“You two can play your little song. Nice.” Nick snorted with obvious derision. “Too bad we’re a band and not Sonny and Cher, huh?”

“I’d like to hear it,” Deacon said.

Jazz dropped back into her chair and groped for the chain around her neck. Gray glimpsed the flash of purple she flipped between her fingers and smiled behind his hand. She’d never taken that guitar pick necklace off in all the years since he’d given it to her, though he’d never actually seen her use it for its intended purpose. “I’m not sure I remember—”

“I remember.” Gray hoped like fuck he remembered. Before, he would’ve been able to bring back the melody without even looking at the sheet music they’d scribbled together during those long nights in his basement. But before was a long time ago.

A wrinkle appeared between Jazz’s brows. If he’d been closer, he wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to stop himself from leaning in to kiss it. “We set it up for two guitars.”

“We have two guitarists,” Gray replied, well aware of her nerves whenever the spotlight shifted her way. There was a reason Jazz had drifted behind a drum kit rather than choosing to focus on guitar, and it sure as hell wasn’t talent. She had it in spades with whatever instrument she picked up. Keyboards, drums, guitar—she was proficient in all three.

What she didn’t always have was confidence, though no one but Gray knew that. He would’ve bet his last dollar that no one in Oblivion had seen beyond her wild-colored hair and iPhone stunts and crazy antics to the girl beneath who still never felt quite good enough.

Except him. He always saw all of her.

“And a drummer and a bassist and a…Simon,” she trailed off, worrying the end of one of her braids.

“So we’ll make it work. We’ve adapted how many songs?”

She bit her lip, making his head throb in tandem with his dick. He’d had that lip between his teeth less than ten minutes ago. And where was he now? Surrounded by his band and Lila and his own insecurities, pretending he didn’t feel them pressing cold hands against his spine.

Unlike Jazz, he never doubted his talent. Everything else, yes. His worth as person, every fucking minute. But when he played his guitar, he was the drug. It was afterward, when he had to go over the same damn song sixty times, or when he had to sit across from the guy who’d screwed his girl right in front of him, that the darkness came back, tearing open the scabbed-over holes. So many holes. He didn’t even know where they’d all come from anymore.

Maybe it didn’t matter. He had a way to make them go away, so he used it. He went elsewhere to handle his shit, hoping she wouldn’t ever find out. That she would never look too close. If that made him pathetic, weak, he’d take the label as long as he got the cure.

“Yes, but that was before.” She implored him with her eyes to drop it, to let it go. Why she didn’t want him to share that song, he didn’t know. He couldn’t think straight when those San Francisco Bay-blue eyes leveled on his.

Hell, who was he kidding? He couldn’t think straight, period. The high was already wearing off, leaving nothing behind but exhaustion and misery.

“I have newer stuff.” She shifted toward the rest of the band with hope in her voice. “Let me show you.”

“Show us ‘Captured’. If Vapor over there,” Nick nodded toward Gray, “thinks it’s so adaptable, bring it on.”

She stared at her empty hands. “I don’t have my notebook.”

Gray smiled in spite of the anvil drumming at the base of his skull. She’d carted the same composition notebook around for years. Since Jazz had the smallest handwriting he’d ever seen, she’d filled those pages with hundreds of songs. If she ever lost it, she’d be screwed.

Someday he should scan it into a digital file for her. She definitely liked her technology, even if she went old-school when it came to her songwriting.

“It’s in the van with our gear.” Simon gestured toward the door. “If you need a couple of guitars, grab mine and Nick’s and run it through for us.”

“Here?” She shot a look at Lila, who nodded.

“I’ll get the gear.” Gray bolted to his feet, eager to get outside in the fresh smog. The air in this room was stifling him. Maybe the short walk would help him clear his head enough to fumble his way through the song.

He’d promised himself he’d never play high, and so far, he’d kept that vow. Practice, yes. God, he’d practiced high more than sober over the past year. But he’d never gone onstage with that buzz in the blood, even if sometimes he timed things all wrong. Some shows, the ones where even the music hadn’t been enough to carry him away, he shook so bad that he played like a demon was climbing up his back just to distract himself from the agony.

Now he’d have to play the song that he and Jazz had refined so long ago, repeating it so many times they’d worn grooves in the strings of his old guitars. She rarely touched a guitar anymore, but he doubted she’d require more than a couple of minutes to get back her groove.

The girl—woman—was a freaking wonder in so many ways.

He headed out of the room before anyone could stop him, letting the door slap shut in his wake. As he pushed through the teeming crowd in the VIP area, all the more frenetic as the clock ticked closer to midnight, he glanced longingly at the line of shots a pair of glammed-up girls were doing at the bar. He’d never been a big drinker, other than a few misspent weekends in high school and college. Still, anything was better than the dry, jittery sensation in his veins like dry leaves blowing over his grave.

Somehow he kept moving. Past the liquor, past the women with their candy smiles and hungry hands. It had been so damn long since he’d fucked. Weeks. Months. Who even knew? The days blended together, spinning out into an endless chasm of music and money and blow.

At first he’d only taken a hit during the long nights of practice to keep up his energy. He’d hauled around the baggie Ziggy had given him for weeks. It scared him enough he’d told himself he wouldn’t try it. After growing up with Brent, he’d seen exactly what kind of addictive genes ran in his family, even if his older brother’s poison of choice was alcohol. One mistress or the other, they always screwed you sideways. He knew better.

Then he’d seen Jazz come out of a closet with Nick before a show at the Blue Rhino, and lo and behold, all his reservations had fallen away.

Halfway across the parking lot to the van, a sleek black vintage Mustang pulled up beside him. The passenger window slid down and Cricket leaned across the seat, her lips curved with such pleasure he half believed she was happy to see him.

“Hey there, handsome. I tried your cell. Thought you might be ready for a lift back.”

“Phone’s off.” He scraped a hand over the top of his head, squeezing his palm until the prickle of his short, crisp hair centered his meandering thoughts. All the gel had a purpose. He could’ve cut glass with the spikes on his skull.

“What about the lift? I’m here now.” She waved a plastic baggie, her smile widening. “I even brought a party favor.”

He’d taken two long strides to the window before she let out a tinkling laugh and tucked it out of reach. “Not so fast, handsome. Come with me and we’ll share.”

Share. Yeah, fucking right. Like any good dealer, she never touched the stuff. She just used it as the powdery hook at the end of a very long rod.

Sucking in a breath, he tipped back his head. “I already partied tonight, remember?”

Partied. Talk about ironic. The parties she threw only lasted fifteen to twenty minutes, and the crash hurt like a motherfucker. But God, for that high, for those brief, golden moments where nothing hurt anymore, nothing crowded his brain until he couldn’t think…he would’ve sold his soul.

Maybe he already had.

“I do. But this is premium stuff. I saved it just for you.” She waved the bag between two slickly polished nails, that smile taunting and luring him both. It would be so easy to just go.

Why should he sit in that room with those jerks? He’d thought they were good guys once. Deak was, yeah. But the other two, they only cared about themselves. That was obvious after what they’d pulled with their old record label.

Nick was even worse. He didn’t only want to steal their music and hijack the band, he wanted to take the one thing from Gray that had kept breath coming in and out of his lungs for years. He’d built a life out of taking care of her, out of righting all the wrongs that people he’d never met had done to her when she’d been too innocent to fight back.

And Brent. Fucking Brent.

He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing hard on the memory of Jazz’s mouth on his. So soft and wet. For that moment, she’d wanted him. Sixty seconds out of his life he would cling to with both hands, despite the promises he’d broken by even touching her.

“I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”

For years, he’d waited for the day she saw him as someone other than her protector. Her buddy. Her music partner. He’d given her all the time in the world to make her move, determined not to force her hand by possibly guilting her into a relationship she didn’t want. He knew she loved him, but was it the way for her it was for him? Sure, she’d made what seemed like a few tentative steps in his direction. She just never followed through.

Eventually he’d begun to think she’d slotted him firmly in the big brother zone, with the occasional exploratory side trip into “what if?” That didn’t work for him. He couldn’t be her friend with benefits. He honestly didn’t think he could even casually date her.

After all these years, it was all or nothing.

Now, with the choices he’d made, even if she did want more, even if she could love him the way he loved her, it didn’t matter because he’d ruined everything before they ever had a real chance. He wouldn’t let the drugs touch her, even peripherally. So he couldn’t touch her either.

His promise to keep her safe came before all else.

Gray cleared his throat. Rust filled his airway, gathered on his vocal cords. “So give it to me and get out of here before she sees you.”

“She?” Cricket laughed again, harder-edged this time. “That sweet little thing that was hanging on you at Frenzy? She’s Oblivion’s drummer, isn’t she?” She slipped her tongue in the corner of her mouth. “She also belongs to the group, so I’ve heard.”

He slammed his hand against the car, making her jump. “Don’t fucking talk about her like that. It isn’t that way.”

Images of that night with Nick and Jazz flashed through his mind, stark and bleak like the churning sky. Her undressing, tugging off her bra and baring her breasts. Crawling on Nick’s lap to kiss him, driving her fingers through his hair. Her slipping onto Gray’s lap, facing away from him. Gray helping her to open her legs wider so Nick could get a nice long lick.

Of his girl. His Jazz. The only thing he’d wanted for so long he’d had to become numb to the need or it would’ve killed him.

“Mind the car,” Cricket said in a low voice. “I like you, but if you dent my baby, you’ll be cut off. Because we both know you can’t pay, handsome.”

He rubbed against the pressure pounding in his temples. “I’m good for it. My money’s tied up right now, but once we meet a few benchmarks with the band…” He trailed off, hoping that would be enough.

He didn’t waste money—other than on blow—but there just wasn’t a whole lot of it to be had yet. They were still a relatively new band on an up-and-coming label. Ripper Records wasn’t Trident. They didn’t get to live in a swank pad rent-free. It wasn’t as if they were roughing it, but they were all paying and rent in LA wasn’t cheap.

Picking up a few overnight shifts at the transport company he’d worked at for the past few years helped fill in the gaps, but he was only in town for a few weeks at a time. This break between the holidays and the beginning of March—minus studio time, which would be extensive, and a short club tour to keep them visible—represented Oblivion’s longest break since they’d been signed. If he budgeted his time well, he’d be able to earn enough to pay back some of his debts. He just needed to juggle the separate halves of his life a little longer.

“I don’t operate on promises. Even if I wanted to, the boss lady wouldn’t allow me to.”

Cricket had mentioned her a few times before. Supposedly she was especially ruthless because she was relatively new to the game. Made it all sound so nice and tidy. She was just a hungry businesswoman, trying to get ahead.

“She’s not as forgiving as I am,” Cricket continued, uncapping the bottle of water in the cup holder to take a long swig. “Look, let’s be straight with each other. The only reason you’re still walking around and not laid up in a hospital somewhere is because I like you. You’re talented. You just keep working those fingers of yours, and you’ll return what you owe with interest, won’t you?” When he didn’t do anything but continue to breathe hard and fast, she repeated, “Won’t you, Grayson?”

“I said I’d get you your money.”

“I have faith in you.” She capped the bottle, set it back in the holder. “But there are other ways you could work off some of your debt.” She smiled, slow and sure. “I’m open to…alternatives.”

Gray rested his hands on the hot roof of the car and closed his eyes. Why was he making such a big deal about this? Sleeping with Cricket wouldn’t make him a whore. He’d just be a guy who slept with a pretty girl. Simple. Uncomplicated. The rest was his business and his alone.

Not the band’s. Not Jazz’s.

In fact, doing this would lessen some of the pressure on him for the money. Maybe get Cricket to back off a little. In a way, he’d be buying Jazz’s innocence for a while longer. It would kill her to find out what he’d gotten into, so she couldn’t ever know.

He was the one illusion she had left. He’d be damned if he took that from her too.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he yanked out his phone and tapped out a quick text to Jazz. Then he opened the car door and slipped inside.

* * *

Jazz gazed at her cell until the words swam.

Sorry, something came up. I had to leave. Notebook’s still in the van. Good luck. You’re going to nail it.

It wasn’t surprising her vision was cloudy, since her shock swiftly turned to tears. Big, annoying ones she could feel hovering in her eyes, ready to spill if she so much as blinked.

Or looked up at her bandmates, all sitting around the table, watching and waiting.

She swallowed. Swallowed again. There was anger beneath the sadness and pain, and way down deep below that lived fear. Something was very wrong with Gray. She couldn’t put her finger on it, and she wasn’t sure if it was because he’d become a skilled liar when she wasn’t paying attention or if she was just fooling herself, pretending not to see the writing on the wall.

He was sleeping with that blonde chick, and she had him all twisted up. Plain and simple.

It was like high school, part deux. Gray had the sexy girlfriends, and she had a little vibrator she never even used out of sheer terror one of the boys would hear. She would never live it down. They could bang babes in stacks of twos and threes but her quality time with her bullet would be front page news.

Especially if Simon got too handsy with his phone while he was drinking some night.

“Well?” Nick nodded at her cell. “Is he coming back sometime this century?”

“No.” The word shocked her as much as she could tell it surprised Nick. Acknowledging that Gray had made her believe that they were a team then let her down once more caused the tightness in her throat to return full force. Her stomach roiled and she clutched her phone to it as she dragged in a breath. “He had to…go. It was an emergency,” she added, looking at Lila.

“What kind of emergency?”

Pussy. He needed it really bad. Obviously, since he was horny enough to even kiss me.

“His grandmother,” she said instead, as solemnly as she could manage. Even pissed as hell at him, she would defend Gray with her last breath. He had done things for her that nothing short of murder could erase. Even this confusing past year couldn’t touch the bond that had wrapped them tight all those years ago.

If he wanted to cut loose, break the chain so to speak, he’d need to get out the bolt cutters and cut more of the links than this.

She knew he banged other girls. Hell, she’d heard and seen it back in high school. What was one more? So what if his lips still tasted like her lip gloss when he laid them on someone else?

The ripping slash through her midsection caught her off-guard. She dropped her phone and doubled over, gasping as if someone had punched her square in the gut.

The abrupt metallic scrape of a chair made her look up. It took so much effort to just lift her head and focus on Nick. He was talking to Lila, his voice a dull hum.

“…leave us alone for a few minutes. Granny’s so sick. Hard on the family…”

Holy shit, Nick was defending Gray. She knew he was doing it for her benefit, considering the concerned glances he kept aiming her way.

No wonder, since she hadn’t yet managed to sit up straight again despite Simon and Deak’s comforting touches—Simon’s hand on her shoulder, Deak’s on her other arm. They were offering her their support and silent solidarity without knowing why they needed to.

Hot tears blurred her vision and she lowered her head, wishing for once that she’d just left her hair down and not braided it back out of her face. She had nowhere to hide. Nowhere to go to outrun the torment Gray’s text—and his kiss—had caused.

“I understand family dilemmas and I’m sympathetic, really.” Lila’s voice had gone soft around the edges and the glance she directed at Jazz reflected compassion, not annoyance. Okay, yeah, so there was a little annoyance too. “But Gray has a responsibility to this band and for him to just up and leave in the middle of a meeting without giving a proper explanation proves exactly why I need to take the step I have in mind. Now.”

“What are you saying?” Nick asked, his gaze still centered on Jazz.

Lila gripped her iPad to her chest. “I’m splitting you up.”