“Are you sure you’re okay with this? I’m having a hard time reading the tea leaves,” Finn admitted even though she’d probably been timing how long it took him to ask.

Remy gave a practiced shrug. “Sure. It’ll be fun, I guess, and you know I can’t stand those guys.”

Her dislike of the Chixie Dicks began around the time Finn met her, when one of those cretins tried to make a move on her at Pete’s. It hadn’t gone well.

He frowned and looked for a better way to find out if she really was okay or if she only agreed to perform because Alex did the asking.

The rules for this goddamn battle of the bands grudge match between Thunder and Dicks read like a take it or leave it contract. Each band was allowed one assist. One person to fill any and all extra roles for instruments and vocals.

Thunder was an amazingly versatile band with all of them able to play multiple instruments, but a big part of the battle was sucking the audience in, and to do that, they had to resort to some classic rock theater. The songs they needed an assist with were tailor-made for Remy’s unique talents.

The first song featured Berger because another of the stupid fucking rules was that each band member had to perform at least one lead vocal. In all of the time Berger played with the band, Finn had never even heard him talk. He and Parker seemed to communicate using a Vulcan mind meld or some other similarly cartoonish and unlikely technique. Remy’s amazing keyboard skills were critical for that number.

And then, after a lengthy band debate, which Berger did not care to participate in, Finn sort of insisted on another song that wouldn’t be right without a kickass female vocal assist. Alex leaned on Remy so fast that there wasn’t much he could do. After that, she was on permanent standby for whatever Thunder needed.

“Don’t worry, please.”

Searching her face, Finn finally gave in.

“Stephanie has some great costume ideas, and since she’s a genius with the sewing machine, I bow to her expertise.”

“Any chance of me getting a sneak peek?”

Nudging him playfully, his lady drawled, “Doubtful, Larry.”

He laughed. “Larry? I thought my new snark name was Lucky.”

When she kissed him softly and used his chest as leverage to stand, Finn honestly would be happy if she called him Fuckerlooper.

She went to the cooler and pulled out two icy cold bottles of Corona. Waving them with her hands, she also kicked his boot for emphasis.

“Have to try on all the L names, Beantown and see which feels right. Lucky Leprechaun. Meh. Larry Leprechaun. Maybe.”

“Well, Frenchy,” he playfully drawled, “if you’re set on Larry, can you at least make it Lawrence? I’m a business owner and goddamn pillar of Bendover society, for Christ’s sake.”

Handing off both bottles, she plunked down in her spot right next to him and waited while he cracked them open and added a thick slice of juicy lime. Corona was an acquired, um, taste. Perhaps a better word was quirk. Corona loving was a quirk of Remy’s that he was happy to indulge.

“I like it here,” she murmured. They clinked their longnecks and relaxed against the swing. He hid a grin when she scooted sideways and hooked one leg over his.

“Me too, babe. I see why my sister loves it so much. Vortex of love. Grandiose bullshit but she was always the one who sensed that kind of crap.”

“Vorticé Amore. It sounds so romantic, don’t you think?”

Wasn’t that more or less what he just said? “Oh, totally,” he agreed with a burp of punctuation.

“God, Finn. Really? I fucking hate you sometimes.”

Elbowing her, he leaned in, and teased, “Just sometimes? Well, hot damn, babe. My average is improving.”

“Hold on. Let me respond appropriately.” She wiggled around and shifted position, but her leg remained over his. The granddaddy of all belches ripped out of her little body, and in that second, he lost it.

“Shit, Frenchy! I can’t take you anywhere!”

Looking enormously pleased, she mimicked a cat licking her paws and then rubbed her head. There were easily half a dozen dirty comebacks for her gesture, but he held them in. Slow and go was his mindset with Remy. For most every push, there was an alternating pullback. She was getting there on her own, and he couldn’t be more proud.

It was good to chill and relax together in the beautiful spot. When they were off alone and no one was around, she was less crispy. Was that a weird word choice? Not for a foodie. Crispy was a perfect description of what happened when badass intersected with trauma. His goal wasn’t just to get her past the bad shit. He was also moving the ball downfield behind her defensive line for a screen pass to the woman, not the badass.

“Oh, hey.” She chuckled. “I told Paddy about our number for the battle. He wanted to know if it was karaoke or role play. When I said imitation was the way to win, he shit his pants laughing. My impression was that he doubted your Jagger swagger.”

“Jagger swagger.” He snorted as laughter ripped through him. “Come here,” he barked.

“Why?”

“Because that’s an instant classic deserving of a kiss.”

She took the initiative and kissed him out of his control zone. It was harder and harder to stop. When he managed to break them apart, she buried her face in his neck and breathed kisses on his skin.

“Finn.”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

The declaration was so unexpected, so freely given that for a moment, he struggled against bawling like a baby.

A breeze ruffled her hair. He brushed wayward strands off her face and gently, reverently caressed her cheek. She’d confessed her feelings before, but this was different. Admitting to loving him wasn’t the same as saying the words without being prodded.

She didn’t need affirmation of his feelings. If she did, those three words would never have made it past her lips.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Her smile was achingly beautiful. This was Remington the woman, and he was honored to be in her presence.

“However,” she starchily bit out as she shoved him away.

Finn grinned. It didn’t matter what she said. It was that she so easily embraced her role as his equal.

“While Grey and I were doing a quick inventory for the party, I stumbled on one of your dirty secrets.”

“Pfft.” He chortled. “Just the one? Tell me,” he drawled. “What did you find?”

His porn stash was readily available because she demanded to see what he had. The endless supply of Stroke 29 that turned him into an instant Justice legend was also no secret.

“The Ding Dongs,” she replied. Her left brow arched a little, and her face said gotcha.

“Oh, shit,” he mumbled. She had him. He’d stashed a new carton not long ago.

Finn moved off the swing and knelt in front of her. He clasped his hands and begged. “My bad. I just can’t help it. They’re my food crack.”

He could see she was enjoying this farce and gave himself wholeheartedly to making her laugh.

“I have an idea,” she announced with a finger in the air and a gasp of delight. “I’ll let it slide, but you have to earn them.”

He almost died laughing at her attempt to control him, but then the idea of jumping through Remy’s hoops for a treat became increasingly interesting and hot.

“Earn them how, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” Remy replied. He enjoyed her throaty laughter. She rolled a shoulder and tapped her forehead. “I’ll think about it and get back to you.”

“Deal.” He swooped in for a kiss to seal the bargain. Then he stood and went for his guitar. He’d been thinking about a Beatles song that reminded him of her. Now seemed like a good time to serenade his lady.

Sitting beside her, he rested the guitar on his lap and began to play. Remy’s reaction was instantaneous. She smiled, and then a sparkle in her eyes told him tears had formed. “Blackbird” was a quiet anthem about being broken, surviving, and rising free when the moment came. It was a phoenix metaphor custom made for the black-haired woman he loved with all his heart.

When he finished, she grasped his wrist. Her voice brimmed with emotion. “Don’t worry about Thunder. Alex didn’t overstep, okay? I want to do it—for you.”

It was more than enough. Remington Bisset had hidden talents. Luring her inner performer from the shadows was a part reclaiming her life. Each time she tiptoed outside her comfort zone was a revelation. Like when she started dressing like a girl. Or how, inch by inch, she started revealing her legs. Finn knew what that cost her. The girl had more strength than she realized.

“Our number is going to rock the fucking place,” he drawled. “Even Parker, that old shit, gave a thumbs-up after he heard the run-through.”

“Fuck those Chixie Dicks.”

They fist-bumped and smirked.

She finished her beer and dropped the empty into a recycling bucket. Standing, she stretched and gazed at the incredible scenery.

“Do you find it weird that Berger just stood there the first time we ran through his number?”

Finn broke into a leisurely smirk and shook his head to indicate his feelings. “That little guy is creepy as fuck so him being a statue during band practice isn’t even at the top of his weird behavior list.”

“Parker says he’s cool,” she pointed out with a great deal of sarcasm.

“Yeah, well, Sullivan owns this one. If Berger is a dud the night of the band battle, then Parker’s days as band leader are numbered.” He was outright sneering.

“Oh, for god’s sake. Really? What is it with guys and their fascination with the alpha chest thumping?”

“It turns the ladies on,” he drily replied.

The look on her expressive face was drop-dead funny as shit. And then she shrugged, fussed with her hair, and conceded the point. Color him amused!

“Yes, well, while that may, in fact, be true, where Justice is concerned, the testosterone overload stinks the place up. You might want to dial it back a tiny bit.”

“Hey, no problem.” He chuckled. “The dial is in my pants.” He started to unzip his jeans. “You reach in, a little to the left, and tone things down.”

She fell on him with shrieks of laughter. He barely had time to put the guitar down before a humorous Vorticé Amore bump and grind routine started.

“Thanks, Mr. Marquez. This is really cool. With your help, there’s no way I won’t make the discovery team.”

Alex couldn’t help his smirk. Kori was right. The girl was hella smart and had a mind for math and technology. She was desperate to make the junior team for a science cohort that was going to do a ten-day intensive next summer at the NASA facilities in California. Mentoring the girl was fun, and with his guidance, she was a shoo-in for the team.

“This’ll drive my mom nuts.” She giggled. The mini-robotic desk butler that she designed could scoop up and move small objects. He liked the way her mind worked.

He was rummaging through some stuff when he spied a box that Betty tried to ram down his throat earlier. She had people to run errands and do things like distribute the mail, but that didn’t stop her from invading his personal space every other day to drop items off and mutter under her breath.

Justice would be lost without her. Hell, from a business standpoint, the agency probably would never have gotten off the ground without Betty Boop. And he loved her like a monkey loved bananas. Her snarky visits were the high point of his business day.

Grabbing the box, he waved it in Kori’s face as they turned out the lights in the tech cave. “Gotta drop these off in the studio.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Drumsticks. I have them custom made.”

“You’re a drummer?”

Her astonishment irked him. “What? You think I’m too old or something?”

She laughed. “Newsflash, Mr. M, all the best drummers are older.”

He laughed as they tromped along the hallway. “And what do you know about old drummers?”

Beaming like a flashlight, she grinned and drew in a deep breath before exclaiming, “When my granddad was like nineteen or something, he was a roadie for Keith Moon and Corky Laing.”

Alex stopped on a dime and gasped. “Get the hell out! You mean Corky Laing of Mountain fame?”

“Yep, yep.” She laughed. “Gramps had this thing for double kickers.”

“Well, goddamn, Kori! Come on!” He hurried her along to the studio while doing a fast rewind to the last time he was in the room. Didn’t want anything lying around that’d scar the young girl.

He snickered to himself because like a fucking fly to sticky paper, it was Drae who once again just recently stumbled upon evidence of a particularly kinky interlude he and his Irish fuck goddess had indulged in. When Alex circled back later to straighten up and reset the room, Sinjin appeared out of nowhere with an urgent need for a signature and walked in at the exact wrong time.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he’d roared. “Why’s it always gotta be me, huh? Goddammit, Alex. I don’t need that shit in my head.”

He’d thrown a clipboard directly at Alex’s face and stormed off.

Asshole got what he deserved. Drae’s ninja shit and Domineau with her smoke habits were driving him nuts. Both of them needed to learn how to whistle or give some sort of heads-up instead of materializing out of thin air.

Outside the studio, he pressed his thumb to the security pad to unlock the door. Kori sniggered, and he glanced her way.

“Isn’t that a bit much in the way of security for a drum room?”

He almost blushed. Almost.

“This is Draegyn’s way of being a dick. He built the room and installed the elaborate lock just to fuck with me.” Watching his language around anyone over the age of ten just wasn’t gonna happen, but he was trying.

Pulling the door, he propped it open with a crude chock Ben concocted from a wedge of discarded wood. Reaching inside, his hand moved automatically to the light panel and flipped on the overheads.

“Check it out,” he said with a proud grin. Motioning with his thumb, he directed her into the room for a look at his setup.

“Wow. The Keith Moon.” She nodded and offered a high five. “I’m impressed, Mr. M.”

The drum kit he kept for his personal good times was a double bass monster complete with a sizeable Zildjian cymbal for visual effect. It was, as she pointed out, set up in classic Keith Moon style. He was damn impressed the girl knew that.

Faking a shudder, he made a face. “Ergh! Now see? The mister stuff creeps me out. That’s my dad, not me. Call me Major.”

Kori tried to act nonchalant, but he caught the effort she put out to keep from smiling. Miss Kourtney Tate was one very chill customer and a badass cool chick.

She eyed him and the box he still held. He could feel her skepticism. Would she challenge him?

“I don’t suppose you’d like to prove that you aren’t just a rich guy with rock and roll dreams by playing something?”

For shits and grins, he executed a courtly bow and drawled smirkingly as their eyes met. “All hail, Princess of Balls.”

“What?” She laughed. “Princess of Balls?”

“Yes,” he replied in a serious dad tone. “That took balls, young lady.”

“Sorry.” She chortled. “Comes with my age group.”

He got rid of the box and headed for the drum stool. Motioning to a pile of ear protection, he suggested she grab a pair.

“Get real, Major.”

Because being a cocky asshole was part of who he was, he sat, twirled his sticks, thanked god he hadn’t taken his eye out, and gave his audience a smirk.

“What’ll it be?” He gestured with a stick at the tablet on the sofa. “Pick a song. Any song.”

She gleefully accepted the challenge and went for the tablet. Watching her as she scrolled through thousands of songs, he wondered what she’d choose.

For a wet behind the ears teenager, she had her eyeshade down pat. He kept a straight face when she gave him a double dose. Standing, she crossed her arms and made a little speech to show her badass credentials.

“It'd be too easy to go for something obvious.”

He nodded. “Mimicry only goes so far.”

“Agreed. So let’s see what you bring with some straightforward classic rock.”

Chuckling, he twirled a stick and returned her eyeshade. “Miss Tate, I can make anything thunder.”

“How old were you in 1969?”

He blinked. “Excuse me?” How old did she think he was?

She picked up the tablet and made her choice. He laughed on the second note. Relieved that she picked something he knew by heart, Alex easily mastered Bryan Adam’s “Summer of ’69” with practiced ease.

To his astonishment, Kori got into it too and started dancing. She was doing what Meghan called the Molly Ringwald. An energetic, hands above the head, twirling dancing girl style that the ladies favored when Thunder played and they dominated the dance floor.

Witnessing her Bendover gal bona fides, he laughed. Kori Tate was going to fit in just fine.

Embellishing whenever he could, he wrestled the vocal to the ground and drum-thundered through the song with gusto.

An astonished face appeared in the doorway as Kori whirled around the room and he assaulted his drums. With the door left open, they were making quite a racket.

Meghan smiled at him. Her expression was pure indulgence. As long as he didn’t build a nuclear reactor in the backyard, she was always good with whatever made him laugh.

He winked at her and motioned with his head at the go-go dancer.

What did his wife do? She blew him a kiss. He smiled.

When the song ended, he leaned over and muted the sound from his control pad. Kori whirled around in shock and faced the door when Meghan applauded.

“Sweetie! May I have some of that energy? I sure could use it to help me chase the twins.”

“Aw, Mrs. M, you do okay. I mean, after all, it’s two against one.”

“Honey,” Meghan said. “Just a reminder that you have a reservation for six. Matt Sullivan called the house line and spoke to Carmen. He said you weren’t answering your phone.”

His reflex response was hunched shoulders and a hanging head. “Can’t answer a phone that accidentally broke.”

“Accidentally?”

“Well, accidentally smashed on purpose.”

Kori laughed. Meghan tut-tutted.

Young or grown-up, it didn’t matter. Men exasperated women.