I can’t deal with the slippery pants two days in a row, so I borrow Serena’s skirt that hobbles me at the knees.

On top of my sleeveless blouse, I stick my leather jacket.

For safety and comfort.

My backpack holds my computer and the completed paperwork HR sent me by email.

Walking through the glass doors should be easier than yesterday—hell, I got the job. But it’s not, because I don’t know what they expect. I want to ask, “Why did you hire me?” but the security guy checking my paperwork and processing my pass probably isn’t the right person to answer.

“You’re on two. Up the elevator.”

The first two elevators are packed full, so I find a stairwell at the end of the hall.

When I open the door to the second level, I’m in another world.

Pristine carpet, white as snow. Paneled walls in a rich red color that should look retro but doesn’t.

I peel off my leather jacket because it’s warm up here and glance down the hall.

Wendy’s office is supposed to be to the left. But cursing from the first door in the other direction pulls me in.

Inside, a guy who can’t be much older than me surveys a computer rig I’d give my leg for. An error message lights up the screen in front of him, blinking like some doomsday prophecy.

“Can I help?” I ask. With a quick head-to-toe that ends on the pass clipped to my waist, he ushers me in.

“What the hell took so long?” the tech asks. “I called IT ten minutes ago.”

It’s moot to point out that I wasn’t with IT ten minutes ago.

My eyes adjust to the low light as the door slips closed behind me. There are no outside windows, just the glass half panel facing the studio and a closed door that connects the two.

Someone’s recording in here. The figure in the other room is facing away from the glass, bent over a guitar like he’s tuning it.

I push aside the bubble of nerves. My focus is on the computer.

“Is ten minutes a long time?” I ask as I set my paperwork and my jacket on the desk. My fingers start to fly over the keyboard.

“It is when he’s here.”

I hit Enter, and the error message goes away.

It isn’t until I straighten that his words start to sink in.

“When who’s here?”

That’s when I’m viciously assaulted.

At least it feels that way because two horrible things happen in such close succession I can barely tease them apart.

Hands clamp down on my bare arms from behind.

Hot breath fans my ear, and a voice rasps, “What the fuck is going on?”

Every hair on my body stands up, my skin puckering, and I do what any reasonable woman grabbed by a stranger in a vice grip would do.

I scream.

It’s not a cry for help.

It’s a bellow of rage and defiance. Like a banshee or Daenerys’s dragons en route to scorch some slave traders.

Channeling strength I didn’t know I had, I whirl on my heel and collide with a wall. My hands flail in front of me, lashing out at my attacker.

I’m not a puncher, I’m a shover. But when I shove, all that happens is my hands flex on a hard, muscled chest.

I trip backward, my grown-up skirt hobbling me as I fall.

I grab for the desk but only get my papers, which rain down like confetti as I land on my ass.

My heart’s racing at an unhealthy speed even before I take in the white sneakers inches from my face.

“Jax. I’m really sorry,” the guy behind me says. “I called Jerry ages ago.”

Sneakers, as white as the carpet, are pointed straight at me. Dark-blue jeans clinging to long legs, narrow hips. A faded olive-green T-shirt stretches across his chest, like it started out too tight but gave out over dozens of wears. Muscular arms—one covered in a sleeve of tattoos—look like they lift more than guitars.

I force my gaze up even though I want to melt into the floor.

A hard jaw gives way to hair the color of dirt faded in the summer sun. It’s sticking straight up in most places but falling at the front to graze his forehead. His nose is straight, his lips full and pursed.

His eyes are molten amber.

Dear God, he’s beautiful.

I’ve seen hundreds of pictures of Jax Jamieson, watched hours of video, and even been to one of his concerts. But the complete effect of all of him, inches from my face, might be too much for one person to handle.

And that’s before he speaks.

“I repeat. What. The fuck. Is going on?”

His voice is raw silk. Not overly smooth, like the Moviefone guy. A little rough. A precious gemstone cut from rock, preserved in its natural glory.

There are things I’m supposed to say if I ever meet Jax Jamieson.

I wrote them down somewhere.

“I’m Haley Telfer,” I manage finally. My throat works as I shove a hand under me, shifting onto my knees to pick up the papers. “But you know that.”

His irritation blurs with confusion. “Why would I know that?”

“You’re standing on my Social Security number.”

One of the papers is under the toe of his sneaker. I grab the edge of it, and his gaze narrows. What is it with me and pissing off these people?

Not that pissing off Wendy comes close to pissing off Jax Jamieson.

(Whom apparently I’m going to refer to with both names until the end of time.)

“Haley Telfer?”

“Yes?” I whisper because, holy shit, Jax Jamieson refers to people with two names too.

“You have ten seconds to get out of my studio.”

The tech and I stand next to each other, peering through the glass studio door into the hall. My jacket’s back on, not that the guy’s coming anywhere near me because he thinks I’m a lunatic.

On the other side of the door, Jax exchanges angry words with a man in a suit.

“That’s Shannon Cross,” I say.

The tech nods, stiff. “Correct. The CEO showing up means one or both of us is fired.”

“Well… which is it?”

We watch as Jax stabs a finger toward me and stalks off.

“I’m guessing you,” my companion murmurs.

The door opens, and Shannon Cross looks at me. “My office. Five minutes.” He turns and leaves.

After gathering my papers, I take the tech’s directions to the elevator to the third floor. A watchful assistant greets me and asks me to take a seat in one of the wingback chairs.

Great. I’ve been here less than an hour, and I’m about to be fired.

Instead of spinning out, I study the picture on the wall and the caption beside it.

Wicked Records’s headquarters. Founded in 1995, relocated to this new building in 2003. Employs two thousand people.

“Miss Telfer.”

I turn to see Cross watching me from his doorway. He exudes strength, but in a different way than Jax. He’s older, for one. Tall and lean, with hair so dark it’s nearly black. The ends curl over his collar, but I can’t imagine it’s because he forgot to get a haircut.

His suit is crisply cut to follow the lines of his body. He was one of the men with all the gold statues in the picture yesterday. Yet on this floor, there are no pictures of him.

Weird.

He’s made millions—probably billions—in the music industry. Formed stars whose careers took off, flamed out. In the golden age of record executives, he’s one of the biggest.

I follow him into his black-and-white office, a continuation of the pristine carpet outside. It should look like something from an old movie, but it doesn’t. It’s modern.

A fluffy gray rug on the floor under a conversation set looks as if it used to walk.

I’m struck by the urge to run my fingers through it.

The photos gracing the walls here are black-and-white, but they’re not of musicians or awards receptions.

They’re fields and greenspace.

Err, gray space.

“Is that Ireland?” I blurt. “It looks beautiful.”

I turn to find his gaze on me. “It is. My father moved here when I was a child.”

I wait to see if he’ll offer me a seat, but he doesn’t. Nor does he take one as he rounds the black wood desk, resting his fingertips on the blotter.

“Miss Telfer, I understand you interfered with a studio recording session. And assaulted one of our biggest artists.”

My jaw drops. “I definitely did not assault him. He started it.”

I realize how childish it sounds. The memory of it has my skin shivering again, and I rub my hands over my arms. “Technically, he startled me. I was trying to defend myself. Every modern woman should have a knowledge of self-defense, don’t you think?”

He doesn’t nod, but he hasn’t kicked me out yet, so I keep going.

“I know I shouldn’t have walked in, but your tech had this ‘FML’ look I know from a mile away. I know the software. I use it in the campus music lab all the time. There’s a compatibility issue with the most recent update, and…” I trail off as he holds up a hand. “I wanted to fix it.”

Appraising eyes study me. “And did you?”

I realize Cross isn’t asking me about my outburst but what I’d done before that. “Yes. Yes, I think so.”

Cross’ lips twitch at the corner. “Jax Jamieson is heading out on the final leg of his U.S. tour, and we’re short on technical support. We could use someone with your problem-solving skills to back up our sound engineer.”

“You’re asking me if I want to go on a rock tour?” Disbelief reverberates through me.

“Of course not.” His smile thins. “I’m reassigning you to a rock tour.”

“He wants you to what?” Serena shrieks over the phone.

“Go on tour. Four weeks.” From the way I’m hyperventilating in the bathroom stall, I’m surprised the force of it doesn’t lift me clean off the linoleum. “Then I can choose to return to the studio and spend the rest of the summer making coffee. Or they’ll sign a letter saying my co-op term was completed because I’m working around the clock.”

“You have to do it.”

“First, I have no idea what it means to back up a sound engineer on tour. And second, spending twenty-four hours a day with other people sounds like a special kind of hell.” I yank a sheet of toilet paper from the roll and start the productive task of tearing it into tiny pieces. “I bet they all travel on a bus.”

“The horror.”

“It is!” I insist. “They probably sleep in a pile, and…” I hiccup, yanking at my waistband. “Dammit, this skirt is really tight.”

My fingers find the zipper, yanking it down enough that I can breathe while Serena laughs. “When does it leave?”

“This afternoon. I’m supposed to report to this address and see the tour manager.” I take a breath.

“You have to admit it’s kind of poetic,” she observes. “Plus, you’re out of options. The point of the co-operative education program is to put your training into practice. If you don’t have a job in the summer where you can practice, you’ll get kicked out.”

Which is the only reason I’m still here instead of halfway down the street.

“I’ve never had a real job before. I live behind a computer.” I slap my forehead. “And I was planning on a job where I’d have time to work on my program with Professor Carter.”

“Forget Carter. This is a sign. You’re going to fuck Jax Jamieson.”

This is the risk of being friends with Serena. She regularly makes statements that, although they may be entirely false, have the immediate effect of taking years off your life.

“Serena, it’s not a sign. It’s a mistake chased by a coincidence wrapped in a bad idea. Jax Jamieson isn’t someone you fuck. He’s someone you study and watch and learn from. He’s someone you worship.”

“Yeah, with your tongue.” Shivers run through me. “You go to college to learn and study. A guy like Jax Jamieson is exactly who you fuck. He probably has to lift an eyebrow and panties drop. He could blow on a girl, and she’d come. Hell, if he so much as brushes past you in the hallway? I bet you could live off the contact high for the rest of your life.”

“I interrupted his recording session.”

A loud bang has me holding the phone away from my ear. “Sorry, I dropped you. What the hell, Haley? You met a rock star and got invited on his tour. This is amazing. So… is he?”

“Is he what?” I whisper.

“So hot you’ll picture him every time you buzz yourself to oblivion.”

I picture his amber stare, and this time I do feel a shiver. It’s surprising but pleasant. It starts in my brain, trips down my spine, tingles lower.

“No?”

“You totally said that like it was a question.”

Two hours later, I spill out of a cab. The rolling bag at my side and my backpack should have everything I’ll need, but I feel naked.

I round the hotel to find two busses parked in the back, plus an eighteen-wheeler truck.

A woman sporting tailored jeans, heels, a cute blazer, and a blue Katy Perry ponytail comes up to me. “I’m Nina, the tour manager. You must be Haley. Shannon said we’re adding one more here.”

“That’s me.”

She tucks her tablet under her arm, presses her hands together, and executes a mini-bow. “Namaste.”

“Um. Yeah, you too.”

She straightens, and she’s all business again. “Did you get the paperwork emailed to you?”

“I think so.”

“Good. We’re running late, but I can answer any questions you have once we get rolling.”

She calls everyone’s attention and goes over the schedule.

“We’re off to Pittsburgh. Another sold-out show. We should get in by three. Curtain’s at eight. It’ll be a tight setup, but you’ve only done it fifty times.”

A few people chuckle. The words bring a shiver over me as I look around the circle.

“All right, everyone get ready to roll out. Anyone seen Jerry?” Nina asks.

“Yeah. He’s meeting us in Pittsburgh,” a guy says.

She sighs. “Fine.”

I still don’t know who Jerry is, but everyone seems to want a piece of him today.

A striking redheaded woman who looks a few years older than me meets my gaze. “You must be the fresh meat.”

“I’m Haley. And you’re Lita Holm.” I recognize her immediately. “You’re opening for Jax. I loved your Preacher album.”

“Not the new one?” She raises a brow, and I wince. “Don’t take it back now. Honesty is refreshing.” She doesn’t offer me a hand. I like her already. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”

I shield my eyes from the sun with a hand, scanning the busses. “These are big.”

“This one’s for the crew and our band.” She points at the other bus. “That one belongs to Riot Act. But rumor has it Mace, Kyle, and Brick get the front half. The rest is Jax’s.”

“Rumor?”

She raises a brow. “You think any of us see the inside?”

She nods toward the closer bus, and I get on, shouldering my bag.

“It’s a pretty baller tour. We stay in hotels most nights.” Relief courses through me. “Occasionally we have to travel overnight, and you can sleep here.”

She gestures to the bunks at the back, and I take a slow breath.

I might not be able to sleep, but as long as it’s not every night, it should be manageable.

A living room-type area makes up the front, and she drops onto a couch there.

“Tour rules.” Her face gets serious as she holds up fingers. “One, thou shalt shower every day. It seems obvious. Apparently it’s not.” She shoots a look at a guy who laughs. “Two, thou shalt not touch other people’s shit.”

“Three,” a voice shouts from somewhere behind us, “thou shalt not beat Lita in her fantasy baseball league.”

The woman in question flips him her middle finger before returning to me. “Not actually. Though I’d love to see you try. Three, thou shalt not fraternize with the crew or with the artists.” I must look confused, because she says, “Fuck whoever you want as long as they’re not on either of these busses. You’ll get fired on the spot.”

“That won’t be an issue.”

She shoots me a look. “You’d be surprised.”