Fuck this.

I was so done with this.

As I walked back out into the bar, I felt restless and agitated. Bored, actually. What the hell was left to discuss? We were at a stalemate. We’d gained no ground here at all.

This entire fucking process was a waste of my time.

Mind-numbing auditions. Listening to wannabe rock stars play song after song. Most bad. Some good.

A few very, very good.

Not one of them Dirty.

We’d seen the process through, for the cameras, for our deal with the network, but off the record we all knew that talent-wise it was down to Johnny O’Reilly or Boz Bailey—a couple of actual rock stars we already knew.

Johnny, if we could convince him to ditch his other band and join us; doubtful, since they had a song at the top of the indie rock charts this very second and our last conversation had gone along the lines of a three-way argument between Johnny, Jesse and Zane.

Boz if we could get around his travel issues. As in, he was banned from ever entering the United States because of some drug charge over a decade ago.

Great news for a touring band.

Fucking awesome options.

If we couldn’t seal the deal with Johnny or Boz, it was down to one of these auditions, and none of us were happy with the prospects.

Well, a few of us were, but none of us could agree on which ones we were happy with.

I flopped into one of the chairs that had been arranged in a semi-circle on the dance floor, facing the stage, for us—the band and our record producer. We’d agreed, easily enough, that it made sense to film the L.A. auditions at Dylan’s bar, because it was the kind of place where we might hold actual auditions, even if we weren’t doing them for a documentary TV series. No one wanted to go film in some TV studio or on some fake set, and Zane, in particular, said there was no way he was going to “sit on some fucking throne like on some bullshit reality show and judge people.”

So here we were, in old theatre seats that had been reclaimed from some derelict theatre, in the middle of Dylan’s place, with a house band onstage made up of friends of ours, and it felt pretty fucking homey—the only weirdness being the film crew and cameras, and of course, the giant screen that had been set up, blocking our view of one side of the stage, where the hopefuls stood to play guitar for us. There were lights behind the screen that tossed a bit of a silhouette onto it, but it was pretty much a blur. Most of the time you couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman or an alien rocking out back there.

Zane had bitched about that, said we needed to see what people looked like as part of the process, but Brody had convinced us to go with the idea, which was all Liv’s. And we’d trusted Liv, like we always did.

Blind auditions read well on TV, she’d said. It’ll add to the drama.

As if we needed anything to add to the drama of live auditions with Zane in the room. And with all of us disagreeing over every single guitarist who played for us. All we could agree on so far were the ones who’d totally tanked the audition.

Currently, the guys were still arguing, which meant even though my head was already on a beach in Kauai, I had to put in the appearance of being here until they were done with their debate.

As usual, Jesse and Zane were butting heads. Dylan was sitting back with his mouth shut, and I was trying very hard not to lose my shit. We’d wrapped almost half an hour ago; I’d already wandered off to check my messages and come back. We were now halfway through The Guess Who’s greatest hits and they were still debating the guy up in Vancouver who’d managed to impress Jesse last week with his take on Ozzy Osbourne’s “Crazy Train,” and the girl who’d played a weirdly slowed-down and somehow sultry Avenged Sevenfold cover yesterday.

“If she didn’t have tits,” Jesse was saying, “would you still think she played ‘God Damn’ worth a damn?” He was sitting in the seat to the left of me, though I’d barely looked at him throughout this entire process—unless the cameras were rolling and I had to make normal.

“She had tits?” Zane said dryly. He was kicked back on Jesse’s other side, wearing his trademark black leather vest over a distressed white T-shirt, with low-slung jeans that showed too much manscaped treasure trail. Zane had a hot bod, yes. Did I want to see it? No.

He raked his blond hair back from his face with a ring-laden hand and his ice-blue eyes caught mine. He winked.

I sighed.

I didn’t bother mentioning that the girl in question was barely eighteen and probably shouldn’t have been here at all, and likely wouldn’t have been if not for the fact that we were filming these auditions, and “good TV” and all that shit.

“So, if no one slays this thing, where are we at?” Dylan asked, for about the dozenth time this week, weary of the argument. He was sitting to my right, long, jean-clad legs spread out in front of him. I glanced at him and he shot me a pained look, his green eyes pleading with me to help him end this madness. “Do we just pick someone for the TV series,” he suggested, “and ditch them after the contract is done?”

“No way we’re doing that,” Jesse said.

“Why not?” Zane argued. “Who the fuck cares? Ride it out, enjoy the publicity, and fire them if they suck.”

“No fucking way,” Jesse said. “I’m not sharing the stage with anyone I don’t want to share it with.”

“No one wants to do that,” Brody put in. He was standing back against the wall, arms crossed in his leather moto jacket, and hadn’t said much since the last guitarist left. He usually didn’t speak up when the cameras were rolling, but now that we’d wrapped and we were still arguing, we were clearly in need of the voice of reason among us. “But we have an obligation to the network. If we can’t pick someone, they may expect us to extend filming and keep searching.”

He looked to the series producer, who was also sitting back, against the wall, playing with his phone. He didn’t talk much at all, other than to enthusiastically kiss our asses at every opportunity, relying heavily on Liv to drive this whole thing creatively.

And where the hell was she right now? She was part of the deal, and frankly, a major reason the network had greenlit the series.

A major reason we’d agreed to do the series.

“It’s not in the current budget,” the producer confirmed, looking at us and nodding eagerly, like what he’d said was somehow helpful. Frank something? I hadn’t bothered to remember his name. “But, yes. They’ll probably ask.”

“Fuck the budget.” That was Zane.

“I agree,” Jesse said, and I turned to look at him, because agreeing with Zane was something he was usually allergic to. “I’d rather we pay for it ourselves and keep the search going until we find someone right.” His dark brown eyes met mine; his gorgeous face was mere feet away from me. My stomach twisted a little, but it wasn’t the same way it had twisted when we were a couple. Or before that, when I wanted us to be a couple—badly.

It was a twist of discomfort.

And I wondered: when the fuck was that ever going to go away? Was I ever going to be able to look at him and feel… nothing? Nothing but what I felt when I looked at Zane… a completely impersonal appreciation of his male charms—because they were completely irrelevant to me.

I looked away. He and Zane were right, but it was not what I wanted to hear right now. We were all burnt out on this search. Not the search that started with auditions last week. The search that started seven years ago when we lost Seth.

We’d been through eight different rhythm guitarists, officially, since Seth Brothers was dismissed from the band. And none of them had technically joined Dirty. They’d been hired on, on temporary contracts, as studio musicians or touring musicians, or they’d played as “special guests” on our albums. The closest we’d come to actually filling the spot was when we’d hired Seth himself back six months ago.

That contract had lasted mere days.

Since then, we’d been looking, fiercely, to fill the void. At this point, we were all starting to feel like we were cursed or something. Every time we thought we’d found our guy, it fell apart.

The documentary series was an idea cooked up by our management team, spearheaded by Brody and Maggie, along with Woo, our record producer, and developed with Liv. It was a good idea, for many reasons. It would—hopefully—create a lot of buzz and excitement when the series came out, excitement that would aid in the launch of our upcoming tenth anniversary album and tour. It also opened up auditions to the public, which meant casting a wider net, and the possibility of catching a rising star.

Hopefuls had been screened by Woo and Brody as the first step in the process, which meant they’d watched dozens of hours of audition videos. The best, and in some cases, the worst—this was TV, after all—were invited to audition for the band. Today was the last day of auditions and, to date, we had maybe a half-dozen half-decent prospects, but no real contenders.

We’d all entered this thing a little guarded, since it was for TV. But we were hopeful, too. Excited and optimistic about the talent we might discover. And there had been many talented guitarists who’d played for us. Some incredible stories from people who’d traveled halfway around the world to be here.

But no one who’d rocked all our socks off.

Everyone in the band was stressed out by now, frustrated over the failure to find a replacement for Seth, and it was coming out in tension between us.

The guys had continued bickering, but I’d managed to kinda tune them out. “American Woman” had just kicked in, and I’d started to zone right out to it when the music stopped and a voice said, “We’ve got one more.” It was Liv, over the sound system, like the voice of God.

Zane picked up his mic; it was still on. “Is she hot?” he asked into the ether.

Brody walked over, took Zane’s mic from him and spoke into it. “We’re done here.”

“Trust me,” Liv said, with her dry-as-hell tone. “You wanna hear this one.”

Zane’s blue eyes met mine and his pierced eyebrow went up; I could see the spark of interest in them. He mouthed, What the fuck? at me, but I just shrugged.

Next to me, Jesse dropped his head back on his chair, his dark curls spilling over the back; his hair was getting long. It looked good on him.

I looked away. We’d been broken up for well over a year, and it was still hard, most of the time, to look at him for more than a few seconds.

On my other side, I could feel Dylan’s inaudible sigh. His boots tapped a restless rhythm on the floor, his knees bouncing up and down, and it wasn’t just because the man had drums constantly playing in his head. I knew he was dying to get the fuck out of here, but he didn’t say anything.

Zane took the mic back from Brody and told him, “Sit your ass down, boss. I wanna hear this hot chick play.”

I rolled my eyes. We’d had every age, gender and body type play for us, but in Zane’s mind, they were all hot chicks. Until the screen swept aside and revealed that they weren’t.

Liv’s crew had discreetly materialized from the shadows and was firing up their equipment. I could see her Director of Photography, ready for action, and operators at all the cameras. Liv herself had reappeared and took her place at the row of monitors next to the DOP.

This had to be good, I supposed, or she wouldn’t have sent her guys back to work when they’d already headed out to eat before tearing down.

Brody faded back to his post by the wall, and Dylan managed to drag himself to a more-or-less upright position.

All the stage lights that had been dimmed lit up, and the house band got into place. Ash was at his mic, sleek and sexy in his tight black jeans and Ramones T-shirt, his black hair artfully mussed and his piercings sparking in the light. He had new ink on his arm; a white-blonde mermaid that he swore up and down had nothing to do with me.

When he looked at me, he licked his lip deliberately, his eyes holding on me too long, and I bristled a little. He was getting a little too familiar lately, and flirty, in front of my band. And now there were cameras on him, too.

No way Liv was gonna miss that lick.

The lights beyond the screen went up, and there was the mysterious blur that was our next, and last, audition.

At least I fucking hoped it was the last.

Liv cued the band as soon as we were rolling, and they kicked into a song. It was “Stone Cold Crazy.” And it was loud. Fast and tight, especially given the fact that the band probably hadn’t rehearsed it together lately—or at all.

But these guys were pros.

Impressively, our mystery guitarist held his, or her, own.

Within seconds, Zane was on his feet. Even Jesse twitched a little in his seat, leaning forward. He closed his eyes and listened.

The guitarist was good. Really good. Somehow, he or she was trading off solo riffs with Raf, without even being able to see him. You could just feel everyone—us, the band onstage, even the crew and security guys who were standing around watching from the shadows—getting sucked up into the vibe.

Toward the end, Zane leapt up onstage and started singing with Ash. The two of them totally slayed the end of the song, and when it finished, Zane crushed Ash in a big man hug, laughing. “Hells yeah,” he growled into the mic. “Nailed it.”

“Booooo,” Jesse taunted.

“Sit your ass down!” I called out. I knew from where he was standing Zane couldn’t see behind the screen, but it was probably killing him not to go barreling back there and see who it was.

He hopped down from the stage, swaggered on over, high-fived Dylan, and dropped back into his seat.

“So at least we’re sure Zane’s in the band,” I said dryly.

“Like what you heard, Elle?” Zane asked, panting from the exertion of his performance. He was gleaming with sweat as he swiped his blond hair out of his eye; Zane went straight to eleven anytime he took a stage.

And, yeah. Obviously I liked it. We all did.

We all just kinda stared at each other. Zane grinned, but no one said a thing. Pretty sure at this point we were communicating telepathically. It happened, now and then, after playing and creating and touring together for so long.

Synchronicity.

We’d all liked this one. Even Jesse didn’t have a critical word to say. Yet.

Shit… Had we just found our guy at the eleventh hour?

“Remind you of anyone?” Woo put in. Our record producer, on the other side of Zane, had been sitting back, pretty quiet most of the time, laughing more than talking. His name was David Worster, but everyone since the beginning of time had called him Woo. He’d been like a fifth member of our band in the recording studio, even playing some guitar on certain songs when we needed it over the years. He’d been with us since the beginning, and we’d recorded three of our four albums with him—our best albums. So his voice, when he used it, carried weight.

“Shit, yeah,” Zane said, breaking the loaded silence. “Reminds me of Seth.”

No one else seemed to want to say it.

“So, now may be a good time to ask yourselves,” Woo said. “Do you want a Seth Brothers fanboy?”

“Could be a fanwoman,” I said. Why did they always just assume the best guitarists were guys?

“Could be,” Woo agreed.

“It’s a dude,” Zane said. “He’s got broad shoulders.”

“You can’t see shit through that screen,” Jesse pointed out.

“And maybe she has broad shoulders,” I said.

“And who the fuck cares if he’s a fanboy?” Zane added. “He’s hired.”

“He’s as good as Seth,” I agreed, “why wouldn’t we want him? Or her?”

“Unless he’s fugly or something,” Zane amended, “he’s hired.

“Whoever he is, he’s good,” Jesse said mildly. He’d been mild about this whole process, reserving his enthusiasm. Maybe because he was our lead guitarist, Jesse had been the hardest one to win over.

But this guy—or girl—was good.

Better than good.

Dylan still had his jaw on the floor, so I gave him a jab. “Pick it up, baby, you’re drawing flies.”

“Say something!” Zane produced a drumstick out of nowhere and threw it at him.

Dylan caught the drumstick without even looking. He shut his mouth, slowly. Then he said, “Think I’m having a ‘Devil Went Down to Georgia’ moment.”

Zane whooped with laughter, elated.

“You have any questions for our mystery guitarist?” Liv prompted us. She was holding a mic of her own. She hadn’t appeared on-camera, but she spoke to us sometimes, prompting our conversations. “You know he can hear you right now.”

“Yeah,” Zane growled into his mic, addressing the guitarist. “Dylan wants to know if you sold your soul to the devil, or what?”

“Not that I recall,” a male voice said.

And we all went still.

Because we all knew that voice.

I knew, when I looked around at my band, that we all recognized it. We all heard him.

Liv gave the cue for the screen to move, and as it slid aside, we all saw him, too.

Seth Brothers.

My heart skipped a beat.