Ryan Waters groaned at the stained carpeting of the narrow stairs. Hummingbird Motel, my ass. This place was a toilet covered in a thin veneer of civility.

He grasped the railing and dragged himself up the first seven stairs. His side throbbed with each step.

The bouncer from the Red Rooster Club had been fairly merciful. Ryan had only taken the house for twenty grand. A drop in the bucket when it came to the underground gambling room. His buddy, Zane, from Brooklyn Dawn had told him about the place.

One wall of televisions fed the sports gambling portion of the establishment. Ryan had never been into that kind of betting. He wasn’t the type to bet on anyone but himself. It was too easy for a sporting event to go sideways because one of the starting players was having a bad night—or worse, an injury.

No, he’d been locked into poker. It was man against man and a little bit of nature thrown in. He’d always been good at reading people. Add in a little math with statistics and card decks, and he’d run the table for an hour before the floor manager had gotten wise to his talents.

He wasn’t even sure one could technically call it cheating. Just because he was an observant guy didn’t make him a monster. However, counting cards was frowned upon in most establishments.

Instead of leaving with his windfall, he’d been kicked to the curb quite literally.

All his money, including what he’d started out with when he walked in the door, was now in the jacket pocket of the guy with ham hocks for fists.

He’d gotten off easy, to be honest, but it didn’t make the steel-toed boot to the ribs any easier to bear. He’d nursed his share of black eyes over the years. His little brother, Jason, had always been quick to swing when they were kids.

Add in Michael and West’s penchant for college shenanigans, and he’d learned how to take a punch. The fact that he didn’t remember how he’d ended up in the alley was the clincher. The dude had a helluva right cross. Denver finding him in that alley had been unfortunate, but it was a lot better than having to explain his situation to his bandmates.

At least she’d keep it quiet.

Ryan huffed out a breath as they rounded the bend for the fourth flight of stairs. The stench of musty piss strengthened, as did the temperature. July in the city was a steambath of bad choices, and he’d walked right into a number of them tonight.

Even worse, he’d lost way more than he could afford to. A hit single and a platinum record didn’t bring a bevy of cash with it—quite the misconception there. The band earned a good living—one that kept him in soda and kitty litter for Elvis, the Siamese cat who sometimes stayed at his place.

Technically a stray, Elvis did what he wanted. They both liked it that way. And he’d never had to worry about anyone else since he’d moved to Los Angeles.

He lived with West, but neither of them did much more than land at the apartment as a last resort. Between touring, the studio, and the occasional hookup, there wasn’t much reason to stay there, but they needed a home base. And he didn’t want to fuck with West’s precarious situation with Lauren. They were living in their little happy bubble and Ryan wasn’t going to be the one to pop it.

Now he was overextended to the point where he wouldn’t make rent without a serious intervention from a money fairy. He could probably get an advance from Lila, their manager, but that would bring questions.

Again, questions he didn’t want to answer. He’d gotten a taste of winning and had sat at the table for too long. He’d gotten too cocky.

Even now he wanted to borrow a twenty from Denver and turn it into the grand he needed. Just a little seed money and he’d be good to go again. He’d be more careful this time.

He clenched his fingers until his bones cracked.

“You’re not telling me something.”

“What’s there to say?”

Not much when your best friend had to peel you off a pile of garbage bags. Oh, now he was supposed to ask her for money too?

The idea of it made his dick shrivel to a bean.

“You can tell me anything, Ry. You know that.”

He scrubbed the top of his head. “Not this, Colorado.”

“Nothing you can say will be worse than finding you in that alleyway.”

He growled. “You would be wrong.”

“Is it drugs?” She looked down at her sneakers as she jammed her fists into her pockets. “We can get you help.”

“No. God, no. It’s…stupid.”

She peered up at him. “Alley, remember?”

He tipped his head back. “As if I can forget.”

“Then spit it out.”

“I fucked up. Like killed-my-bank-account fucked up and now I can’t make rent.”

“Oh.” She blinked at him. “That’s no big deal. I can float you the money. I know you’re good for it.”

“No.”

Her eyebrows snapped together. “Why not? It’s just money.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Only people who have money say that.”

“Well, I’m not swimming in green, but I have plenty. I get my daily per diem and barely use that. Most of my paycheck just goes in the bank.”

“Is that why you carry cash?”

She shrugged. “We get twenty-five a day just for pocket money when you’re a driver. You see what I eat and drink.”

He sighed. “Tea bags aren’t all that expensive.”

She punched his arm. “Don’t forget the cupcakes.”

“How could I forget your chocolate Hostess cupcakes?”

“Damn right.” She bounced on the balls of her feet a little. “What do you need?”

He blurted out his half of the rent before he could chase his tongue back into order.

“I’ll have it to you by tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?”

“Look, I know you guys have to wait on tours and shit to make the real money, but royalties will be coming in anyway, right?”

“Yeah, supposedly.” They’d gotten advances set up like paychecks with an option for a bonus if they hit the charts. Well, they’d hit the top twenty on Billboard. It just took time for the money to come in.

“Then you can give it back to me next paycheck. All good. Now can we go?”

“Yeah.” He blew out a breath and turned for the stairs with a hiss. He’d almost forgotten how hard he’d landed on the pavement earlier.

“Are you sure you’re all right? We can—”

“I’m fine. Just a little banged up. A hot shower and some sleep is all I need.”

Her huge brown eyes searched his. Even now he knew he was squirming under her scrutiny. He’d never been great at subterfuge when it came to his friends and family. Poker tables were easy. It was a game to find a way around tics and tells when it came to strangers.

Denver Casey saw way too much.

Since the first day he’d met her, she’d called him on his bullshit. It was one of the main reasons he’d glommed on to her. He’d only kept things in the friend zone because she didn’t seem inclined to get naked with him. After a few weeks, he’d become more worried about messing up their friendship, so friend zone he stayed. Usually he could ignore the knocking of his cock against his zipper.

Most of the time.

His eyes dropped to her ass as she hiked the stairs ahead of him to the next floor. With herculean effort, he moved his gaze to her slim back and bouncing ponytail. Much safer.

He actually liked her. She made him laugh, and she seemed to need the same kind of adrenaline highs. Of course, hers were often attached to her mountain bike or sometimes a crazy hike.

It was past time he focused on those kinds of highs again himself.

Denver made it to the next landing and turned around to check on him. With her hands on her hips and chin lifted in that haughty I’m-still-mad-at-you way, she was ridiculously gorgeous. It was often the look she gave him when he wussed-out on a climb. He’d prefer a different kind of sweaty hour with her, but he’d learned to deal with what she offered.

Right now, he saw a little something different in her eyes.

Dark eyes that were just a little too big and intelligent. Everything about her was just a little too much. Her personality, her curves, her mouth—fucking A, her mouth. And right now, it was pinched with anger and worry.

“I’m good, Den. I swear it.”

She sighed. “One call and we could be on the bus, you know.”

No, there’d be questions and too many people poking at him. He wanted a few hours without the band. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d been alone.

He wrapped his fingers around the banister and the rounded balustrade wobbled and nearly came off in his hand. Yeah, this was one classy place.

He sighed and forced one foot in front of the other up the stairs that squished too much for comfort. When he got to the top, a five-foot vending machine filled the space.

She glanced over her shoulder at where his eyes tracked. “Cheetos, Hubba Bubba gum, Fruit Roll-Ups, and condoms. Full-service vending,” she quipped.

He peered around her. “Condoms?”

She met his gaze. “Want me to call one of the working girls sitting in the lobby?”

“You caught that?” He grinned.

“Only a blind person could miss it.”

“Nah, I’m good. The Cheetos do look good, but I think I’ll pass. They’re probably older than I am.”

Denver snorted. “Bet the condoms are too.”

He squinted down at the box in the twisty feeder of the machine. “Oddly enough, those seem to be new.”

“Whadya know? Safety first. Too bad they didn’t spend some of that money on the carpeting.” She wrinkled her nose. “It’s squishy.”

“Right?” They both shuddered and laughed. He nodded to the machine. “They’re catering to the clientele.”

“Can’t dispute that.”

He shoved his hand into his pocket. Look at that, they didn’t find every dollar on him.

“What are you doing?”

“Buying some rubbers.” He pulled out the wrinkled five.

Her expressive eyebrows shot up. “Are you delusional?”

He shrugged. “There’s a skull and crossbones on the pack, man. I gotta have it.”

She rolled her eyes, but her gaze shifted to the floor, and then to his neck before returning to her battered Chucks.

He swallowed down the instinctive flood of saliva in his mouth. She kept glancing at his chest and neck. Normally that would be a green light for some serious flirtation, but this was Denver.

She didn’t flirt.

At least not with him.

He’d caught her getting slightly friendly with a guy on a Harley after one of their shows once. Though Ryan was fairly certain she was drooling over the guy’s chrome and leather, not the biceps be kept showing off. Didn’t mean Ryan had liked seeing her show interest in some bullshit motorcycle club dude, but he didn’t have any hold on her.

And most of the time he didn’t even think about her that way. “Most of the time” being the operative words. He was a red-blooded male, and Denver filled out a pair of jeans like no other. Add in the paper-thin plaid shirts she wore—just like tonight—and he’d had a stray thought or seven about her naked.

Okay, maybe seventeen.

He punched the correct number and the condoms dropped to the bottom like a stone. Now buying them felt fucking weird. He retrieved them and stuffed them into his pocket.

She jammed her fists into her denim jacket and headed up the next flight of stairs without a word. The three-pack burned against his thigh. He had a fourth tucked behind his license in his wallet—maybe even a fifth.

It had been a while since he’d had to dig in and look. Most of the women he’d been with lately had a stash in their purse. They went into one-night stands with a purpose and safety first.

He couldn’t say that wasn’t hot. He always appreciated a straight-forward woman. Probably why he liked Denver so goddamn much. And why everything about tonight was dangerous. Even with bruised ribs and a sore jaw, he had way too many ideas about what he could do to, and with, her.

He adjusted his buckle and groaned as he faced the next flight of stairs. This time a whole different ache was prohibiting his climb.

By the time they got to the eighth floor, his chest was tight and he was cursing the fact that he hadn’t grabbed that bag of Cheetos. Or a Coke—especially the Coke. Fuck, his mouth was dry and the metallic tinge of blood still lingered around his molars.

She didn’t wait for him. Instead she went right for their door, and the rattle of the key in the ancient lock made him wince. Yeah, secure-as-fuck place.

Good thing there wasn’t anything in his wallet.

Though he wasn’t especially happy about the wad of money he’d seen in Denver’s Wonder Woman wallet. A chunk had been given to the front desk, but there was still a good stack of tens and twenties in there.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d carried cash with him. The green at the poker game had been the most he’d seen in a long while. Most of his life was lived by his phone and the Apple Pay app, or his credit card.

“They can’t be serious.”

Ryan’s eyebrow rose at Denver’s voice. His gaze tracked to the next door down the hall. Roof access. Figures.

He followed her inside. “Penthouse, ha.”

“What?” Her huge eyes were wide with shock.

“The next door over says roof access.”

She peered out the window. “Bet a few wanted to hurl themselves off the roof after seeing this room.”

The place was shabby, but not terrible. No, her reaction was to the biggest piece of furniture in the room. Naturally the large, round bed had a blood-red comforter with a hummingbird and black flowers stitched on it. The wrought-iron headboard that curved around half of it was the real clincher.

Holy fuck.

Ryan snickered. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

Matching red blinds covered part of the neon light barging into the room. The black hummingbirds and silhouette flowers were probably supposed to show a little class. Instead they made the place look even shabbier with a side of ridiculous.

“Who the hell designed this?”

“Aw, come on, honey. It’s probably the honeymoon suite.”

“Nightmare suite, maybe. Is that supposed to be romantic?”

He came up behind her. “Pretty sure that bed is made for fucking.”

She crossed her arms over her belly. “We’re supposed to be here for you to rest.”

“I sleep like a baby after fucking.”

She whacked his arm. “You couldn’t handle me, Waters. I don’t do Boy Scouts.”

“Christ, Den. Who says I’m a Boy Scout?”

“Please. You’ve practically got a badge sewn onto your zipper.” She swayed a little. Her tell. When she was nervous, she swayed side to side, almost as if she was comforting herself. “Where the hell am I going to sleep?”

He searched the room and found a fugly brown chair that he wouldn’t let a dog sit on. “On the bed with me. I can behave. Mostly.” He threaded his fingers through the ends of her ponytail. Her earthy honey scent wafted up from her hair. Fuck, it always smelled so good. How many times had he wanted to bury his face in that those thick dark strands?

How many times had they been crammed into his bunk and her shampoo distracted him? How many times had he thought about sliding over that line to more than friends?

Too many, that was how many.

He moved in a little closer. “Unless you don’t want me to.” His voice was low, and just this side of broken.

Bad things could happen if he wasn’t careful. Especially with condoms burning a hole in his pocket. Oh, and the idea of her wanting things a little left of vanilla was officially going to kill him.

She shivered and stopped swaying, but didn’t pull away like he expected her to. His dick hardened painfully. Considering it had been halfway there already, it didn’t take much.

“I should take a shower,” he said.

“Yes, you should.” She stepped forward, hugging her crossed arms.

“Right.” A cold shower was definitely in order. He glanced at her one more time before closing himself into the bathroom. He winced when he saw his reflection.

As if she’d want to fuck him looking like a derelict on a two-month bender. Jesus.

He turned the taps on and set it to hot. A very thin towel was slung over an ancient towel bar, but it would do the job. He kicked off his boots and draped his jeans over the sink. They weren’t in too bad shape.

His shirt, however...

He flicked the curtain back and stepped inside with the shirt. The shower wasn’t too bad. Scrubbed to within an inch of the porcelain’s life, but it was clean. And it smelled of bleach.

Small victories.

He stepped under the punishing spray and dumped half the miniature bottle of shampoo on his hair and scrubbed out the dirt and grime, then used the other half for the rest of him. He tackled his shirt with the small bar of cheap soap, wrung it out, and flipped it over the shower bar. At least the shirt should be semi-dry by morning. He braced his hands on the tiles and let the rest of the hot water wash away some of the aches.

When the water started to cool, he turned off the taps. He wrapped the towel around his waist and peeked out, but no Denver. He crossed the room and found a notepad on the bed, along with her jacket. Her scrawl informed him she was on the roof.

He hurried into the bathroom and pulled his jeans over his damp legs. The small box of condoms dropped to the battered tile. Crossbones and a leering skeleton grinned back up at him.

The box was practically winking up at him, for fuck’s sake. “Don’t give me that look,” he muttered, and shoved the box back into his pocket. He was just asking for trouble even contemplating their use.

Just move the fuck on, son.

He jammed his feet into his boots and clomped out the door, slamming it behind him. He swiped his wet hair off his forehead as the thick heat of the night slapped him in the face.

July in New York should be illegal. It was swampy and heavy, where California was dry and arid. One of the reasons he loved LA so much. The nights were made for sleeping with windows open and no sheets.

This? Even without a shirt on, this was like wearing a wet blanket on his skin the whole damn night.

He pushed his hair back and raised his arms. He stopped mid-stretch and his chest seized. New York City trumped LA when there was a woman like Denver on the roof. Her ponytail had been transformed into one of those knot things that his female bandmates did to their hair. She’d stripped down to one of the strappy little tanks she always wore under her plaid shirts. This one was a blinding white that glowed off her golden skin. There were no other lines to mar the perfection of her shoulders and back.

Just smooth skin with a light sheen of sweat in the play of lights from the city.

The whole of New York City was on display from their vantage point. Old brownstones and row houses with hotels and shops came into view the closer he got to her. But the skyscrapers of Manhattan speared into the inky sky took the view from a wow factor of five to a full ten.

Add in Denver’s striking face with a bit of moonlight dancing along the crest of her cheek and he had to force himself to take a deeper breath.

It was stupid to even look at her like a woman. She was his friend—his closest friend these days. Oh, Michael and West would forever be his triangle of best friends. History and loyalty would always see to that, but they were moving on with their lives.

Love and babies had trumped the day-to-day fun they used to have together. They still had the stage and an innate connection he’d never found with anyone else on the planet, but his buddies had fuller lives now. He’d been left in the shadows, until Denver had come into the picture.

She was laughter and fun. She kept him sane on the nights that he couldn’t wind down after a show. She kicked his ass when he didn’t know what to do with himself on off days.

And now she was here in the heavy stillness of a July night, bailing him out of trouble. There’d been censure in her voice and the same boot-to-ass personality coming at him full steam, but she was the only one who’d looked for him.

Hours later there had been messages on his phone waiting for him, but it was Denver who’d worried after him. Denver who had saved him.

Pride smarted under the appreciation. She’d been the one to find him in that alley at his lowest point. Now he had to add in the inconvenient sexual tension that had sprung up where it didn’t belong.

The echo of her Boy Scout comment didn’t help keep his head on straight either. He may not be banging randos on the bus like Mal, but he wasn’t a saint. And he sure as shit wasn’t a boring fuck. When he noticed the tightness in his fingers, he relaxed his fists.

He could usually shake off her insults. They were often the cornerstone of their conversations, especially when it came to tough trails that she picked out on the days they got away to ride. Trash talking was one of her attributes.

Right now, she didn’t seem like his hardass best friend. Not with the stray dark hairs sticking to her neck and minus the layers of clothing that made it easier for him to forget she was a woman—an attractive one at that.

She’d rested her hands on the half wall at the edge of the roof. It cut her off at the ribs, making her look even smaller than usual.

He walked up behind her and she jumped as he trailed his knuckle down her neck, leaving a trail through the baby-fine hairs. “Were you hoping for some relief?”

“What?” Her fingertips whitened on the brick as her stance went from relaxed to vibrating.

“From the heat.”

“Oh.” She bobbed her head. “Yes. The room was stifling.”

He placed his hands on either side of hers on the brick. “Helluva view.”

“What?”

Heat radiated from her and the warm scent of honey and vanilla filled his lungs. The tips of his fingers went numb and he had to relax his grip again. He wanted to crowd into her, to see if her skin was as warm as it seemed.

“The view,” he said roughly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a finer view.”

She peered up at him. “You’re not looking at the view.”

“Nope.”

“Ryan…”

“Do you want me to back up?” he asked.

She swallowed hard. He could see it there as her long, elegant neck spasmed.

Was her throat as dry as his? If he pressed his chest to her back, would her heart be racing the same way?

Her head fell forward on her chest, leaving her neck and shoulders completely exposed. Was she looking for a way to let him down easy?

So many questions and right now, she was giving him zero answers.

He lowered his lips to where a droplet of sweat clung to the edge of her hairline. The salty drop dissolved on his tongue as he buried his nose in her hair with a low groan. “Tell me to step back.”