I had a headache.

It was mild, fortunately, and nothing a few Tylenol couldn’t fix. So I pounded those back and tried to do some work. I couldn’t sleep anyway, and I’d rallied myself out of the hotel a little early, skipping breakfast.

After all the shooters last night, I miraculously didn’t feel sick, but I didn’t feel very hungry either.

With a little luck, I’d tire myself out and I could take a little nap on the road, then grab a late breakfast when my appetite came back.

It was raining and the Lady Bus was quiet on the way to Portland, everyone tucked away, playing on their phones or listening to music in their headphones. Resting up.

I made a few calls, worked quietly on my laptop at one of the tables in the lounge.

Then, inevitably, I went over last night in my head… trying to figure out what the hell had gone wrong. At the show… and afterward.

And why it felt like Zane had won some small, fucked-up victory because he’d gotten me drunk.

From a business standpoint, the night had gone perfectly. The show was sold out, we sold a shit-ton of merchandise, we got plenty of local media support, and many, many happy fans left the concert with autographed stuff and smiles on their faces.

It was the first show Steel Trap had ever opened for Dirty, and they were a great fit. We’d all miss the Penny Pushers on this tour, for sure; we’d toured with them so often. But Steel Trap was joining us for almost every show on the North American leg of this tour and if last night was any indication, it was gonna rock.

Brody had flown down for the show, and he seemed really happy with everything.

Security was tight and Jude seemed pleased with his crew, which consisted of several regulars and some new guys he’d brought on for the tour. His new girlfriend, Roni, had also flown down; she’d be traveling with us for the first few shows, and Jude looked pretty damn happy holding her hand backstage.

Clearly, the band was happy, too.

Dylan was adorably thrilled that his girlfriend, Amber, was on the road with us. I’d never seen Dylan Cope so lost over a girl; not even close. The way he looked at her, the way he listened when she spoke, the way he was always fetching her a drink or pulling her onto his lap. For her part, Amber was already working her ass off as our tour photographer. And seeing her take photos of Dylan in his kilt at last night’s show, watching him sit her down at sound check and try to teach her how to play? Nauseatingly cute.

Elle definitely wasn’t happy that she wasn’t playing bass on this tour, but she did have that pregnant glow about her. And when she watched her man onstage, reunited with Dirty, I could see how proud she was. Seth fit right back in with the band, almost as if he’d never left, but even better; there was a fresh sense of excitement, respect, and appreciation between all the band members. The members of Dirty were as glad to have Seth Brothers back as rhythm guitarist, backup vocalist and songwriter as he was to be back.

Plus, Seth sizzled onstage. With his short beard and aviator sunglasses, he was all soulful artist wrapped up in mystery wrapped up in sexy man, and the fangirls fucking loved him.

As for Jesse, I’d never seen him happier or in better form than when his wife, Katie, was backstage, dancing and singing along to every song. Which was saying something; with his leather pants, wavy dark hair and dazzling grin, Jesse was always in great form. He kissed Katie every time he went onstage, every time he came off, every time he switched guitars, every time he had any excuse to do it. Marriage suited him. Katie suited him. And every one of us would reap the benefits of his good mood on this tour. When the sun shone on Jesse Mayes, you just had to smile.

And all of us were definitely happy with our newest member, Matty Brohmer.

Matt was a maniac on the bass and he brought something fresh, exciting, and enjoyably unpredictable to the stage and to Dirty’s performance. He was filling in for Elle on this tour, and I’d be the first to say we made the right choice with him. He’d rehearsed his ass off and knew all the songs inside-out. Plus, he was a nice guy. Matt was an old friend of Dirty’s, had played with Zane on-and-off in his supergroup side project band, Wet Blanket, and really, we were lucky to have him.

And then there was Zane.

Zane Traynor was, to put it mildly, an integral part of Dirty. And there was no denying that I cared about what happened to every member of this band on the road. Every show, from the moment they all stepped onstage until they stepped back off, I cared. I cared if they were having an off night, if things weren’t going well, if something didn’t go as planned. I cared how it affected them, and how that would end up affecting us all.

We were a team and a family, and I cared.

But it had been so long since we’d been on tour—since before Zane and I were married—that I’d kind of forgotten, until they were onstage last night, how much I would care.

How much it would bother me when I saw Zane out there, struggling, and something wasn’t right.

My gut was in knots for the entire show.

I’d never felt that way before at a Dirty show. Well… other than at the very last show of the last tour, the night after Zane and I were married. Although, to be fair, I’d missed half of that show, since I was drunk; apparently, I didn’t take the whole discovery that we were actually, legally married, and Zane presenting me with a massive diamond ring, all too well.

At last night’s show, I was fully-present and sober and I was watching everything from backstage. I saw and heard it when Zane’s mic cut out during “Dirty Like Me.”

Really, it wasn’t that big a deal. I’d seen pretty much every type of screw-up there was, and not just at Dirty shows. I’d seen band members crash into each other, fall off the stage, forget the words to their own songs.

Shit happened.

Even to practiced, polished, professional musicians.

But I knew the mic thing would upset Zane. Despite whatever chaos the man wreaked in his personal life, when it came to his voice and his onstage performance, Zane was a consummate professional.

And he was a perfectionist.

He did not like shit going wrong.

I knew it would bother him even more when, in the very next song, he smashed Seth in the face with his mic. The both of them went right on with the song like nothing happened, because that’s what professionals did.

But when Zane screwed up, it stayed with him. And I knew he’d blame himself for the whole thing.

After the show, I didn’t approach him. I gave him space and time to cool off. I knew I should probably check on him. As management, it was pretty much my duty. I knew Brody had talked to him, but I should’ve made sure he was alright.

The truth was, putting aside all our marriage bullshit… I felt for him. The show was fantastic, overall, and everyone else was happy—but Zane just wasn’t himself. Brody and I both saw it. We both heard it.

I felt it.

Zane was often a little tense before a show, right before he went onstage, and we all knew that.

But once he took the stage, he owned it. He owned the room.

I’d rarely seen a frontman do what Zane could do—which was saying a hell of a lot. Over the years I’d seen a lot of incredible bands play live. A lot of musicians who made magic onstage.

Zane was the magic.

Usually.

Last night… not so much. At least, not as much as usual.

And at the bar after the show… he was definitely on-edge. About the show, probably, and about me. I knew he was frustrated with me, and he was trying to push my buttons.

Nothing new.

Zane had always treated us like some giant game; like chasing me was some sort of blood sport he’d just keep playing, no matter what it cost him, until he won.

And maybe he could afford to just keep chasing me, indefinitely.

When we weren’t on tour.

But being in the spotlight all the time, under the media microscope? That was different than being at home, cutting an album and just generally living life.

I’d realized that last night.

And now I was worried about him. Worried that his performance would suffer on this tour. That he would suffer.

Because of me.

Because of this fucked-up shit between us.

I really should’ve talked to him after the show, figured out if his tension onstage was in any way my fault.

But I didn’t.

Instead I’d let him push my buttons at the bar.

Feed me shots.

Make me suck a shooter out of his lap in front of everyone—because he knew I wouldn’t say no. That I’d be afraid of making an even bigger scene if I refused.

That I already felt bad about avoiding him at the show. He knew that, right?

Yeah, probably. And he’d only use it against me. See it as an opening to try to fuck me.

He’d definitely gotten the hard-on from hell right there in the bar, and didn’t even try to cover it up.

Obviously, I knew there was a danger in letting things go any farther. That if he kept watching me dance with that look on his face… If I had one more of those ridiculously delicious shooters… There was gonna be a disaster.

A naked, sweaty, orgasmic disaster.

He’d try to get me alone and he’d try to get his dick in me, and he’d succeed.

I played a tough game, but the truth was I was so damn ready and willing to give in, it was pathetic.

Which was why I had to walk away.

Thank God he didn’t follow. But even though Zane didn’t get me into bed last night, it felt like he’d had the upper hand. Like he was in control.

And I couldn’t afford to let Zane have control.

No more letting him buy me shooters, then.

No more sitting anywhere near him in a bar.

No more ordering his favorite drink for him.

No more acting like I was his wife, when I wasn’t.

* * *

When we were about a half-hour from Portland, Zane texted me.

Zane: I’m glad you’re on the tour

I hesitated to respond. I considered not responding at all.

I was still kinda mad about last night.

And I was scared.

I was sad, frustrated, irritated, and every emotion in-between.

I was tired, and this tour was barely twenty-four hours old.

But… it was a nice thing for him to say. And it didn’t come with a heated come-on.

Me: I’m always on the tour.

He responded immediately.

Zane: you should ride on my bus

For Christ’s sake. He wasn’t gonna let this go, was he?

No. Of course he wasn’t.

This was Zane.

As soon as he had me on the line… let the chase commence.

Me: I have my own bus.

Zane: we could be fucking right now

And there it was.

Not a question. Not an invitation. Just a statement of plain fact.

Because if I was riding on Zane’s bus right now, we would most definitely be fucking, and apparently he knew it as well as I did.

Zane: you telling me whatever you’re doing on your lady bus is better than that?

I didn’t respond to that.

Zane: I like having you around

I didn’t even know what to say to that. I really needed to stop looking at his texts.

But every time my phone pinged, I looked.

Zane: you make everything better

Zane: sunshine

Zane: cloudy day

Zane: something about the month of May?

Oh, sweet Jesus. He was serenading me with “My Girl” over text.

Me: Don’t get cheesy.

Zane: Motown, baby

Zane: it’s a classic

I didn’t respond.

Zane: I’ll Go is about you

I stared at his text as the words sank in. Slowly.

“I’ll Go” was an epic love song on the new album, written by Zane and Seth. Entirely acoustic, with Jesse and Seth on guitar and searing, haunting vocals from Zane. It was some of his best vocal work on the album, for sure.

There was a line in it about gray eyes. I assumed it was about Elle, that Seth had written it for her. Though I didn’t ask.

Maybe I just wanted to believe that was true.

Zane: come see me when we get to Portland

Shit.

I tucked my phone away.

Zane was constantly texting and calling me—at home. Flirting, coming on to me, reminding me how awesome it would be if I just spread my legs for him.

And yes, there were times when I did spread my legs for him.

But at home it was easier to just avoid him most of the time. It wasn’t like he lived right next door. Here, I’d have to be around him all the time and I knew he was going to put the pressure on, flirt with me.

But worse, he was going to be sweet with me to try to win me over.

And when Zane was sweet with me… it totally fucked with me.

It made me imagine what it could be like if I let him love me. It made me want his love.

It made me want to love him back.

It crossed the wires in my head, lighting a fire in me that would just keep burning, hotter and hotter until I found some way to douse it out.

Usually, I threw a bucket of cold water on it when I reminded myself what a manwhore he was.

I’d tell myself whatever I needed to, to convince myself to keep away from him.

But in the meagre hours since we’d rolled out of Vancouver on this tour, I was already considering many more interesting ways I could douse that fire.

Or stoke it.

Everything just seemed so different away from home. Maybe it was like the Vegas thing; like whatever we did here, on the road, somehow didn’t count or something?

Or maybe that as just an excuse.

It counted. I knew it did.

Because what Zane and I did in Vegas changed everything.

There was no taking it back. No pretending it didn’t happen.

Even if we got a divorce today, Zane would never let me forget what I’d done, and he’d probably never stop digging to find out if it meant more to me than I’d told him it did.

In the days and weeks that followed our wedding, when it sank in for Zane how mad I was that the whole thing was real, he’d accused me of being full of shit. I’d told him that even if the marriage was legal, it still wasn’t real because I didn’t know what I was agreeing to when I said those vows.

When he refused to agree to an annulment or a divorce, and I was the angriest I’d ever been with him, I’d told him that none of it mattered anyway.

The marriage didn’t matter.

But it did matter, and we both knew it.

No matter how much we fought about it, no matter how much we disagreed, no matter how much I told him I wanted a divorce and he denied me, no matter how many times he slept with other women… it mattered.

All of it mattered, because we were friends. We were coworkers. Our lives were intertwined in our shared passion for Dirty.

And we cared about each other.

We were still married, even though we weren’t living like a married couple. And the truth was we were still married because we both still wanted to be.

Because neither of us was willing to let it go.

Which meant that whatever we did on this tour would matter. A lot.

If I let myself cross the line with Zane, I’d just be giving him another glimpse of the truth. Sex revealed my attraction to him, but more than that, it let him closer to my heart and all my fucked-up feelings for him.

It made me vulnerable to him, which should’ve made me hellbent on staying the fuck away from him…

He wrote a song for me.

I grabbed my phone and opened my music app. I pulled up “I’ll Go,” put my earbuds in and listened, really listened, closer than I ever had before.

It was a song of longing and devotion. Of wanting someone who was far away, out of reach… yet so close you could taste it. Someone who was standing right next to you, but you couldn’t have.

I’ll go where you are

gray eyes, so far

with you (come with me)

I’ll go there (with you)

wherever you are

And hearing Zane sing those words, knowing they were about me… I got a giant lump in my throat as the familiar, dangerous longing flared to life in my chest.

Desire.

Fear.

More fear.

I knew I was afraid to let myself fall for him…

I knew I was afraid he’d already fallen for me.

I knew I wanted him… and that wanting was just never going to stop.

The only thing I didn’t know was what the hell I was going to do about it.