The auditions had ended. Six full days of them, and Dirty was finished hearing guitarists in Vancouver.

The next stage in the process, Elle had informed me, would involve more auditions, if they decided to go there. But apparently they had two prospects they were seriously considering.

“There’s this guy who came up from Atlanta, and another one from Toronto,” she explained. “Neither one of them is perfect, but we’ve given up on that.” She gazed at me across the room, the guilt clear in her steel-gray eyes. We were in her studio, setting up to play. “Brody and Liv are in talks now with the series producers, figuring out if we want to continue the auditions or just start narrowing it down now with what we have. It’s a whole fucking process.”

She sounded weary of that process as she flopped into the big, fluffy white chair in the corner by the windows. She looked like an angel sitting in it, the soft morning light glowing in through the windows behind her. She was cupping a mug of coffee and watching me change a broken string on my favorite Fender.

“You have to do what’s best for the band, right?” I said, noncommittally.

“Yeah,” she said, “I guess.” And I knew what she was thinking. She was thinking that I was what was best for the band.

But there was no point in either of us saying it.

I agreed with her, but in the end, it was too fucking depressing to talk about it anymore.

A distant chime rang through the front of the house, and Elle frowned a bit, getting up. “Doorbell,” she said. “I’ll get it.”

When she returned a few minutes later, she was trailed by a giant redhead. All six-and-a-half-feet of Dylan Cope strolled into the studio behind her, his green eyes landing on me.

I froze, guitar in hand. I had the Fender plugged in and I’d been playing the saxophone solo from The Doors’ “Touch Me” on the guitar, just kinda mucking around while I waited for Elle.

“Seth,” he said, nodding a greeting at me.

“Dylan,” I choked out. “Good to see you, man.”

He didn’t come over to shake my hand or give me a hug or a fucking kiss, so I didn’t go in for one, either.

Elle gave me a quick look that was somewhere between apologetic and resigned. She sat down neatly on her fluffy chair and said, “Dylan just stopped by to see me. I told him we have something to play for him.”

I put down my guitar. “Right. Okay.” I wiped my now-sweaty palms on my jeans.

As Dylan sat on the couch, I played back the track we’d been working on last night, the one Elle told me to play for him. It was a ballad, heavily acoustic, the first song I’d played for Elle in this studio. We’d called it “Somewhere.”

Dylan listened carefully, gazing at the carpet as he did, his mind deep in the music. When it was done, I felt the need to say, “It’s rough.”

Dylan looked up, straight at me. “It’s good,” he said.

I glanced at Elle, who was sitting back in silence in her angel chair. “You wanna hear some more?” she asked him.

Dylan’s eyebrows went up. “There’s more?”

“Yeah. A few more.”

“How many?”

“Three.”

“Three…” he repeated, looking from Elle to me and back. “Three like the one I just heard?” He looked kind of astounded. “You guys’ve laid down four songs, already?”

“Yeah.” I shrugged, uncomfortable. “Well, one of them’s probably better. It’s Elle’s favorite, anyway. Summer came by and played on it…” I glanced at Elle again, wondering if it was okay to say that.

“Do you wanna hear the songs or what?” Elle prodded Dylan.

“Yeah,” he said, looking me over as he leaned back, putting his feet up on the coffee table. “Lay ’em on me.”

So I played him all the songs we’d recorded so far, and after the last one finished, Dylan nodded and said, “It’s good,” again.

Elle’s eyes met mine. She was holding back a smile, which I took to mean Dylan’s “good” was pretty great.

After a minute, he said, thoughtfully, “Summer laid down some decent beats on there. But you guys should really get a decent drummer to play some drums for you.” He looked at Elle. “Too bad you don’t know anyone like that.”

The grin spread across Elle’s face; she lit right up.

Then she flew out of her chair and gave Dylan a hug that was so tight and so long, I might’ve been jealous if I didn’t know better.

* * *

The next day was fucking surreal.

In the morning, Flynn drove Elle and I to Left Coast Studios, where she’d booked time for us. It was one of Vancouver’s most well-known recording studios, but I’d never been inside.

The engineer who greeted us, Elle told me, was an old friend of Dirty’s. His name was Cody, kind of a big, beefy teddy bear of a guy, and surprisingly young. He welcomed me in, showing us around.

The space was huge, even larger on the inside than it appeared on the outside, and state-of-the-art. Pictures of dozens of famous musicians and bands who’d recorded here adorned the walls of the front offices, gold and platinum records decorating the walls of the luxury lounge.

I wasn’t sure how Elle had managed to wrangle us studio time of this calibre on such short notice, but then again, she was Elle. Cody seemed more than happy to have her here.

When we walked into the studio we’d be using, a few guys were setting up for us, a massive drum kit already in place in the drum room for Dylan. Dylan was there, behind the kit, making some adjustments and talking drum shop with the studio staff.

This was really fucking happening…

Dylan came to greet us, hugging Elle and offering me a hand, which I shook in silence. I was in too much awe to speak. I was afraid if I did, I might break the spell and wake up from this dream.

We talked for a while with Cody, about the songs, about why we were here today. Apparently, Dylan had been up half the night with the recordings we’d given him, playing around with some beats.

But it was a solid few hours of playing through the songs with Dirty’s drummer before it all really sank in… That I was here, playing with Elle and Dylan, and we were recording music.

It was just for fun, Elle had told Cody. Just tinkering around with some fresh material to see how it all sounded. But as the day progressed, I knew it was far more than that.

I got the feeling we were documenting our case, something formal to present to the rest of Dirty. Elle and Dylan hadn’t said so, but I was pretty sure if Dylan knew about this, it wouldn’t be long before the rest of the band did. Elle probably felt she had something to prove to them when they came knocking and accusing, and maybe this was her way of doing it. Her way of saying, Here you go, take a listen and judge, if you dare.

I wasn’t sure that was the best way to go about it, but I went along with it.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I couldn’t help wondering when this was all gonna fall apart, though.

I wondered, too, at what point Dylan would notice one of the lingering looks Elle and I kept giving each other as we played. The private smiles and stolen glances. I was more aware of them than ever, with him in the room, and Cody watching through the window from the control room.

But if he noticed, Dylan didn’t say a thing about it.

It wasn’t until halfway through the afternoon, as he strolled back into the studio bearing coffees that Joanie had picked up for us, and found Elle in my arms, that I knew we’d been caught.

It was an innocent hug. I’d already finished groping her and kissing the fuck out of her. Actually, I’d already dragged her off to the bathroom to fuck her. Not the classiest move I’d ever made, but as soon as Dylan had walked out, Elle had cupped my cock and given me that storm-about-to-break look of hers, and it was either drag her off to the women’s room or fuck her right here, in front of Cody.

What else was I gonna do? Turn her down?

Not fucking likely.

We’d fully recomposed ourselves, and I was pretty sure all our clothes were back on properly, but Dylan stopped in his tracks to stare at us. And it was clear, as Elle drew away from me, that it was too late. Our mutual post-sex satisfaction was written all over our faces.

Dylan took his coffee and handed the tray with the others to Elle.

“So,” he said as he watched Elle hand me my coffee, “what’s really going on between you two?”

“Is it that obvious?” Elle asked, too innocently.

“It is to me,” Dylan said.

Elle sipped her coffee. “We’re friends.” She held my gaze, and the look she gave me was far more than friendly.

“Uh-huh,” Dylan said, but that was it.

* * *

On day two at Left Coast, Joanie poked her head into the studio, a frazzled, apologetic look on her freckled face, while we were recording. Seconds later, Dirty’s lead singer swaggered in, all blond fauxhawk, ice-blue eyes and killer confidence.

Zane’s presence instantly changed the vibe in the room.

I felt it, the second he walked in. Like the electric current that buzzed between us as we played together had been shut down, and everyone kinda froze.

Elle immediately stopped playing her bass and whirled on Dylan, who was sprawled on the couch. He’d been listening to the two of us lay down some guitar work. “You told him?” she demanded.

“Hey,” Zane said, feigning offense as he tossed his leather vest aside. “What kind of welcome is that? You know, usually when I walk into a recording studio, people are pretty happy to see me.”

Dylan just shrugged. “Didn’t know this was a private session,” he said to Elle, and the two of them exchanged a brief, wordless argument that ended in Elle giving up a pissy sigh.

“Bring me up to speed, kids,” Zane said casually, stretching out on the couch next to Dylan. “I wanna hear it.”

Elle looked helplessly at me, and I shrugged. This really wasn’t my call. I did not wanna do or say anything to cause problems between Elle and Zane.

So I kept my mouth shut as she turned to the window and told Cody, “Go ahead.” Then she slid off her bass and resigned herself to flopping on the other couch.

I set down my guitar and sat next to her, Zane’s blue eyes glued to me as I did it.

Cody played back what we’d just recorded; it was the best song we had so far. Elle and I had laid in some temp vocals, but clearly the song could use a stronger lead. We still weren’t sure what direction we were gonna take the vocals, but I felt kinda embarrassed listening to them with Zane in the room. Elle had a gorgeous voice, but we really hadn’t committed to what we were doing yet.

When the song was done, Zane said, “You have some lyrics written down?”

I had them, in my phone. But Elle liked to write everything out, longhand, in a bunch of little pink notebooks she kept in one of her guitar cases. She pulled one of them out now and flipped through, then handed it to him.

Zane looked it over. He seemed to be processing what he’d just heard, tapping out a rhythm on his knee with his knuckles.

Then he got to his feet.

“Let me give this a go,” he said. And no one was exactly gonna stop him as he stepped up to the mic.

I sat back and listened as Cody played the song back, without vocals, and Zane gave his voice to our song.

As he sang, I got serious tingles down my spine. And a fucking lump in my throat.

Several times he stopped, and cued Cody to stop and start again. He sang it differently than we had, more aggressively—and way fucking better.

After several takes, he stopped. He stood there, looking at the words on the page of Elle’s notebook. Then he turned and looked at us.

I could barely process the enormity of this moment. Zane Traynor, singing one of my new songs again.

I had no idea if anyone in the room really knew what this meant to me.

Zane was Dirty’s frontman, and as much as they might all butt heads with him at times, I knew the band would never agree to anything he was dead set against. But Zane had never been dead set against me. I was pretty sure of that by now. I knew he’d loved me like a brother, once; he’d told me so, many times. He’d brought me into the band, always had my back. He was the last to turn on me when things went south, and the first to welcome me back, too.

Truly, it mattered to me—a fuck of a lot—what Zane thought about all of this. What he thought about me.

His ice-blue eyes cut to mine. “Who wrote this shit?”

“Seth,” Elle said.

“It’s fucking good,” Zane said.

“Thanks, man,” I managed to say. I was incredibly thankful; even if I never got to play with Zane again, this moment was vindication of a sort.

Joanie appeared in the control booth, whispered something to Cody, and Cody informed us through his mic, “Maggie’s outside.”

And my heart beat a little harder; it was already pounding ferociously.

How much worse, or better, was this gonna get?

“Let her in,” Zane said.

I looked at Elle. Her gray eyes met mine; she looked like her heart was pounding, too. Her hand nudged against mine on the couch between us, and I slid my pinkie finger over hers.

When Maggie walked in, she took one look at the four of us in the studio and her face fell. “What the hell are you doing?” she asked, in a quiet, fierce voice. She seemed to be looking mainly at Zane when she said it.

Zane was still standing at the mic; the rest of us were still tossed on the couches, where we’d been mesmerized by him doing his thing.

“That depends,” Elle said. “Are you here spying for Brody?”

Maggie looked taken aback as her gaze swung to Elle. “No,” she said carefully. “I was just in the area, and Zane said you were here.”

Elle threw Zane a look and Zane just grinned.

“You haven’t been returning my calls,” Maggie said, still addressing Elle.

“I told you guys I needed some time,” was Elle’s response.

“Yeah, well,” Maggie said. “I’ve been worried about you. First, you take off to Hawaii with Seth.” She spared me a glance. “And now you’re alone all the time, shutting everyone out. Although, clearly… you’re not alone.” She looked around at the rest of us accusingly.

I felt kinda like a kid getting caught smoking in the boys’ room. I did not know what to say. Or if I should say a thing.

“What we’re doing,” Zane told her, “is what we do best.” And as Maggie turned to him again, he told Cody, “Play it back for her.”

Cody played the song, and we all listened to what we’d put together, Maggie with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. With Dylan on the drums, Elle on the bass, and now Zane’s vocals… the song totally fucking rocked.

When it ended, Zane said, “It’s fucking good, right?”

But Maggie didn’t look impressed.

“You guys realize what you’re doing?” She looked around at each of us. The three members of Dirty got nailed first: Dylan, Elle, Zane. Then me. Even Cody got a withering glance. “You’re working on a Dirty album without Jesse. Without Jessa. Without talking to Brody.”

No one said anything. What could they say?

She was right.

And I was hardly gonna be the one to open my mouth first.

Maggie turned and walked out, and I didn’t know the woman, but I could say with certainty that she was incredibly pissed. Hurt, even.

Zane went after her.

No one else said a thing for a solid minute. Then Cody announced, “I’ll, uh, take a lunch break. See you in a bit.” Then he was gone.

I wasn’t sure what to say. But no matter what I said, this was not my problem.

I wasn’t part of Dirty. Maggie wasn’t my management. This was something they all had to work out, and even though I’d kinda caused the problem, I figured I should get the fuck out of the way right about now.

“I’m gonna get a coffee,” I said, tentatively. “Anyone want anything?”

“Nope,” Dylan said.

Elle shook her head, so I left the two of them there. Elle made no move to join me as I headed outside.

The sunshine and fresh air were welcome after hours in the studio. After all that tension…

I glimpsed Zane and Maggie in the small parking lot, standing by the open driver’s door of a car that must’ve been hers. They were talking in quiet, heated voices, and I turned away, heading to the little coffee shop across the street.

Flynn was there, too, on the other side of the lot, having a smoke with another security dude who must’ve come with Zane.

When I headed back, coffee in hand, they were all still there. Zane and Maggie were still there; they were standing close together, and things still looked heated. I watched as Zane took her face in his hands, getting closer. They were almost nose-to-nose. Her hands went to his, but she didn’t push him off. They kept talking, eyes locked on one another.

Then she yanked away, and turned to get in her car.

I looked away before she’d see me watching, and went to sit on the curb by the studio door. Maggie drove away, and Zane headed back toward the studio.

When he saw me sitting here, he stopped.

He looked at me for a long moment as I drank my coffee. Maybe wondering how much of that exchange I’d witnessed.

Then he came over to sit beside me on the curb. He pulled out a joint and started smoking.

“Before you go thinking I’m an asshole for whatever you just saw,” he said, “I married her. Last year, in Vegas.” I would’ve assumed he was fucking kidding me, but his cool blue eyes were dead serious. “No one knows about that, though.”

“And that makes you less of an asshole?” I said.

Zane burst out laughing.

He took a few more drags of his joint in silence, then tossed it in the gutter and stood to head inside. I stood with him. He eyed me, once. He didn’t say anything else on the subject of his marriage—but I knew why he’d just told me what he did.

He wasn’t confiding in me because he trusted me, exactly. He was confiding in me to test me.

Which was fine with me.

I wasn’t about to go telling anyone that shit.

* * *

I followed Zane back into the studio. Cody was still out, and whatever Elle and Dylan were talking about while we were gone, they went silent when we walked in.

The four of us looked at each other and I was pretty fucking sure we were all hearing Maggie’s words in our heads. Seeing that You-all-just-fucked-up look on her face.

We all knew we were fucking guilty as charged: somehow, without meaning to, we’d basically reunited Dirty and were starting to cut an album—without Jesse, Jessa or Brody. Behind all their backs.

“Maggie’s right.” Zane voiced it first. “We gotta take this to Jesse and Brody.”

“And Jessa,” Elle said.

“And Jessa,” Zane repeated, looking straight at me.

I nodded. If they were willing, I was on board.

Having three members of Dirty in a room with me, making music, and not hating me? It was more than I’d dared hope for these last few weeks. If I had any chance at all of Dirty talking about me in a conversation that didn’t involve plotting my death, I’d take it. Whatever came of it, I’d take it.

Even if it was just a fucking truce.

“How do you think they’ll take this?” Dylan asked.

“Who the fuck knows,” Zane said. “But we’ve got four people here. Jesse’s gonna have a hard time arguing that.”

“Maybe it’ll bring us together,” Elle said, but there wasn’t much hope behind it, maybe just a little sarcasm.

“Or tear us the fuck apart,” Dylan said.

In the silence that followed, I found my voice. “You guys don’t have to do this. We can all walk away, right now. Elle and I can do our thing, alone, or we can give that up, too. I’ll do whatever she wants.”

And with those words, the guys both looked at me, hard.

Then they looked at Elle.

I’d pretty much just admitted my feelings for her. I was pretty fucking sure they could hear it in my words.

Elle looked only at Zane. “Do you want Seth back in the band?” she asked him, point-blank.

“Yup,” he said, looking back at her, dead-straight. “If Jesse and Brody can get on board.” Then he looked at me, and I nodded. I wanted to thank him, really, but the words got stuck in my throat.

Elle turned to Dylan. “And you?”

Dylan shrugged. “You know I’m easy.”

“No,” Elle said, shaking her head. “That’s not good enough here. On this one, you have a fucking opinion, and you need to voice it now, Dylan.”

Dylan kinda inwardly sighed and looked over at me. He considered me for a moment, then said, “I’ll play with you. If Jesse’s okay with it… I’ll play with you anytime, Seth.”

And I really could’ve wept with relief. It meant a whole hell of a lot to hear those words out of Dylan’s mouth.

But Zane… Zane pulled serious weight, with everyone—from the band to band management, from the fans to the record company—and I knew his support was probably the one thing I needed most.

I also knew that if he went head-to-head with Jesse and/or Brody, it would not be good. For anyone. With Jesse alone it would be bad enough, though Brody could probably mediate that. I was pretty fucking sure Brody wouldn’t normally go against Zane, but when it came to Jessa, it was a different story.

Always had been.

“Then let’s talk to them,” Zane said, his tone decisive. “Tell them what’s going on here.”

“Yeah,” Elle said, and she gazed at me, a soft, proud look in her gray eyes. “Let’s do that.”