H e had been honey on my tongue. Sweet. Indulgent. That taste of something I craved like a junkie aching for a fix. Six months. It was such a short space of time. Jamie and me, together, loving, experimenting, wanting things we’d never had. Needing each other because we were hungry for the attention .

I loved that sweet taste .

Until it came back up .

Until I could not have any more .

Until my teeth rotted from the sugar .

I had not lied to him. I did hate him, and it had become the fire that kept me warm. I thought I’d never let it live inside me. Not as long as there was Jamie holding me, touching me, devouring every hope I held for myself. He took it all and I let him .

Until he wanted me to do the same .

“What am I doing?” My breath fogged against the cab window, pressing into the line of Chicago as we sped down Michigan Avenue. Jamie was at the empty auditorium. The arena vacant, waiting for voice and song to fill it. He was there and I was coming, running toward the lion’s den. Expecting to be devoured if I wasn’t careful .

Landon, Dash’s panicked, rushed-sounding assistant had left a message on my cell the night before. Just like the God of rock, the man seemed filled with bite and exasperation .

“This is Landon Winter, Mr. Justice’s assistant. I’m texting you the confirmation for your ticket. Plane leaves at eight a.m. Be at the United Center tomorrow at three. You’ll be assigned a bus when you get here. The contract is on its way to you now. You won’t be given any access until it’s signed.” Then a pause, some hurried words mumbled in the background and the man returned to the call. “Mr. Justice says you’re not to refer to him as anything other than Dash or Mr. Justice. It’s in the contract, but wanted to be clear about that point and…the other one. Isaiah Vega is off limits .”

No goodbye. No manners. This guy likely did well as Dash’s assistant. He sounded like an asshole too .

A squeak of breaks sounded and the cab stopped, coming to park near the back entrance. It was different from a normal auditorium. There were no fans, no loud music filling up the air. Only a small group of roadies and other crew members milled around the loading docks. The cabbie dropped me there, per Landon’s request, sent along with the contracts. It had been a few ticking points I needed to know, likely coming from Mr. Justice .

No photographs without his permission .

No questions about his cousin or her death .

No inquiries about why he wore make-up on stage and absolutely no candid shots of him without said make-up on .

I’d folded the list into quarters then shoved into the trash on my way out of my apartment, irritated already about the demands. Jamie Vega, it seemed, had grown utterly full of himself .

“Iris Daine?” I heard, taking my rolling suitcase away from the cab after I handed the driver some small bills. To my left a tall guy with short blonde hair walked toward me, holding a bright yellow two-way radio in his hand. He didn’t greet me with a smile or do more than lift his eyebrows to acknowledge me. “I’m Landon.” That was all the direction I was given, that and a quick nod, instructing me to follow .

He led me past the loading docks, through one of three massive doors, all open, and into the backstage area. There was equipment everywhere; bins and racks with wires and speakers being carted through the weaving hallways, up onto the massive stage being erected for Dash’s show .

“Tony?” Landon called into the radio, the scratchy feedback signaling to its mate that he’d said what he needed to. When there came a low “yeah” from the speaker, the assistant spoke again, walking a foot ahead of me and I struggled to keep up. He had impossibly long legs. “Meet me at Dash’s dressing room. I need you to take care of the writer’s shit .”

He stopped in front of a large door, center of the hallway, and I glanced at him, eyes narrowed at his calling my things “shit.” He shrugged, waving off my irritation like it wasn’t a consideration. “I’ll leave it by his door .”

“You will not,” I said, ready to demand I keep my things with me when a noise sounded from the other side of a large dressing room door. It was familiar. Basic. Something I’d heard so many times backstage at venues, so many common noises that filled up rock shows along with bass lines and aching guitar riffs. Sex and rock and roll. They are linked together, fused like glass and light on a church window .

For a half second, I wondered if Dash had planned this: get the ex, who he didn’t really want to be around, all awkward and uncomfortable by bedding some random within ear shot. It seemed like something he’d do. It would make good on that long-uttered promised to keep on hurting me. But Landon frowned at the noise, his nose curling in disgust when a particularly ruckus round of “oh yes! Oh yes!” peppered the air and took to slamming his fist against the door. Kind of figured he wouldn’t have the balls to do that if his boss was the source of all that pleased screaming .

“I’ll, um, see to your stuff,” Landon tried, awkwardly flipping through a phone he pulled from his jacket. “Hey, what’s going on with …”

The noises started up again and this time it was the deep boom of a male voice, satisfied oaths of coño, así and si! bueno! filtering into the air that had my chest tightening. I knew those phrases. I’d heard Jamie screaming them a thousand times when we were together. Despite my hatred of the man, despite everything I reminded myself we’d done to hurt each other, I couldn’t shake the stinging pain that filled my throat the louder those screams and moans became .

I turned away, suitcase running behind me as I walked down the hall, the clicking roll of the wheels echoing against the tile. “Cruel, careless, son of a whor …

“Those insults meant for me, chica ?”

To my left, that voice shot out, pulling my attention away from the sounds of sex and right at Jamie. He was alone in a room at the end of the hall. He sat in a leather wingback chair, holding a guitar on his lap as he scribbled on a notebook resting atop the coffee table in front of him. His face was clean of make-up, and I blinked, unable to do more than stare at him while he watched me. It was the first time I’d seen him without all the theatrics. It was the first time in years I looked at Jamie, the real Jamie .

“Who’s got you pissed?” he sat, sitting back against his chain when I didn’t answer. That full mouth opened, maybe he meant to say something, but the loud oaths rumbled down the hallway again, this time the language a bit more colorful .

“Ya me vengo,” they said right before the heavy roar of a groan that clearly marked a finish to the escapades. Happy ending met .

Despite my seasoned experience on the road and around bands, my face heated and I caught Jamie’s gaze, looking away from him when Landon approached, peering into the room .

“See?” he told me, nodding to his boss. “I knew it wasn’t Dash .”

“I didn’t say …”

“You thought that was me, chica ?” Dash lowered his guitar, stretching his feet onto the table in front of him. I instantly hated the smile he wore and the way he tried to fight it. God only knew what he thought or how funny he must have taken it that I was angry that he might be fucking someone. “Not my style,” he said, leaning on his elbow with two fingers covering his mouth and that threatening smirk. “I don’t have to fuck groupies in the arena .”

“No,” Landon piped up. “They come to his hotel or his bus. Always .”

Dash waved, a small acknowledgement and I shook my head, feeling my face heat again as he went on watching me. Behind us, a door flew open and both Landon and I turned, my eyebrows going up as Isaiah came out of the dressing room. He wasn’t alone, and I nodded, grinning when I saw how wide his eyes became at spotting me. Isaiah blushed a little, took a step toward me, but then stopped short, walking backward when Dash came into the hallway. They exchanged a look, something silent and cool before Isaiah turned around, throwing up a wave over his shoulder before he led the petite redhead who’d followed him out of the dressing room in the opposite direction .

“Sound check,” Dash said, watching his cousin’s retreat without acknowledging me. He kept his attention down that hall, a small guitar pick moving over and under his knuckles. “You can get some shots of the band warming up.” He didn’t look at me, but did manage a tilt of his head in my direction, then Dash grabbed hold of my suitcase, wheeling it to Landon. “Put her stuff on my bus for now.” He finally glanced at me, expression blank, almost bored. “I guess you don’t want anyone fucking with your shit.” He let go of the suitcase when Landon reached for it. “They won’t touch it on my bus.” To his assistant he said, “Is the guest bus ready ?”

“Still in the shop. They think it’s the carbonator, but we can rent another one .”

Dash worked his jaw, one brow uplifted as he glanced down at me, then back at Landon. “We’ll figure it out. For now, stow her bag.” He walked ahead of us, waving me forward. “Grab your camera, chica and let’s head to the stage .”

* * *

F ive men played in front of me. The notes went everywhere, flying like chaos, but somehow managing to come together in some sympathy of sound. It was the mark of a Dash Justice performance. He wrote the songs. He set the mood and taught others how to follow him. These guys were new, except for Isaiah. Omen had died a slow death, the members unable to keep pace with Dash, but the ones on the stage seemed up for the challenge. The four other men performing with him got just as lost in the music as I did watching them .

There would be no front shots for me. Not until the band donned their war paint and were set to perform. For now, I got great silhouette pictures of Kyle and Lou, drummer and bass player respectively, backs facing my camera, them against the light flooding the stage. Isaiah and the rhythm guitar player, Mick, stood on either side of Dash, watching as he rifted on his guitar, leading out of the bridge to bring Isaiah into a solo. No one noticed me slinking around the back of the stage. I was a distraction that distracted no one .

Or so I thought .

Dash shot glances over his shoulder as his cousin wailed on his guitar, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze. That, it seemed, was likely too much—even the small looks exchanged were some sort of broken rule Dash had established before the tour even began. But he kept glancing my way, gaze moving just over my head, toward the risers or near the packed-up stage decorations waiting for the sound check to be completed before they were installed. But he would not look at me directly .

My shots done, I moved to the side of the stage when Dash howled out a final note. I sat next to Landon on a stool near the front row. The songs had been a lot of flash and little substance, something I’d sadly found to be the case in much of Dash’s current work. It was disappointing to watch, especially when I knew he was capable of so much more. But you could never count Dash Justice out completely. Just when fans were convinced he was done, that his music was too melodramatic, his schtick too overwrought, he’d pull out something slow and melodic, something that was poetry and light set to sound .

He did that just then, pulling my attention away from my phone. I knew the tune immediately. Isaiah and Mick put down their guitars. Kyle and Lou stepped off stage and Dash rested against a metal stool with a single microphone and stand in front of it. He played a Gibson, acoustic and new, with a warm sound that reminded me of summer and beaches and things I hadn’t seen since I was a kid .

The intro was crisper than it had been on that vinyl record years before and Dash didn’t quite match the whiskey roughness of Lager’s tenor, but he did hold his own. One line in and I got trapped, mesmerized by the sound, the lyric and the memory that made me forget how much I hated the man on the stage .

Eyes shut tight, I let the music wash over me, and for a second, I remembered the first time I’d heard this song. That record shop. The crackle of sound popping through the cheap speakers. And Jamie, my boy. His sweet, soft lips flirting against mine .

God, how I’d loved him .

Blinking, I watched Dash as he sang, small wrinkles cornering the edges of his eyes as he blinked then kept his eyes shut, utterly lost. His long fingers plucked against the strings and I held my breath, watching the movement, wondering if he’d played this by accident. Had he meant to remind me of that day at Hector’s? Had Dash wanted to twist the knife deeper into my heart as some strange reminder that I meant nothing at all to him now ?

But as he sang and opened his eyes, glancing around the rows in front of him, completely ignoring me, I began to believe he was just performing a song from the stores of his memory. I wasn’t a consideration just then. His features were soft, relaxed and there was no shake to his hands or tremble in his voice. He enjoyed this song and the moment it created. There was no bitterness .

Maybe I was hormonal. Maybe it was the low whispers I heard when I walked with Dash to the stage. Iris Daine had come on tour, and the gossips couldn’t keep from laughing at me. I had thick skin, but even whispered cat calls and inappropriate offers mumbled in low tones could still knock the wind from my sails. Whatever the reason, Dash sang, voice like a heartbeat, and the stinging of tears brimmed around my eyelashes .

He was astounding, still. Dash was cruel and curt. He was careless and mean at times, but no one could deny his talent or the sweet charisma that poured from him when he performed. It reminded me of the past and the boy who’d been buried by resentment and fury in my mind. When he was real. When Dash was open and not playing with theatrics, he was remarkable, an astounding mix of poet and musician .

Part of me still believed in him .

Part of me remembered what is what to have that beautiful man believe in me too .

I leaned forward, gaze not shifting from him for even a blink and the tears caught me unexpectedly. They fell thick and heavy down my face and before I could wipe them dry, Dash shot another glance over his shoulder, this time staring directly at my face. Staring and not jerking away as those useless tears went on leaking down my face .

He stopped singing, expression shifting from surprise to confusion, then realization and I suspected he realized what song he’d been playing. What he thought of me and my tears, I didn’t know. I managed a weak nod before I left my seat and walked away from the stage. The auditorium had gone silent, and I moved behind the curtains wondering what would have become of us, all those years ago, if Jamie and I had kept believing in each other .