“You’re stage diving tonight.”

I look up from checking the controls on my board. “I’m what?” I ask, though I could hear him yelling over the drum solo just fine.

“Stage. Diving. Two songs out.” He slaps Dodge on the shoulder, hard enough to make him stumble forward a foot or two. “Dodge will dive with you.”

“Oh, he will, will he?” Dodge shouts, though he’s smiling at me now.

“Stage diving is for crazed fans,” I shout back. “Not for sensible people like roadies.”

I’ve been back just over a week, and though there’s been a glitch or two with supply companies, everything has been smooth with the crew. No snarky comments behind my back, no one kissing my ass because they think I’ll run to the boss if they bitch.

No sleeping on the bus or beside snoring gaffers. Just a soft mattress and a hot rock star.

Who was currently eyeing me over the end of a bottle as he chugged, a dribble running off his chin and down his bare chest.

I snap my eyes back to his and he’s got that sexy smirk plastered on his mouth. I’m not sure if I want to slap it off or kiss it off, but both would only fuel his ego.

This is Grady Baker, rock star, king of the asylum, emperor of the stage, and my protests mean nothing.

He crumples the bottle and tosses it behind him. A local roadie will pick it up sometime and throw it in a recycling bin. Rock stars can’t be bothered with such mundane tasks.

I snort, though he can only see my chest bounce, not hear the sound. It doesn’t matter. He points toward the crowd, everyone with hands up, screaming. Not something sane people want to jump into. If they can clear the open air, over the six-foot drop to the concrete, at the end of the stage.

“No.”

“Yes. You. Are. Stage. Diving.”

He yanks the mic out of the front of his leather pants and bounds back onto the stage.

Dodge just shrugs at me and follows.

I cross my arms and huff, but there’s a tingle in the bottom of my feet, a thin tendril of exhilaration starting to curl low in my belly.

Terrel steps up beside me, his huge frame sagging with a sigh of resignation. Then he reaches for the cord around my neck. “Here, give me your pass. They’ll try to pull it off you. No use getting choked. Try to land on your side or your back. You’re a girl, so they’ll catch you. They’ll swamp Dodge though, so you’re going to get buried. Big Joe will haul you out soon enough, but I can’t promise you won’t get busted up a bit.”

He wraps the cord around my pass and shoves it into his front pocket before crossing his arms over his chest. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll wade in there and pull your ass out myself.”

That should give me pause, but somehow, it only makes me want to do it more.

I look out to one of my favorite parts of the show. Grady has the whole audience bouncing with the motion of his arm, a chant of the chorus emphasizing the churning of the crowd.

It’s a ritual. For us, this is another day at the office, but for them, it’s an event, a snapshot they’ll remember for the rest of their lives, whether it’s the tenth time, or the first time, they’re here for the experience.

I want it. The blood, the bruises, the adrenaline spiked enough to make my hands shake.

I want him. Sweaty and sleazy and giving off sex like it’s humid, sticky air.

I want this. This crazy world. This pirate crew that sneaks into town in the dead of night, pillages, burns, raises hell, and then leaves to do it all again tomorrow somewhere else.

Dodge hands off his guitar and races over. I barely have time to draw a deep breath before he’s pulling me across the stage, my steps finally matching the rhythm of his in time to push off the monitors and catch air.

Flying. Time stops, sounds cease, and for a moment, I’m suspended above the concrete, then above open hands and wide-eyed faces before everything rushes back in high definition. It happens so fast I’m not sure if the audience reaches up or I crash down, but it doesn’t matter. I get pulled into a vortex, the swamping of Dodge, and for a dizzying moment I’m not sure if my feet or my head is going to hit the floor first. Dodge still has hold of my hand, and my shoulder gets yanked as someone grabs my ankle and pulls. I get my head over a guy’s shoulder and see Big Joe looking ornery and put out as he gets a grip on my knee and pulls again. I try to let go of Dodge’s hand as I twist, the audience buoying me up so I can reach for Big Joe’s other hand.

Terrel is there, shaking his head as he tries to get a grip on Dodge. The audience shifts, pulling Dodge in deeper, and I roll back into the vortex.

“You can keep the guitar player, but if you don’t mind giving my girlfriend back?” Grady asks. He sounds amused and lackadaisical about the whole thing, so we can’t be in any real danger.

When I finally manage to crane my head around, he’s standing on the extension, leaning one arm on his mic stand like he has all the time in the world.

I give a tug and Dodge releases my hand as Terrel reaches into the mass of people like he’s sticking his hand into a vat of sludge and pulls Dodge up by his belt. Big Joe has a hand under my arm now, giving me enough leverage to turn myself around before he heaves me over the monitor and onto the floor of the stage in a graceless heap.

Grady reaches down and takes my hand, pulling more than helping me up. I’m lightheaded and giddy and can already feel a dozen places on my body that will bruise. My knuckles are scraped and a little bloody from I don’t even know what.

He’s as sweaty as I am, though not nearly as grimy, but his smile matches mine.

“Fucking told you so,” he says before yanking me against him and taking my mouth in a rough kiss.

The crowd erupts. Cat calls and whistles and screams. Bax joins in, starting a burlesque beat that Noah is more than happy to add a cheap porn riff to.

Grady doesn’t care. When his tongue slicks over my bottom lip, neither do I.

It’s dirty. Filthy. Grimy and sleazy and bloody and loud and everything good about rock and roll. Everything good about us.