brunette’s hair around my finger while my free hand slid to the swath of bare skin above the waistband of her low-slung jeans. “There’s this after party at the Four Seasons.” I smiled against the shell of her ear, and she shivered. “What do you say? You wanna go?”

Over the din, I heard a soft, melodic voice call my name, drifting over me like a warm breeze. And though I was sure I’d imagined it, when I turned to the sound, she was there, five feet away, nervously tugging the bottom of her blouse. 

A hint of bronzed thigh peeked from the high slit on her black skirt, and I had to look away for a second because I knew what those legs felt like wrapped around my waist. I could practically feel the contours of her body, smell her sweet peach scent, and damned if I didn’t get hard.

Regaining my composure, my gaze darted to her face, to those emerald green eyes that sliced through all my defenses. Because I had no defense for Annabelle Dresden. 

And despite everything, I smiled at her.

“Annabelle.” Her name dripped off my tongue, sweet like honey and just as thick. “What are you doing here?”