The bouncer guarding the door gapes.

"Holy shit. Tom Steele?" He asks. "What the fuck are you doing at this dump?"

Tom shrugs. "Matthew's a friend of mine."

"Shit. David's gonna flip. Aren't you playing tomorrow? Tickets sold out in ten minutes."

Tom smiles. "Nice to hear from a male fan for once."

"I'm sure most guys are intimidated by how often your vocalist sounds like he's about to come," the bouncer says.

Tom laughs. "Miles? Yeah. You should hear him going at it with his girlfriend. A man has never enjoyed fucking a woman as much as he does. And he used to get as much tail as I do." Tom shakes his head. "Hate to see a good man go down. Though his girlfriend seems to enjoy that part too."

The bouncer chuckles nervously. It's completely disarming seeing the six-foot-three, two-hundred-fifty-pound man star struck. He unlocks the door and motions for us to step inside.

"What's your name?" Tom asks.

"Jason Benes."

"You working tomorrow?"

"Night off."

"I'll leave you a ticket at will call." Tom leans in to stage whisper. "If you do me a favor."

"Keep the guys away from your girl? Don't think anybody is gonna mess with Tom Steele, even to talk to a girl that fine."

Tom makes eye contact with me and raises a brow. He turns back to Jason. "Willow here isn't my girl. She's a friend. And she needs to get laid. If you see any hot guys—and I'm talking grade A, six pack abs, buns of steel, piercing eyes—send them her way."

"Don't think I'm going to be able to pick out piercing eyes." The man chuckles. "But I'll do what I can."

"Any ringers for Brad Pitt—that's her type."

"Are his eyes piercing?" Jason asks.

"They're not," I jump in. "But I don't need any help finding hot guys. I've got it handled."

"Listen to the little minx. Already talking about fondling strangers." Tom tsk tsks in mock disgust. "Such a filthy mind." He shakes the bouncer's hand. "Jason Benes. I won't forget."

Jason laughs, still totally star struck.

The door swings closed behind us.

It's an intimate place. Room for a hundred people on a busy night. This is not a busy night. There are a few dozen people here, most of them talking instead of paying attention to the guys on stage. It's not that the band is bad. They're just not particularly remarkable.

The singer tries. He's not great, and his lyrics are inane, but he's trying. Not so much the guys on strings. They look at the ground or at each other or, worse yet, at the drummer. Said drummer is committed to his playing, thrashing around with his long hair swaying left and right. He's loud. It's all very loud.

"Shit. Thought Matthew was better than this." Tom motions to the stage. "Look at that."

"Which one is Matthew?" I ask.

"Guitarist." Tom points to the man with purple hair. "He's got his fucking back to the audience."

"How do you know him?"

"Played in a band together way back when." Tom chuckles. "I was that kid in high school who started a new band every year. Only nobody ever took it as seriously as I did. Matthew was in the fourth or fifth band. Only he thought he could sing. As you can see from the man's stage presence, that was a nightmare."

As if on cue, Matthew turns back to the audience. Tom waves, and the man's jaw drops. He stops playing for a solid twenty seconds. The other guys in the band look around confused but they carry on.

"Fuck, that must have been eight, nine years ago." Tom runs a hand through his hair. "He's not trying very hard."

"Maybe he had other priorities."

"Yeah. Everyone does. Even back then. I lived in a nice part of Orange County."

"Really?" There's something about Tom that seems rawer than image conscious Southern California. Especially given the way he reacted when I said he seemed like he belonged in Los Angeles.

He nods. "Where do you think I learned the power of vanity?"

"You're not vain."

"Not as vain as some people." He brushes a pink-tipped bang from my face. "We can't all spend hundreds on our haircuts."

I stick my tongue out at him.

He laughs. "Back then, everyone had an eye on college. First band, the guitarist dropped out because he was failing Spanish. The second, we practiced all summer, but everybody quit as soon as school rolled around. Must have gone through five or six bands before I met Miles."

"I've never heard the Sinful Serenade origin story."

"Always figured you weren't interested. Since you never came to shows. Even when we were playing all over San Francisco." Tom's gaze goes back to the band. "Drew talks about you a lot."

"He does not."

"You have to judge it by Drew standards. Anything that isn't an argument about how I'm a sellout for trying to get our music into some TV show is a lot."

"You're the one who does licensing deals?"

He nods. "Our manager is a fucking asshole. Had an issue with him a while back. Couldn't get him fired so I took over."

"One of your songs is on a soda commercial."

"Fuck, yes it is. You have any clue how much that endorsement paid?"

I shake my head.

"Let's just say I've never seen anyone that miserable to make a million dollars."

"Each of you or the band?"

"Geez, Willow. So greedy. Two hundred fifty thousand isn't enough for you? I'll have you know that I'm worth seven figures."

I actually gasp. Seven figures? That's fuck you money. Why isn't Drew rubbing that in Mom's face 24/7?

"Miles and Drew—they don't know what it's like to go hungry, to wonder if you're gonna get evicted, to work six months saving every penny so you can buy a better drum kit. I don't have to tell you that Drew's family, your family is well off."

"Money doesn't buy happiness."

"Don't have to tell me that, kid. I'm the one worth seven figures."

"You like to brag, don't you?"

He nods. "I'm incorrigible."

"Very."

"Big word for a guy with a GED."

There's something about the way Tom says it. Like he wants me to ask about it. Like he's desperate for someone to ask about it, to show interest in Tom Steele, human being, and not Tom Steele, famous drummer.

I move closer. "You dropped out of high school?"

He nods. "Had to deal with some shit, missed some school. It was easier to study for the test than go back." His posture stiffens.

I consider asking what it was he had to deal with, but the mood is still light, and I want to keep it that way. I nudge Tom. "You still haven't told me how the band started."

"Started with Pete. He must have been twelve or thirteen when Mom fostered him. The kid had nothing but this beat up bass guitar. It was the only thing in the world he cared about. His dad, before he died, was a jazz musician. That's how he picked it up."

"How did you pick up drums?"

"One of my foster parents had a drum kit in the garage. Played on the weekends in some KISS cover band. I needed something to do. At first, I liked making enough noise to piss everybody off. But the drums are the soul of the song. They carry the rhythm. It's the one place where I'm in control of shit, where the world makes sense." Tom gets a far off look in his eyes. "A lot of people think bass is a less cool guitar, but it's really part of the rhythm. Me and Pete create that together. It was the first way we ever connected. I know it sounds hokey—"

"That's how I feel about photography. The world makes sense when I'm behind the camera. I see things I don't normally see."

"The stuff you shoot with Hazel or something else?"

"I love doing portraits, any kind. Even the sexy ones we were shooting in your hotel room."

Tom looks me in the eyes. "You're good. You should go after that when you're finished working with Hazel."

"Maybe. I don't know. I want to, but—"

"But what?"

"I'm not really good with people. Being a photographer is all about dealing with clients. It's intimidating." I clear my throat. "It seems easy for you."

"It's a skill. You can learn how to work with people. Just takes practice."

He's really listening, but I don't want to talk about myself. I want to hear about him. I want to know everything there is to know about Tom. "You had the rhythm figured out. Then..."

"So impatient." He smiles, teasing.

Again, I stick my tongue out at him.

"You keep doing that, I'll get ideas about better uses for your tongue."

"Do you ever get ideas that aren't about sex?"

"My secret." He nudges me with his shoulder. His gaze goes back to the stage. "Guess someone has to entertain you." He shifts back into his story. "Miles and I were in the same school for a year or two. I was sleeping with a girl he was dating. I guess she was two-timing both of us. Don't think either of us cared much about her, but honor demanded we let our fists settle things."

"Could just let the girl decide."

"Wasn't about the girl," Tom says. "It was about being the man."

"But what does fighting prove?"

"Still don't know. Seemed like the only solution at the time."

"You get into a lot of fights?" I ask.

"Not anymore. But back then? Got into a fight every other day. Miles too. We beat each other pretty bloody before the principal broke it up. The next day, Miles comes by to say he dumped the girl, but I fight pretty good. He'd heard I was in a band. He'd written some songs. Acoustic stuff. Mostly about how his dad was a piece of shit. Wanted to put a band together. For a while it was just me, him, and Pete. Then Miles move up to Malibu, and we fell out of touch. I had a lot of shit to deal with." His eyes cloud.

I swallow hard. The same shit he referred to before, no doubt. I consider asking about it but there's something about his expression that tells me he's not in the mood to retrace those memories. "How did you guys get back together?"

"It's quite the anti-climactic story. Miles poured all the pain in his heart into his guitar and his singing, only he couldn't play guitar that well."

"You really throw down the insults."

"Truth hurts sometimes." Tom laughs. "He broke his hands too many times. Lost a lot of dexterity. Guess you'll have to ask Meg if he's back up to full strength. From the sound of things, I'm guessing he's pretty damn nimble."

"You really listen to them fucking?"

"Don't want to. Especially the last few weeks. Think he's doing it to torture me. She acts all shy, but the second he starts touching her, she's DTF anytime, any place. You should have seen him when he was single. Girls go apeshit for those pretty blue eyes of his." Tom shakes his head. "The way he tells it, he was hanging out in some girl's dorm room and he heard this guy killing it on acoustic guitar a few doors down. Not playing fucking Wonderwall to get in a girl's pants, but playing this crazy Carlos Santana level shit."

"And that was Drew?"

"Bingo. Usually, when I tell the story, I throw in a threesome and a fight over the girl." Tom smiles. "Gotta keep people's interest up."

"Who is having the threesome?"

"Miles and Drew, of course."

I cringe. Not a mental image I need.

Tom laughs. "Don't worry. Pretty sure Drew is incapable of sharing."

"Please stop."

"But you're cute when your cheeks match your hair." He brushes a stray hair behind my ear.

And there it is. My heartbeat picks up. Heat spreads from my cheek to my chest to just below my belly. Tom is touching me. I need him touching me more. I need him touching me all the time.

I clear my throat. We're friends. I can do that. With the help of a distraction. "Miles found Drew. Then?"

"You sure you don't want to hear me speculate a bit more about Drew's sex life?"

"Positive."

Tom smiles, soaking in my discomfort. "I have a few more things to add. Really graphic details."

"Please don't."

He smiles but shifts back to his story. "Miles called me from a show. Drew was in this band. Dangerous Noise. And he told me to get the fuck up to the bay. He knew we'd be a million times better than Dangerous Noise or than any of the half-assed bands I was in at the moment."

"Is Drew really that good?"

"Yeah. Gives him lots of latitude to make my life difficult."

My brother, the diva. I can see it. He's always been really insistent about doing things his way or not at all. "Is he ever more trouble than he's worth?"

"Occasionally. In the pre-Kara days, all the time. Don't have to tell you that he's uptight."

I nod. Uptight is a Denton family tradition.

"Mostly, he just... he doesn't know what it's like to go without. Pete and I..." His expression hardens.

I'm not sure what he's going through, what he's thinking, but I have to do something to comfort him. I offer my hand.

He takes it without looking and squeezes. "Haven't gone hungry in a long time, and I'm not keen on remembering how much it fucking sucks. Fame isn't forever. Gotta capitalize on it now." He looks at me. "You want to call me a sellout too?"

"Depends on whether you were shilling for Coke or Pepsi."

He laughs. "I like you, kid."

I pull my hand away. "I like you too." Too much. But that isn't what we're doing. "It's been a while since I've had a guy friend. I've mostly avoided being alone with guys since my ex."

"That would make it hard to get laid."

"I haven't tried."

"Of course not." He looks me up and down. "If you applied yourself, you'd be taking home a different guy every night. With all due respect and platonic intention, you're smoking hot."

"I'm not smoking hot."

"Fishing for compliments is just as unbecoming as lying."

"I'm not fishing. I'm pretty. Cute even. But I'm not hot. My shoulders are too broad—"

"Your shoulders are hot."

"My boobs are too small."

His gaze goes straight to my chest. "In that getup, sure." He reaches for the zipper of my hoodie. "You mind?"

"No, it's fine."

He unzips slowly, slides the hoodie off my shoulders. His fingertips linger on the backs of my hands. Then they're gone and he's tying the hoodie around his chest like some preppy kid on his way to SAT classes.

"You look ridiculous," I say.

"Gotta tone down my sex appeal if I'm gonna be your wingman. Don't want guys to feel like they can't complete."

They can't. And judging by the confident smile on Tom's face, I'm pretty sure he knows it.

He brings his hands to the bottom of my tank top. He looks down at me as if to ask okay? I nod sure and he adjusts the top for maximum cleavage potential.

He stares at my chest. "Small, maybe, but very nice." His fingertips brush against my tattoo. "And this is fucking sexy."

My cheeks flush. Sense. I need to regain it. "I'm not saying I'm unattractive. Just not hot. I'm cute. Like your friend's little sister."

"You are my friend's little sister."

"You know what I mean."

Tom's eyes go to my chest. "Smaller breasts are more responsive."

I'm tempted to ask how he knows this, but the answer is probably experience with hundreds of pairs of breasts. That's hundreds of mental images I can do without.

"You're judging again."

"I'm not."

"It's science. All women have the same amount of nerves, give or take. The smaller the breast, the more concentrated the nerves."

"Educational."

"Plus you have nice tits."

My cheeks flush. "How do you know?"

"That see through tank top you were wearing to torture me. Worked you know. I was fucking—"

"Think you're crossing the line."

"See." He takes a step backwards. "Look how good we are at this platonic friendship thing."

The band finishes their set with a bow.

Tom points me to a brown haired man in a leather jacket. "What about him?"

"He's fine."

"Fine? He's better than fine. He's got a lip ring."

"And?"

"Try it. You'll like it." Tom nudges me towards the man.

"I don't think so."

He shakes his head. "Okay. We'll do this together."

Tom takes my hand and leads me to Mr. Lip Ring and his friend Polo Shirt.

"Hey." Tom presents me. "Have you met my friend, Willow?"

Mr. Lip Ring and Polo Shirt look at me for a hot second. But I'm not what interests them. Tom is. They stare at him with disbelief.

"Holy shit, Tom Steele. You're a legend." Mr. Lip Ring grabs his cell phone and throws his arm around Tom. "You mind?"

Tom catches himself in an eye-roll. "Yeah. Sure." Despite the irritation in his voice, he entertains their picture fest for a solid sixty seconds. He turns back to me. "Willow, here. She's looking for a good time. Either of you want to take her home?"

Subtlety is not one of Tom's strengths. My cheeks are burning. I step backwards.

"You sound like a fucking pimp," I mutter.

"Too much?" He looks at the guys. "What do you guys think? Too much?"

They laugh nervously, utterly star struck.

"Not at all," one says.

"You're amazing." The other turns red.

At least he's as embarrassed as I am. I back away slowly and turn my attention to the stage. Much to my chagrin, there's a roadie breaking down the instruments. No sign another band is set to perform.

Tom takes my hand. "Let's go backstage."

The nervous guys offer a dozen different goodbyes.

"I think they would have preferred to take you home," I say.

"Can you blame them?"

Not in the least.

* * *

The backstage area is the size of a walk in closet. There's a couch on one wall, a table of booze on the other. A dozen people mill around, including the purple-haired Matthew. He waves Tom over to the couch.

"Where the fuck have you been the last few years?" Matthew asks.

"World domination." Tom leans over and whispers something.

I make eye contact with Matthew. "Please tell me he's not trying to sell you on fucking me."

He laughs. "Tom, I'm gay."

"Shit. Since when?" Tom asks.

"Since always. Where did you think me and Trent went off too after practice?"

"Trent too? Fuck. No wonder he wanted to go to the beach all summer. Probably getting his jollies checking me out in my speedo." Tom nudges his friend. "You had illicit thoughts about me, didn't you?"

Matthew blushes.

I lose interest in their banter. It's a lot more fun picturing Tom in a speedo. The weather is set to get hot as hell. He's the type of guy who's game for anything. I'm sure I can convince him to get in a pool at some hotel. Maybe even to skinny dip.

"Hey, kid." Tom nudges me. "If you're gonna think dirty thoughts, think them about some hottie. There's plenty of hotties here." He looks to Matthew for confirmation.

Matthew nods. He motions to a shorthaired guy in a sweater vest. "Heard he's on the rebound."

"There. Go." Tom nudges me towards Sweater Vest. "Now or I'll have to get involved."

Please, no. Tom is trying to be helpful but I do not want him involved. "Okay. Fine." It won't kill me to have a conversation with the guy. He's wearing a sweater vest. He's got to be harmless.

I bump into him as if by accident. "Oh, sorry."

"No problem," he murmurs.

His posture shifts as he turns to me. He takes his time checking me out then moves closer.

He's interested.

He's interested, and he's cute.

Why won't my body respond to that?

"I'm Willow," I say.

He looks down at me, checking me out. "You with the band?"

"Just a friend." I take a long look at Sweater Vest. My body refuses to find him attractive. Oh well. No sense in being rude to the guy. "You?"

"Friend of a friend." He looks down my tank top. "You need a ride home or anything? My roommate is out of town this weekend."

Okay. Sweater Vest doesn't waste any time. Better to get this over with before he gets the wrong idea. "No thank you. I came with someone."

I glance at Tom. He's watching intently, but the expression on his face is unreadable. When our gazes meet, he nods go but I can't bring myself to take the suggestion.

My body refuses to cooperate. It screams at me I ask for Tom and you give me this? Are you even trying?

Forget it. I nod to the couch. "Nice to meet you. Excuse me." I shift past Sweater Vest and take a seat. This flirting thing is overrated. I'll have to find some other way to get over Tom.

Sweater Vest plops next to me. His arm finds its way around my shoulder. Tom is still watching. Not proud. Not excited by my progress. But...

No.

He's jealous.

The devil on my shoulder urges me to use Sweater Vest's interest to my advantage. A girl has to take what she wants. Make Tom jealous. What's the harm? This guy is thinking of you as a piece of ass. He doesn't give a fuck about you.

Sweater Vest shifts closer.

He leans in to whisper in my ear. "I'd like to kiss you."

My stomach clenches. No sign my body is interested in his. "Maybe later."

"How about now?"

Tom is staring, glaring even.

Make him jealous. Worst-case scenario, you have a bad kiss. It's possible Sweater Vest is a great kisser. That your body really will want his. You should give him a shot.

I look back at him. "Just a peck, okay?"

He nods. "Sure."

My eyes close. Bam. His lips press against mine. Nothing. Not even a whisper of electricity.

That's a peck. I pull back but Sweater Vest isn't relenting. He squeezes my shoulders. Then one hand shifts to my chest.

I go numb. This is how it starts. Sometimes it's just a kiss. Just a touch. But sometimes it's more. Worse. Sometimes it doesn't stop.

My hands. Where are they? I wiggle my fingers. There. That's something. It takes forever to find the movement in my arms but I get it. I push him gently.

Nothing.

I push hard.

He backs off, his expression irritated.

And then there are hands around his collar. The weight shifts as he's pulled off the couch. By someone.

By Tom.

Tom throws the guy against the wall so hard it shakes. "What the fuck was that, asshole?"

"Nothing."

"Get out of here before I make you regret that."

The guy stares back at Tom. "I wasn't doing anything wrong."

"You have three seconds left."

The guy doesn't move.

"Two."

Nothing.

"One."