It took a mighty effort on Meghan’s part not to laugh as Alex stomped around the downstairs with a pair of drumsticks in hand, tapping out a rhythm on every surface within his reach. He was lit, as the kids say. Lit with energy. Alex didn’t need Red Bull—his power surges were natural.

A parade of baby-minders and a ring of security that rivaled Camp David was in place for the big night. To keep things simple, all of Junior Justice was here under one roof. The Stork Affairs people, under Cheryl’s heavy guidance, were now kicking ass and taking names in the babysitting business. Working closely with Carmen and Ria, they’d developed a strategy that resembled a military maneuver. Double-checked, and printed out, there was a plan for the olders and a plan for the younglings. Baby feeding schedules, diaper changes, snacks, and entertainment options were all clearly spelled out.

“Are you sure, Carmen?” Meghan asked for the third time. “It’s going to be a lot of fun.”

“Ah, pfft, no,” Carmen groused. “I’m too old for such nonsense.”

Ria chuckled. “Tell the truth, woman.”

Meghan looked back and forth between the two women. They were true household commanders with mad wicked skills when it came to, well, just about everything.

Carmen made a face and consulted the evening’s printout. She and Ria had the driest and funniest give and take of all time. As individuals, they were amazing. As a duo? Hell’s bells—they were a formidable team!

“There’s a truth that I’m unaware of?” Meghan asked with a short gasp of faux outrage. “Out with it, Mamita!”

Ria looked very pleased with herself. Carmen stuck her tongue out at her co-conspirator and friend.

“It’s the men,” Carmen stated. “In this instance, Duke and Ben. They are little boys, yes?” She looked at Meghan and Ria for confirmation. “It’s better for everyone when the boys”—the borderline snark was evident—“have playtime without their wives.”

“But without them knowing,” Ria added. “Don’t ever pat your husband on the head and give him permission to go play. They get into so much trouble if they think their nonsense is wife-sanctioned.”

“Oh, I get it.” Meghan sniggered. “You’d rather stick a fork in your eye than babysit them at Pete’s, so you’re giving them the night off while you make it seem as though duty called.”

“Something like that,” Ria answered. “They’ll have their boy fun with the knowledge that we’re working. Limits some of the craziness.”

“Ladies,” she said with a bright laugh, “have you considered leading a workshop? Husbands 101. Behavior Modification for Today’s Man.”

They shared a laugh. Alex was banging his drumsticks on an empty box, and the racket filled the air.

“He put those damn sticks in the dishwasher.”

Carmen’s statement of fact made Meghan do a double take, and murmur, “Say what? The dishwasher?”

Ria chuckled quietly.

“Yes, meesus. The dishwasher. He was drumming on Aiden’s high chair tray while he was enjoying some apple and pear sauce. Need I say more?”

“But the dishwasher?” Meghan asked. “He couldn’t just wipe them off?”

The arched brow smirk she got in reply to her comment was classic Carmen. “This is Alexander, and you know him.”

“Everything is in the van,” Duke announced. “Short of a medical emergency, everything you guys could possibly need is ready to transport. I’ll follow the limo.”

Ben appeared next. Meghan took one look at him and burst out laughing. He was dressed in a suit and had a jaunty little cap on his head. It was his official-unofficial chauffeur getup. She looked around for Alex, found him taking a selfie, and grinned.

Ben followed her gaze, and asked, “Did he eat his Wheaties?”

It was an old and somewhat tired joke about Alex’s training regimen. Drumming required fuel.

“Actually,” she answered, “he carb loaded like a mother-you-know-what and capped it off with a protein shake that looked like the Incredible Hulk’s poop. It was green, lumpy, and nasty looking.” She shuddered and stuck her tongue out in disgust.

Duke, who rarely joined in when it was bag on Alex time, unsuccessfully stifled a chuckle. Carmen smiled and rubbed his arm in comical solidarity.

“I’m right here,” her Beast muttered loudly. “Can you try talking about me when I can’t hear every word?”

“What fun would that be?” Ben chuckled.

Duke and Ben wandered toward Alex. She looked at Ria and Carmen and spread her arms. “How do I look?”

“Like a classy hoochie-coochie girl,” Carmen declared with a big smile.

Ria cracked up. “Hoochie-coochie?”

The two friends elbowed each other and chuckled. Meghan loved watching them kid around.

“I’m good with hoochie-coochie,” she assured them. “But is the emerald green too much?”

Her battle of the bands outfit walked right out of a Marilyn Monroe movie. The vintage 1950’s swing-style cocktail dress was everything and then some. She was in lurve with the fitted bodice and short sleeves. Meghan knew her tummy, ass, and hips might need some camouflage, but from the waist up? That was where she reigned supreme. The circle skirt was fine by itself, but for tonight, she added a modest petticoat to give the full skirt some oomph.

“The vibrant color makes your hair stand out,” Ria assured her. “And the pearls? Nice touch.”

Meghan fingered the elegant necklace. A gift from her husband.

“You two make a beautiful couple.” Carmen’s statement was laced with affection.

“Toot-toot,” Ben called out. He was standing at the front door, holding it open. “All aboard! Next stop at the intersection of mayhem and fuckery. Hurry up, children,” he barked with a sweeping “move it along” gesture.

“That’s my cue to ramble on.” She took her small purse from Ria’s outstretched hand and looked at the two ladies for one last atta girl. They each smiled and winked.

Alex was waiting for her at the door. Dressed in head-to-toe rock and roll black, he’d barely shaved and was, as usual, in need of a haircut, but he looked yummy and seriously badass. Her inner self purred as she checked him out. He was one hot piece of man ass.

When she reached his side, she slid her hand behind his back, took the drumsticks from a pocket, and handed them off to Ben. “Can’t sit with wood in the way.”

His responding grin made her giddy. “Wood is inevitable when you’re around.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Ben grumbled. “Can you save that shit for the back of the limo and spare me the foreplay?”

Duke’s loud snort of laughter and Carmen’s short giggle made Meghan blush. They weren’t fooling anybody!

She twinkled her fingers and barely had a chance to say something stupid about looking after the kids before her husband pulled her along. He hurried them out the door, down the walkway, and into the back of the waiting limo.

As they pulled away from the house and started for the main road, she admired her hunky hub’s profile, felt a bit of a tingle where it mattered most, and smiled to herself.

Tonight had legendary written all over it.

“Are you nervous?” Finn mumbled. “I’m nervous. Jesus,” he growled. “Did you see all those people? The parking is insane.”

Remy watched him pace and fret. It was kind of cute that he was so anxious. He was also, more or less, mumbling to himself, so she didn’t feel it was necessary to answer.

“Barry said the five hundred wristbands might not be enough.”

She wasn’t surprised to hear this. Desert Thunder had a solid fan base, and the Chixie Dicks weren’t exactly slouches. People were coming from far and wide to witness the highly publicized musical death match, and since an event like this had never happened before in Bendover, they were assured of a standing-room-only crowd. A rowdy crowd. A crowd jacked up on hype and ready to witness local rock and roll history.

“Did you see Cam? Is he good to go? Parker wants this thing filmed from every angle. Shit, I should have paid more attention when he was talking.”

“Relax, Beantown. You aren’t the only one with performance anxiety. The last time I saw him, and by him I mean Cam, he was running back and forth between camera locations checking on things. Can’t speak for the lawyer. He and Berger are holed up in the bathroom for reasons I won’t question.”

Her boyfriend’s nervous pacing started up again. Every time he passed the full mirror anchored to the dressing room wall, he checked out his appearance—so she did too.

Finn was, in her biased opinion, hot as fuck. He worked out by habit, not from vanity and told her once that he did some of his best thinking when it was just him and some free weights. He must do a lot of thinking because he was built like an action hero with muscles in the right spots, had a six-pack that made her sigh, and what all that weight lifting did for his thighs and ass? Yeah, he was one sexy guy.

He stopped pacing long enough to go through the rack of costume changes. As the hangars slid along the pole, she did a mental checklist.

His Van Halen outfit was perfect. So was the swaggering Jagger getup.

When the competition rules nixed props but allowed for wardrobe changes, Thunder went all in because Parker intended to win this thing in style. She applauded his dedication to authenticity because, at the end of the day, a band battle wasn’t about who could improvise; it all came down to accuracy and following the number one rule of cover bands—don’t change the song. The crowd wasn’t there for an interpretation. They wanted each song note by note. The original. Not some ego-driven “I can do it better” rendition.

Alex sauntered into the dressing room. She smirked at the man in black thing he had going on. Black shoes, black pants, and a black button-down shirt. His clothes rack didn’t have a lot hanging on it. The drummer wasn’t in the spotlight much, but his solo was going to bring the house down. When he put on the costume in the zippered bag that she’d only heard about, Alex Marquez was going to set Finn’s big tent on fire!

“Where’s Parker?” he demanded in a growly voice.

Finn shrugged. “I think he’s changing Berger’s diaper. They’re in the bathroom,” he said with a thumb pointing over his shoulder.

A brilliant idea exploded in her head. “We need to pass around the rock goblet.”

The Major’s face was blank. “The what?”

She looked at Finn. He paused and then got what she was going for. His amused snort told her what he thought of her suggestion.

“She’s talking about the jeweled cup we made when Barry swore in the judges. I think my girlfriend is suggesting a rock and roll communion. Sip and pass.”

“Yep! Exactly!” She didn’t wait for Alex’s reaction and turned instead to hurry out to the bar. Barry had the gaudy goblet on display. She’d just dash out, quickly grab it and a bottle of tequila, and then gather her boyfriend’s band together for a ceremonial raising of the goblet.

Parker adjusted his dick no less than three times. He wanted it made clear from the first second in the spotlight who was packing and who wasn’t. Studying his appearance in the shitty mirror above the sink required him to stand far back, practically in a stall.

Berger’s foot shot out and kicked him when he backed up too far and put his ass in the guy’s face.

“Move, you stupid prick,” Parker growled. “Can’t you sit someplace else?”

His bass player gave him a “fuck you” look and sniffed for emphasis. He was using the toilet as a chair while reading a Cosmopolitan magazine that he kept ripping the pages from.

Exasperated by the guy’s nonchalance, Parker let out a long sigh and moved closer to his reflection for one last up-close check.

He smiled big and made sure his teeth weren’t coated with Angie’s lipstick. Swiping his tongue across his pearly whites, he ended by running some water and spitting into the sink.

Tucking in his shirt again, he eyed the clothing his wife chose for Thunder’s opening numbers and chuckled softly. For all intents and purposes, he was sporting a variation of something Han Solo wore. White shirt, vest, killer belt buckle, and pants that made the most of Parker’s front junk.

Front junk. He snickered at the irreverent expression his naughty wife used to describe what went on in the vicinity of his zipper.

The door to the bathroom flew open and slammed against the wall. “Get out here,” Finn called to them.

Berger looked up and eyed Parker with casual indifference. He then stood, gathered the stack of ripped pages along with his tattered magazine, and then, for no reason, turned around and flushed the toilet.

He left without any comment, not that Parker expected any. As he sauntered after him, the first thing he noticed in the dressing room was Alex sporting a troublemaking smirk standing next to a tall wooden barrel table. Finn was also there wearing his usual insolent grin. Standing between them was Remy with a sly smile and a bottle of tequila.

“Gather round, boys. Time to invoke the gods and swear allegiance to rock and roll.”

She poured a hefty amount of booze into a flamboyantly showy chalice sitting on the barrel. Berger made a sound—a snicker that sounded gleeful. Finn clapped his hands for attention, and Alex grabbed his crotch. In other words, typical Thunder behavior.

Remy led the charge, and Parker laughed at her comical performance. She stood on a chair and held up the tacky goblet.

“Almighty rock gods, we, your humble servants, ask for your blessing as we blow the Chixie Dicks and not in a sexual way.”

Berger laughed out loud at her snarky delivery. They all blinked and stared. The guy shrugged and said nothing, per the usual.

“Grant us high voltage and perfect pitch. Grace us with hall of fame performances and don’t forget to place your wager on Thunder to win.”

They laughed, and said, “Amen,” as a group.

Remy handed the goblet to Parker first. It was an acknowledgment of his status as the band leader. Finn snorted and shot her some shade that she laughed off.

“Rock and roll,” he exclaimed with the cup held high. Taking more than one mouthful of the tequila, he felt the burn as it slid into his stomach. Then he handed the thing to Alex.

“Long live rock,” his BFF declared before taking a hefty swallow.

Finn took it next. He winked at Remy and held up the cup. “All hail.”

When it was Berger’s turn, he peered into the cup, swirled the liquid that remained, and chuckled. For half a second, Parker thought he might actually say something, but then he shrugged once more and drained the goblet in three quick swallows.

“Hey, you fucker!” Remy squawked. “What about me? I know I’m just a walk-on but shit! Show some respect.”

Berger looked at Remy as though this was the first time he’d noticed her. She narrowed her eyes and used her fingers to silently tell him she was watching the little prick.

Laughing at the ridiculous theatrics, Parker put out his hand. One by one, the rest of his band of fools added theirs with Remy’s on top.

“Fuck those Dicks,” he growled as they grunted in unison and released their hands.

Alex thumped him on the back. “Thunder in the desert.”

“Damn straight,” he agreed, and then they made their way to the backstage area of the event tent as a group.

“Please note”—Finn snickered—“that the Dicks have to run farthest for changes.”

Parker had a good laugh at Beantown’s underhanded manipulation of the physical setup. He liked the guy’s style.

They listened in as Barry tried to get the boisterous crowd under control. The noise level was damn loud, owing to the hundreds of spectators who ponied up the cover charge and maxed out the capacity of the event space.

Remy ran through some last-minute reminders and went over the rules once more. The order of the songs remained a mystery, and that meant they had to pay attention so they’d be ready for each new challenge. She was going to stay at the edge of things to make sure they were on schedule.

Alex had a bit of a laugh. “Bet Josh is shitting his pants about now.”

Finn snarkily added, “I saw some of their gear. He has throat spray.”

“You mean that stuff that makes your throat numb?” Remy yelped.

They all looked at her for a silent moment, and then she added, “Come on, men. Surely, you know what I mean! Numbing spray … for better, deeper blow jobs.”

Berger lost it first. He doubled over with mute laughter. Alex and Finn followed, only their guffaws were loud and slightly hysterical. Remy’s evocative words allowed his mind to picture Josh Gordon on his knees giving each of them a loser’s blowjob. He snarled and nodded approvingly at the imagined humiliation and vowed to stomp the motherfucker into the rock and roll dust.

“This is so exciting,” Sophie chirped. She was in high spirits tonight.

Angie smiled. There were no words to explain how her sister’s happiness made her feel. And Sophie’s happiness wasn’t just obvious. She was incandescent with joy. There was a time when such cheerfulness just wasn’t a part of Sophie’s existence. But that was many yesterdays ago, and everything was different now thanks to Teo and Jace.

“Did you see Delilah when we came in? Talk about self-promotion! Holy shizit. Autographed pictures? Swag?” Sophie tut-tutted and made a face. “If I’d known we were swagging, I’d have set up a kiosk for the Double M.”

“I know, right?” she grumbled. “May be time for Thunder to get some cool swag.”

Her remark was offhanded because the mention of Delilah reminded Angie that wherever the woman went, so did her little assistant. She glanced around, searching for Red. What tonight didn’t need was another confrontation between those two. Alex’s handling of Meghan’s territorial reaction to the stupid twit had shaken Angie up. Unprepared to see her brother’s dominant side react to his submissive’s display of bitchiness, she actually trembled when he used a tone that she understood was not meant for anyone else to hear.

Poor Meghan. It was a horrible moment made worse because it happened so publicly. She felt for her sister-in-law because nothing was worse than another female sniffing around one’s man. Would she keep her calm if the same thing happened with Parker? Ha! Absolutely no way. Submissive or not, she’d rip new assholes and worry about the aftermath later.

Heather squealed and waved when she found them in the front of the crowd at Thunder’s end of the tent. She pushed her way through the people and stepped aside at the last second to reveal that Kelly was right behind her with a hand on the waistband of Heather’s swank pantsuit.

“We made it!” she hooted.

Kelly was scowling, though, and didn’t look happy. “What’s wrong?” Angie asked.

“I’ll never see anything,” she griped. “Is there a box I can stand on?”

A small group of pushy fans was in front of them, and squads of Justice employees swarmed near the stage. The Chixie Dicks’ crews assembled at the opposite end of the tent, so all round them were enthusiastic Thunder lovers. Considering they were “with the band,” they could have taken over the front line, but it seemed like overkill, so when she and Sophie staked out a spot, they let the devoted have front honors.

“Hang on,” she muttered and pulled out her phone. “I’ll text Ben and tell him to find something. Didn’t think this through, ya know? I could use a stool to lean on.” She caressed her belly.

“Here comes my hunk of burning love.” Heather giggled. She gestured to the sidelines where Brody approached with an armload of drinks.

Angie smiled and turned away so she could take care of getting Ben’s attention. Hurriedly typing, she spelled out what they needed and pressed send. Mission accomplished, she slid the phone back into the pocket of her pretty dress. She found the stylish maternity wear in a catalog and took a chance. Because stretchy, clingy stuff was a no-no in public, she wanted something with flow and found it in a red dress with a deep blush bodice that offered enough cleavage for her to wear something from her growing collection of ruby jewelry.

Was it far too elegant for a beer-soaked rock and roll event? Totally. But one look at what everyone else in their crew was wearing and a picture formed. Pete’s on a Saturday night when the band played in the bar was when the jeans and boots came out. This was a different matter. It was hella public, they were on display, and in addition to the obvious potential for cell phone pics of them, there was the official stuff. Publicity shots and whatnot.

Heather was rocking a classy tailored suit with a smart peplum jacket and a deep orange hued blouse beneath.

Kelly wasn’t messing around in the clothes department. She had on an amazing mini dress covered in dark blue sequins. From the front, the modest round neckline and three-quarter sleeves was somewhat demure. However! When she turned around, that was where the party happened. A deep scoop revealed most of her back and framed her butt. A pair of strappy-heeled sandals completed the sexy look.

“How’s it going, little mama?” Brody asked. He pressed a bottle of cold juice into her hand. “Do you need anything?”

Angie smiled. “Thanks,” she answered. “I texted Ben and asked him for a box so Kelly can stand on something and a stool for me to relax on.”

“Here he comes now,” he said.

She turned to find Ben dragging a stool while right behind him, Agent Fuller lugged a wood box. Kelly whooped with delight and easily stepped up on the drawer-sized lift and hugged Ben for the perfect assist.

Angie rested one butt cheek on the stool and smiled her thanks. She waved Ben in closer.

“Everything okay, Miss Angie?”

She read the worry in his eyes and offered a limp smile. “Is she necessary?” Angie whispered.

“You mean Fuller?” Ben asked.

“Yes. It’s overkill, don’t you think?”

Ben looked at the security person and shrugged off Angie’s concern. “She’s just following orders.”

A scowl came far too easily for Angie.

“Being pregnant in a crowd? I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe that’s why.”

More questions than answers but she had no time to think about it because, in rapid succession, Lacey, Meghan, and Drae joined them. Hellos were shared, and she asked Drae where the rest of the men were hiding. Only Brody was with them.

“Cam is channeling Hitchcock or Fellini. Not sure which. Roman is at the front door with Duke. Don’t know where Rafe is, but I don’t see Domineau. Your parents and the Sullivans are still eating, but they’ll be along soon. Who am I missing?”

“Just wondering,” she mumbled.

On the pavilion stage, Barry was introducing the judges. She wished she could be backstage with Parker. What if he needed something?

“Looks like we’re about to start.” Drae tapped Brody’s shoulder. Both men and Ben stepped back slightly to guard their rear.

The crowd began chanting. “Thun-der! Dicks! Thun-der! Dicks!” The stage lights changed, and the bright lights in the tent lowered. Delilah stepped to the microphone, and in her signature smoky drawl, she told everyone to hang on to their hats. The bands had flipped a coin earlier to decide who went first. The Dicks won the toss, so the first number was theirs.

“Looks like we start in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Class of 2016, with Steve Miller’s ‘The Joker.’ The year is 1973! Ladies and gentlemen, give a raucous Bendover welcome to the challenger, Josh Gordon and the Chixie Dicks!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Angie sniggered.