Two days later I was sitting in a meeting with my band; a meeting about the next round of auditions we were planning. The meeting was at Brody’s house in North Vancouver, in his home office. Jessa wasn’t here, but the room was full. Besides Brody and myself, Maggie, Jesse and Dylan were here. Zane and Woo, who were still down in L.A., joined us via FaceTime on Brody’s laptop.

Brody and Woo had been screening more hopefuls, and apparently they still had a lot of options for us, including some promising guitarists who’d applied in the first round but hadn’t yet auditioned. It was quickly decided that we’d work a slightly less-aggressive schedule this time. Six days of auditions, which the network had agreed to pay for. Three days on, one day off, then three days on again.

After that, we’d see where we were at, and consider going back to L.A., or possibly the east coast, on Dirty’s dime.

It seemed obvious that our best prospects, Johnny O’Reilly and Boz Bailey, were no longer being considered, since Brody hadn’t brought them up again. But I felt the need to ask anyway.

“Where are we at with Johnny O?”

“Johnny O’Reilly’s a prick,” Jesse said. “I can’t work with that guy.”

He was right; Johnny O’Reilly was kind of a prick. But he also had a hell of a lot of fans, and would fit, musically, with Dirty. Besides that, I didn’t personally have a problem with him. “He’s always been nice to me,” I said.

“That’s because of what’s between your legs,” Zane said bluntly. “You don’t want that guy in the band.”

“I can handle Johnny O,” I said.

“No one wants him in but you, babe,” Zane countered.

I sighed. If that’s the way it was, there was no chance. “Because I don’t have a problem with him.”

“Yet,” Zane said.

“I do,” Jesse said at the exact same moment.

Yeah; no chance. Johnny was clearly out of the running.

I glanced at Dylan. He met my eyes and shrugged. “What about Boz?” he asked, though there was hardly any point.

“Boz Bailey isn’t welcome down south,” Brody said. “So he’s out.”

“Too bad,” Dylan said. “He’d be great.”

“Not if he can’t be there for our American tour dates,” Brody replied. And we all let it lie; Boz clearly wasn’t gonna work. Not until he cleared up his issues with the U.S. government, and who knew when that would ever happen. We could hardly wait on him indefinitely.

We’d waited long enough.

“What about Seth?” Zane asked.

Brody inhaled, long and slow, as the rest of us sat in silence… then exhaled just as slowly. “What about Seth?”

“Just wondering, brother,” Zane said.

I met Brody’s eyes, and everything Jessa said to me over the phone—and right in front of Brody—replayed in my mind.

Seth Brothers is not a rapist, and he didn’t do anything to me. So if you hear Brody or my brother say any such thing, you can tell them to—

“Seth won’t work,” Jesse said flatly. “So when do we start the auditions?” He posed the question to Brody, and Brody and Maggie got to work filling the rest of us in on the proposed schedule.

And just like that, Seth was out of the running. For good.

I did not say a word about it.

In my head, I’d already let go of any hope that the band would come around. Zane would, possibly. Maybe he already had. Dylan might, too. But Jesse and Brody were firmly against even the idea of Seth rejoining the band, and clearly, they weren’t budging.

When we were done and both Jesse and Dylan had left, I stuck around for a few extra minutes; the guys had invited me to join them for lunch and beers, but I’d declined. I lingered just long enough to tell Brody and Maggie, in person, that I needed some space. I’d honor commitments already made. I’d be at the auditions, of course. But otherwise, I wanted to be left alone for a while. A few weeks. Nothing outrageous.

They could give me that, right?

Maybe they thought I was just annoyed with them for sending Liv down to Kauai to interview me. Maybe they thought I was just trying to get under Jesse’s skin somehow by taking photos with Seth, holding hands on the beach.

Who knew? We hadn’t exactly talked about it.

Since I’d come back from Hawaii, no one other than Dylan had said a word to me about my time in Kauai with Seth. It was there in their eyes when they looked at me, but no one had asked. Maybe they’d all agreed not to bring it up.

Maybe Brody had advised them not to bring it up, in hopes of making the whole thing just go away.

Maybe Maggie or Dylan had suggested they leave it alone and leave me to my privacy.

I didn’t know. I didn’t particularly want to know.

I simply explained to them that I had some things, musically, that I was working on with DJ Summer; things that it was still too early to talk about. It was true enough. She and I had been working together, casually, ever since my solo album, making music whenever the mood struck. Nothing formal, but I’d been planning to write some new material with her again, soon.

What I didn’t say was that I’d been thinking, seriously, about inviting another musician to work with me.

I knew I was lying to them—all of them—by omission, by not breathing a word about my brewing feelings for Seth. About the connection I’d felt with him in Hawaii—and in my bed. About the music I was thinking about making with him now. In secret.

And I felt bad about it.

More so, when both Brody and Maggie looked at me like they clearly didn’t like what I was doing. Distancing myself from everyone. Keeping something from them that they couldn’t quite put their finger on.

Well, too bad.

Just because Dirty wouldn’t work with Seth, that didn’t mean that I couldn’t.

* * *

“I can’t promise you anything,” I told Seth, as we stood in my home studio together the next day. “I was just thinking about it… and I think we should keep playing together. We could write, if it feels right. Create something new. I don’t know… maybe we could even cut an album.”

He’d been perusing my collection of bass guitars, lined up on a row of stands against one wall, but looked up at me on the word album.

“But first…” I shrugged. “We could just play. See where it goes. I could play you some things I’ve been working on. Maybe you have some material you could play for me, too…?”

He took a step toward me like he had to peer deep into my eyes to be sure I meant it. “You’re serious?”

“Yes. I’m serious.” But I tried to make a joke. “I mean, I summoned you again, didn’t I?”

Seth didn’t smile at all. “You’re serious… about making an album together?”

I shrugged again and walked over to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the water. “Maybe,” I said. “I could. We could.” I turned back to face him. He was staring at me, hard. “My solo album did well enough… I can kinda do whatever I want. If I called the record company tomorrow to tell them I had a new album for them, they’d be happy.”

“I’m sure they would be,” he said carefully. “But how happy do you think the rest of your band would be? How happy would Brody be if you cut an album with me?”

I crossed my arms over my chest and tried not to think about that. “Would you believe me if I said I don’t care?”

“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah. So maybe I do care.” I sighed. “But that doesn’t mean it’s gonna stop me. And it shouldn’t stop you either.”

He didn’t say anything to that, but he didn’t look happy. I knew he was probably thinking about all the ways this might come back on me, to bite me in the ass.

“Let’s just play,” I said, turning away. “And we’ll see what happens.”

After a moment, he joined me by the window to look out over the water.

“Nice view,” he said, which was kinda putting it mildly. “Doesn’t make for the best acoustics…” He rapped a knuckle lightly on the glass. “But I can see why you wouldn’t want to cover it up.” Then he looked at me, like he liked the view inside the room even more.

“Yeah. I, uh…” I faltered under the look in those smoky eyes of his and gazed outside again. “I have a basement studio in my place in L.A., but I don’t love feeling like I’m in some dark cave while I work. This suits me better.”

“I can see that,” he said softly.

“I just bought the house this year, since I was spending so much time up here. You know, writing the new album with the guys…” I trailed off.

Seth said nothing.

He turned back to the room, and I watched as he perused the equipment. It was a fully-furnished and equipped recording studio, though it lacked a drum kit. The space and the acoustics didn’t allow for that. Originally, this was the main living room of the house, but as soon as I’d moved in, I’d sacrificed it to my music. In the end, it wasn’t much of a sacrifice. Music was the core of my life; it only made sense that it filled the heart of my home.

I watched Seth take his guitar out of its case. It was the same slightly-battered and clearly well-loved acoustic he’d brought with him to Hawaii. He looked at me as he strapped it on; I was still hovering by the window.

“You want me to play,” he said, and gave me a small smirk, “you might want to sit your sexy ass down. It’s gonna take a while.”

So I sat my sexy ass down on the couch. And for a while, I just listened to Seth play.

He played me a song that he’d written, a gorgeous ballad that he sang to me while he played. The lyrics were typical rock ballad stuff, something about being on the road and missing someone back home, then being home and missing the road, but there was something about the way Seth sang it. The way Seth played it. The little unexpected twists he threw into the lyrics, just when you thought he was going to sing something cliche and rhyming, then he didn’t. Something that kept you on edge for the next word, the next verse. That rare and heartrending something that was uniquely Seth’s.

Fucking hell, but he was an incredible songwriter.

He played me another song, more up-tempo, but just as catchy, just as haunting and addictive and bittersweet.

And then he just kept playing. And playing…

As it turned out, once he’d cracked open that can of worms… Seth had a ton of material. Ideas. Songs and parts of songs. And his fucking talent… it was oozing from his fingertips. Dripping from his lyrics.

He basically had seven years’ worth of untapped material. But not one completed, recorded song.

I was astonished.

This was Seth Brothers. A lot of bands—great bands—would’ve taken him on. Great musicians. Producers. He could’ve put together his own band, under his own name. Woo himself probably would’ve hit the studio with Seth if Seth had ever asked him to.

“I never wrote with anyone but Dirty,” he explained as I sat here, just astounded by the sheer volume of untapped brilliance, the scope of his work. I hadn’t even touched my bass yet, or opened my mouth, other than to gape at him. “I never wrote for anyone else. Guess I’ve got kind of a backlog here…”

That was putting it mildly.

And I was nothing but grateful. Humbled, actually, that he’d chosen to share his work—his passion—with me, like this.

Grateful, also, that there was so damn much of it. Because the more material Seth and I had to play and explore and fiddle around with, the longer we could draw this out. Here, in my home studio… this private little bubble where we were hidden away from the rest of the world.

Just the two of us and the music.

* * *

Several days later, Seth and I were just finishing up a long day—and half of the night—playing together in the studio, and as I watched him laying his guitar down in its case, I asked him, “How do you feel about all of this?”

His back was to me, but by the way he stopped moving when I asked, I knew he’d picked up on the fact that I was asking him how he felt about a lot more than the music we’d been playing.

That I was asking him how he felt about playing music with me… but not having sex with me.

Maybe I wanted to know if it was slowly killing him, like it was killing me.

He turned and met my eyes. I was standing just inside the arched doorway, waiting for him. Waiting to walk him out and kiss him on the cheek as he left, just like I’d done every other night that we’d been here.

“I feel… alive,” he said softly, his gray-green eyes searching my face. “For the first time in a long time, I feel like I did when I was younger. Before I was using so much. When music meant more to me than the drugs. When I had all kinds of dreams and hopes and aspirations for myself and for the music.”

“That’s good,” I said. It was beautiful, actually. And not exactly unexpected. I could tell that’s how he was feeling, more or less, when we played together. But hearing him put those feelings into words made me feel warm all over.

“Yeah.” He looked around the studio. “Before, all I wanted was to get Dirty back.” His eyes met mine again. “But now… I just want to keep playing. This… getting to play with you like this… it’s a fucking dream come true for me.”

I just nodded, because I believed him. I understood.

We’d just been working on a new song, one that he’d started writing earlier this year, and now I’d embellished the bass line on it, and we’d both been singing it together. It was definitely something we could record. I was planning to get Summer over to hear it and add a little of her magic to it, too, see what we could do with it.

I wanted to tell him how excited I was about it. That playing with him was pretty fucking dreamy for me, too. For several reasons.

I’d never written much with Dirty; that was a big reason why I’d felt the need to cut a solo album, and probably would again. But even though Jesse and Zane wrote most of Dirty’s music, Dylan and I had always been included in the songwriting credits on each song, so that we’d all get an equal split in the royalties. And of course I appreciated that, but in the end it wasn’t just about the money or the credit. When Jesse and Zane wrote music, they weren’t so… collaborative. At least, they weren’t with me. With Jessa, it was different; they welcomed her input on any song. I’d never begrudged them the fact that the music they came up with—the three of them—was undeniably better-suited to Dirty than anything I could write… but this was special.

Seth was special.

He listened to my ideas and got excited about them, played off of them, the way Summer did. We created well together. And I wanted to tell him all of that.

But somehow the words got choked up in my throat. I lost my nerve.

I just didn’t know how to do this. How to tell him how I was feeling without seeming like a hypocrite. A tease.

How to have sex with him again, when I couldn’t go the distance with him.

Having sex with him, then telling him we can’t have sex… then having sex with him again? Then getting scared, and doing the whole thing over again? Hot. Cold.

Unfair.

I didn’t want to do that to him.

To either of us.

He was closing the distance between us, and I just stood here against the wall. I looked up at him as he leaned in; he kissed me on the cheek. It was soft and warm, but quick. “Thank you,” he said.

“Thank you,” I managed to whisper.

His eyes held mine, and I was aware, distantly, of his hand moving. He was pulling something out of his jeans pocket.

My eyes dropped to the papers in his hand as my heart beat, heavy and quick, in my chest.

“I got tested.” He was unfolding the papers, carefully, and held them out to me. “I’m clean. I brought the results for you to see.” He was waiting for me to take them, so I did.

I scanned the papers; results from a medical lab, dated earlier this week. There were several pages’ worth, a whole battery of blood tests that proved Seth free of every nasty STD I’d ever heard of.

“I’m not pressuring—” He faltered, like he wanted to make sure he chose the right words, as I handed the papers back to him. “I’m not expecting anything.” His gaze collided with mine again. “This isn’t about that, Elle. I’m not trying to pressure you to have sex with me again. I just… I want you to know I’m clean, so you don’t have to worry about what happened the other day.”

I took that all in and nodded. “I know.” I appreciated it. In my experience, it was more than most men would do.

I’d had men completely balk at the idea of getting tested before sleeping with me. I’d had men debate with me over the necessity of wearing a condom.

Needless to say, in the end, I hadn’t had sex with those men.

But this man… he’d been inside me for mere seconds without a condom, and he was worried about me being worried about it.

“No matter what happens, Elle,” he said, “I just want you to feel safe with me.”

“I do,” I told him, and I realized it was true. “But… we would still have to use a condom. If we had sex.” The idea of that, the possibility… us, just standing here discussing it… it was getting me hot.

I wanted to have sex with him again. Badly.

I just feared what would happen afterward. Both of us, getting hurt.

“I know,” he said. “If we have sex again… I’m gonna carry around like ten condoms in my pockets, at all times, just in case.” He smiled a little, dimple flashing.

I smiled back. I trusted that. I trusted him. Maybe because he hadn’t pressured me. Just like he told me he would in my bedroom the other day, Seth was letting me call the shots. He was following my rules.

He hadn’t tried to touch me again.

I hadn’t asked him to.

But he did keep giving me that look, the one he was giving me right now—the one that told me he’d be naked with me in seconds, if I wanted that.

And I did want that. Not just because I was crazy-hot for him; I wanted it because I did feel safe with him—in more ways than just the physical. Because all the bullshit fears that had plagued me, virtually crippling me… the lingering doubts and anxiety left in the wake of my heartbreak… I really didn’t feel any of it when Seth was here.

I wasn’t the least bit afraid of him dumping me, leaving me, breaking my heart. He just wasn’t that kind of person.

Seth Brothers was not a heartbreaker.

Jesse Mayes had sat me down, the morning after the final show of our last tour, at my place in L.A., and told me, in a very businesslike manner, that we were over. That he couldn’t be with me anymore. Then he’d flown home to Vancouver. And that was it.

There was no further conversation, no back-and-forth. He delivered the blow, and I was just expected to deal with it. He left me to deal with it, alone. We were still friends. We’d always be friends. I knew he cared about me. Loved me, even; I was part of his band and part of his history. But as far as dealing with my broken heart, he was unavailable to me. Emotionally disinterested, or incapable, or just plain selfish; I had never decided which. Maybe he was just too happy with Katie to even see how hard it had been for me. Or maybe, in the end, he was all of the above.

As Seth stood before me, tucking his lab results back into his pocket, I knew he’d never be like that. Would never leave me broken like that and just walk away. I didn’t know how I knew, exactly. But I knew.

My heart was safe with him.

No matter what this was, or wasn’t, or how far it went… Seth would handle my heart with care.

If only I could give him that chance.

“I should get some sleep,” I told him, even as our eyes remained locked and that needy heat unfurled low in my belly, spreading through my core… that restless ache. The memories I now had of him… dropping to his knees, his mouth between my legs… fucking me on my bedroom floor as the world I’d known just kind of crumbled around me and a new and very uncertain reality took hold.

The fact was, I wanted a man I was not supposed to want.

A man who wasn’t supposed to be in my life in any significant way, and yet, I wanted him here, in my home. I’d taken him to Hawaii with me. I’d followed him to Vancouver.

I’d taken him to my bed.

And yet I still didn’t have a clue how I was going to do it: how I was going to tell the closest people in my life that Seth and I were making music together, much less that we were intimately involved.

Because we were. I felt it as we stood here, inches from one another. We were intimate, and we were involved, even if we weren’t having sex.

“Okay,” he said lightly, and if he was disappointed, he didn’t show it. “Sleep it is.” He put his hand on my arm, warm and strong, and he kissed me, softly, on the forehead.

For a breath, he hesitated there, and I knew he was giving me a moment… just in case I suddenly yanked him to me and kissed him and asked him to stay.

But I didn’t.

I wanted to. I so, so wanted to… but I didn’t.