“Come on, Sean! Time’s a wastin’.” Austin’s shouts surely reach the far end of the bus.

“I’m coming! Jesus!” Sean says, coming to a stop when he finds everyone gathered in the small kitchen. “What’s this, a tea party?”

“Opal made snacks.”

Sean’s eyes bulge with interest. “Yum.”

Trent snags a roll and shoves it in Sean’s hands. “One for the road. We wait any longer and everything good is gonna be closed.”

“Fuck yeah. Let’s do this.” Austin slides out of the kitchen and he’s the first one out the door. Everyone else follows, but Trent hangs back.

He meets my stare. “You need anything, call.” His thoughtfulness is no doubt prompted by his relationship with my sister. I’m glad she found a good man. He gives me a stern glare. “I mean it. Anything.”

“I will. Promise.”

As soon as they’re out the door I breathe a sigh of relief. Our driver, Jay, won’t be back until it’s time to roll out. The security guards on shift, who Trent introduced me to earlier, are outside if I need them, but other than that I’m alone for the next few hours. I can do whatever I want.

So, what to do?

I’d call Lexi, but she’s three hours ahead on the other coast and most certainly asleep. I hope she had a good show tonight. I’ll text her in the morning.

Unable to sit with my thoughts, I get the practical stuff out of the way first. A shower, which helps wake me up. I snack on some fruit and finish the last biscuit. Not the most well-rounded of meals, but it’s good enough. Besides, I don’t want to waste this precious alone time with more cooking.

My eyes fly over to the acoustic Austin brought aboard earlier. When he lugged it along, and set it out of the way where I could see, I swear my stomach turned to butterflies. Did he bring it for me? He must have. Such a meaningful, sweet and simple gesture. Or I’m being silly and stupid, reading into something when he very well brings a guitar on every tour.

It’s not mine. I should ask permission first. But that nagging thought only lasts a few minutes before I succumb to my own curiosity. Walking over to the case, I unsnap the brass latches. Inside is a sleek black varnished Gibson. I didn’t think it possible, but this one’s even more beautiful than the guitar in Lexi’s room. Austin only gave me one lesson, but the need to play is still as strong. Practice. The advice he drilled into my head during our lunch out afterward. No matter how bad you suck, you won’t get better unless you actually play. It’s the truth, too. It’s how I learned to play violin as a child. Grams never cared about the racket I made. But gone is my youthful confidence and I glance around, self-conscious as I pick up the instrument, worried someone might see or overhear.

I have no idea about tuning, or much other than how to hold the instrument. Settling on the floor with my legs crossed, I practice strumming it as Austin taught me.

Dear Lord. I wince at the sound. Horrible. Lightening my touch, I try again. Better.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

I startle, my eyes flying toward the voice and fight the impulse to shove the guitar back in its case. Which would be totally pointless considering Leighton’s already witnessed my lackluster playing.

He leans against the wall of built in shelves and his brows tip up as if to ask what I’m doing. Plain rude considering he’s supposed to be out with the rest of the band right now, not judging my novice playing skills.

I muster all the nerve I have and lift my brows right back. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t practice that way. You’re training your muscle memory wrong.” He struts over, and I try not to stare at his skintight jeans or how sinfully good he looks wearing them. Without an invitation he plops himself on the floor next to my side and reaches for my hand.

I straighten my spine and tighten my grip on the instrument, abhorred that he thinks he can come in here and order me around, or touch me without permission. I don’t care how good looking he is. “This is how Austin showed me to do it.”

“Well, he taught you wrong.” Leighton lets loose an arrogant chuckle.

I narrow my glare. “Aren’t you supposed to be a drummer?”

“Yeah, well, I know how to play a few things.” The cocky smirk that travels across his face tells me he’s a player when it comes to women, too.

“Sure of yourself.”

“I am.” His gaze pours into mine and although his lips still hold a smile, his words contain no humor. “If you’re serious about learning to play, don’t pause on the down beat. And do it with conviction. You’re gonna suck for a while. No need to do it softly.”

He thinks I suck. Because I do. I pull the guitar closer to my body, a useless shield against his truthful words. “Awfully bossy, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea.” His eyes darken and yet his lips twitch with a smile that leads me to wonder exactly what he likes to be in control of. Or why it sounds appealing. The man is probably used to getting everything he wants.

“Why . . . ?” The question falls short on my lips. Why are you here? Why do you want to help me? Why are you so darn handsome?

“Why do I like to be in control?”

“No. Why do you think you can come in here and interrupt my time with unsolicited advice? Aren’t you supposed to be out debaucher-izing or whatever the hell y’all do?”

“Did you just make up a word?”

His arrogance hits all the insecurities I have. That I’ve never been good at school. Or that I don’t know how to play guitar, even though it’s something I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember. Anger bubbles at the sight of his attractive smirk and I feel myself snap. “Fuck you, dickwad.”

His brows shoot up.

I practically drop the guitar to my lap as my hands fly to cover my mouth. “Oh, my!” I can’t believe I said that. Lord! How did those words come from my mouth?

His gaze holds mine, his face full of the same shock I feel. Then, his lips split into a full smile. Laughter, deep and throaty, flows from his belly.

“I’m so sorry!” I apologize, but the ridiculousness of the situation causes a giggle to escape my lips.

He continues to laugh and shake his head. “No. It’s fine. Really, I deserved it.”

“You did!” I’m smiling. I can feel it in the way my face pulls, and it hits me that I miss this. The joyfulness that I used to experience regularly has now become a rare occurrence.

“But I wasn’t wrong about the guitar. Try it again.”

He’s doing it again. His bossy demands, but I don’t want to sour the easiness between us by calling him out so I set my fingers on the strings, pick up my pick, and try again.

“Good. Don’t pause, keep the rhythm.” He pats his hand against his jeans, and sets a pace I try to match. “That’s it.” His affirmation means more than it should. A happiness settles with his encouragement. For the next hour I play and he tells me where to put my hands, or how to move my arm. I think he might know his stuff, and may be a better teacher than Austin, because the longer I play, the more my songs resemble actual music. He even teaches me a few new chords and my transitions aren’t a complete failure.

“Keep playing.” He pushes up to his feet, stretching as soon as he stands straight.

I glance up and catch a glimpse of his lean stomach. Sweet Jesus. My hands falter, blundering my near perfect streak. Blushing, my gaze falls back to the strings before he catches the source of my slipup.

Not two minutes later he returns with two bottles of water. Lowering next to me on the floor, he scoots closer this time so his jeans brush against my knee. The touch sends goosebumps across my skin, but if he notices he doesn’t mention it.

“You’ve earned a break.” He holds out one of the bottles while I place the guitar safely in its case.

“Thank you.” I uncap the lid and take a sip. The cool water is soothing to my parched lips. I glance at the clock on the wall. A quarter after one. The guys should be back soon. Curious as to why he’s not out with everyone, I stretch out my legs and lift my chin to meet his eyes. “So, why did you come back early?”

“To correct your technique.” He squishes up his nose and his lips spread wide with a grin.

I roll my eyes. “Seriously.”

“Seriously?” He picks at the label on his water and lifts his gaze, the hint of a smile still at play, but with his stiff movements, he almost seems nervous. Or embarrassed? He clears his throat. “I wasn’t old enough to stay at the bar.”

“You got kicked out for being underage?” I can’t help but smile at the thought.

“No . . .” He drags out the word. “I left before I was asked to leave.”

Now I’m curious how much older he is than I am. “How many more months before you get to stay?”

He coughs. “Years.”

I lift my brows. I mean, sure I assume he’s closer to my age than the rest of the guys, but that’s because they’re pushing thirty. Before I can ask his age, he offers the knowledge freely.

“I’m eighteen.”

“Eighteen!” To say I’m shocked is an understatement. Between the two of us, I’m older. Not that there’s an us. I let loose a chuckle at the ridiculous idea. “You’re practically jailbait.”

“Ha!” He laughs, his gaze traveling over my body, brazenly checking me out. “And you aren’t?”

“I’m older than you.” I go for smug, preening at his hungry gaze. “By one year.”

He lifts his brows playfully. “When’s your birthday?”

“December.”

“Technically you’ve only got me by ten months.” He holds my stare and heat spreads across every square inch of my skin.

Grams warned me about men like him, the ones with a touch of the devil in their eyes, but I can’t seem to look away. “Good to know.” I’m very much aware of how closely we sit, and how warm his body feels next to mine. A longing begins at my fingertips, goes straight to my heart and lands at the desire pooling between my legs. I want him. And I don’t know exactly what to do with that, other than scoot a few inches away and settle the instrument back in my arms. I don’t watch for his reaction because I don’t think I can handle the disappointment I might find there, or worse, indifference.

With all my focus I strum the chords, this time taking into account all of Leighton’s modifications from the last hour. The sound is better. More like the song that builds in my mind.

“Good. Louder. Don’t be afraid.”

He doesn’t understand. I’m afraid of everything. I worry my lower lip between my teeth, and a douse of self-doubt hits like a tidal wave. What the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong on this bus. With these people. Or with this instrument in my hands. It’s all a front to the tired and scared little girl who ran away from home.

“Hey.” His fingers skim across my forearm, the slightest of touches.

I raise my gaze to his. Gone is the teasing. The laughter. Or any trace of sexual interest. Instead all I find is warmth and encouragement. “You’ve got this. It takes time.”

I know he’s referring to the music, but his words extend and chase away the voice that belittles the huge changes I’ve made over the past month. I’m doing the best I can. Transformation doesn’t happen overnight. With another deep breath I lift my arm and try again, this time with a forced confidence I don’t really feel.

“Good. Yes. That’s it.” His encouragement means more than it should.

I continue to practice until my hands ache, and Leighton never leaves my side. He must be exhausted. Bored to death even, but if he is he doesn’t let on. The chords come together with more ease and he hums along.

Words form in my mind of their own accord and maybe it’s because I’m sleep deprived, or on a freaking rock tour, but I open my mouth and give voice to them.

“She won’t let on.

She won’t cry.

She’ll never let you see her say good-bye.”

I don’t lift my gaze to Leighton’s. Too much doubt already clouds my own mind. But he surprises me, his voice joining with mine and my made up lyrics. Boy. Can. Sing. I can’t deny that makes him more attractive, or this guitar lesson much more intimate.

A loud clang at the door halts my movements. My gaze darts across the space to find Trent, Sean, and Austin as they push inside.

“Quiet. Don’t wake the neighbors,” Trent stage whispers and the three of them fall into a fit of laughter. I study their movements, the heavier footsteps, the sloppy smiles. They’re most definitely inebriated.

“Hey, baby.” Austin’s gaze finds mine, his eyes lighting up when they find his guitar in my hands. Almost as if it pleases him to find it there. “Trying to make me jealous?” The heat in his gaze scrambles all reason from my mind. He stares as if I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. Or rather, the bus. Which is completely stupid. I am the only woman on this bus.

My answer catches in my throat and my reply comes out more squeak than words.

He closes the space between us in a few strides. “I thought you only played like that for me.” He’s teasing, and though there’s no reason, I feel as if I owe him an explanation.

“Sorry. Leighton offered to . . .”

“Movin’ in on my girl. I see that.” He knocks his boot against Leighton’s leg, as if to push him away, but focuses his stare back on me. “You tell him you’ve only been playing a few days?”

“What?” Leighton actually sounds impressed.

“It’s nothing.” Heat travels up my cheeks as I put the instrument back in the case. “I’m not any good.”

“But you will be. She’s got natural talent,” Austin says, a hint of pride in his tone that I want so badly to believe.

“I agree.” Leighton’s voice is soft, the low reverberations of his cadence a direct hit to my heart.

Oh, Lord. With both men’s gazes studying my every move, I know for certain I’m in over my head. I will not fall for a rock star. Not the way my mama did. I won’t throw away my virginity, and my life, on a man who can’t see past his own ambitions.

I will not fall. To temptation. To lust. It’s not worth the consequences. As much as I know it’s true, there’s something even more powerful that begs to differ. To challenge everything I’ve ever been told. And that feeling? It’s terrifying.