The past month with Teague has been…like nothing else. And I don’t say that in the same way people get a Christmas present they really hate and say, “Wow, that’s really…something.”

It’s been incredible. He is incredible. And he makes me feel incredible. Fooling around with him is in some ways like fooling around for the first time. Except it’s better, because we both have some idea of what we’re doing. Also, not that I’m going to make a habit of this, but not fucking someone right away definitely has something to recommend it.

That’s another weird thing. I don’t know that I’ll get an opportunity to make this a regular thing. I…like being with Teague. And despite having not actually dated anyone basically ever, he’s a good partner. More considerate than I would have thought, and it swells my head so fucking full that I’m literally the only person on the planet that can drive him as crazy as I do. For now. Who knows if someone else will ping that remote part of his brain that I somehow managed to without even trying? But I’m not worried. I’ve seen the way Teague gets ticked off at his friends who’ve been unfaithful. It’s a cardinal sin in his book because it almost ripped his parents’ marriage apart, and he had to suffer through the painful stitching back together. If you want to sleep with a ton of people, do it, but once you’ve made a commitment to a single person? You had best fucking honor it.

There is one thing that I would change if I could.

This club is loud. Like, so fucking loud I’d put in earplugs if I had them. I should’ve remembered to shove some in my pockets, but I forgot and now I’m stuck here, having my brain shaken up like it’s in a Vitamix because this music is so goddamn loud. I might even be able to find some pleasure in that if I were out on the floor, dancing my ass off, but I’m not. I’d want to be out there with Teague, and Teague seems to be content to be with…everyone else.

It’s not a jealousy thing—not really. I mean, all other things being equal, would I want all those people hanging off of him and crawling on him like he’s a human jungle gym? No, I would not. But it’s not like he’s going to go home with one of them instead of with me. And he makes sure I know that by shooting me looks that could melt my leather pants off and, whenever our paths cross closely enough, murmuring filthy things in my ear. Filthy and quirky things that only he would say that make my engine rev even harder because they’re so peculiarly him. And all without letting anyone else in on it because we don’t need another thing to destabilize LtG and this is still so new.

What’s tiresome about having to be here is more of a: Why do we have to be here? Why do you like this? Who are all these people? What is their claim on you? Is this your idea of fun? Yeah, some of the hangers-on are LtG fans, and they want to chat and rub me up too, but I’m not as…personable as Teague. They like him better. And what’s not to like? He’s fun and garrulous, and he gives awesome hugs. To everyone. Makes everyone feel good. He’s good at that shit, and it’s not something I’ve ever cared much about. And frankly, it shows in my performance.

I drain my glass and set it on the table, stand up, and insinuate myself through the crowd until I’m next to him. He’s talking to some guy who looks super slick. Blazer with rolled-up sleeves, wearing sunglasses at night, a big-ass belt buckle, and custom Chucks.

Teague smiles at me, though, real big, and slings an arm around my shoulders while Captain Belt Buckle finishes saying something about Asian markets. I don’t know, I let the other guys deal with that stuff. They want the fame and the money and all the stuff that comes along with it. I’m just the guy who happened to be decent on the kit and who had nothing better to do. It’s not like I was ever really after being famous. I’d rather not be. But what I do want is for my friends to be happy and satisfied and have everything they want.

Belt Buckle gave me a cursory up-and-down when I arrived and has since been talking to Teague like I’m not here. He’s like, six three, so it’s not hard for them to have a conversation that literally goes over my head. I probably wouldn’t even mind so much with the comforting weight of Teague’s arm across my shoulder, his thumb stroking the crest because he’s glad I’m here, he likes it when I’m close to him.

But then I hear my name, and a big-ass hand gets shoved in my face.

“Christian, I thought that was you. Good to meet you. I’ve been talking to Teague about some opportunities that he could get involved with, and he thought you’d be interested, too.”

Why would he think that? When have I ever given him any indication that I wanted to “get involved” with opportunities with people like…who even is this guy?

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

The guy gives me an incredulous, you-must-be-joking look that sure as hell doesn’t make me like him any better. I used to feel bad about that stuff, but Teague was one of the people who encouraged me not to. I remember when he’d taken me aside like five years ago after I felt kinda crappy about not getting into a club until he’d showed up and then they’d been in a hurry to let us in and kiss our collective asses. He’d said, “You’re a member of one of the biggest bands in the world. If someone doesn’t know who you are or are offended that you don’t know who they are? They’re the idiot.”

Fucking right—this guy is an idiot. He shoots Teague a can-you-believe-this-guy look, complete with thumb gesture. And Teague lets out an awkward laugh. “Sorry, man. Christian can be in his own little world sometimes.”

I sure can, and I’m starting to wish I was there now, maybe without Teague. Especially when he gives me the big, expectant eyes and leans toward me, practically nudging me as though he’s a stage parent. Like, Come on, honey, stop fucking this up so badly. You’re never going to get to the county pageant if you keep this up!

What the hell? Why is he all of a sudden acting like a sycophant? And encouraging me to as well? He’s never like this, ever. “Christian, this is Jared Stimaker.”

Now they’re both looking at me like I should have some other reaction than “who?”

“Okay. Nice to meet you.”

Teague laughs one of those blatantly fake laughs, the ones that are the reason we type them out as “hahaha,” and gives me a shake. “Oh, Christian. You’re hilarious. Pretending like you don’t know who Jared is. DJ Stimulant? I mean, he’s only the hottest DJ and party promoter on the planet right now and has created half a dozen stars, why would you know who he is at all?”

Well, that would explain Teague’s odd behavior. And also Belt Buckle’s douchey behavior. I still don’t want in on that action. But Teague apparently does, and I have to stand there for another hour while they talk business nonsense and I want to get the fuck out of this place.

I thought Christian might drop me off at my place and go home, given how he’s been acting for most of the night, but he turned off his car and climbed out when we pulled into my driveway, so I guess he is staying over? I’m glad, but I don’t get it.

“What was with you tonight? I know clubs aren’t really your scene, but there was a great crowd and running into Jared was a stroke of luck. I’ve been trying to make contact with that guy for months. But in a chill way. Not like I was trying to.”

“Yes, because earnestness is the worst. I hate that about this business. No one ever says what they mean. It’s all subterfuge and back-stabbing and acting cool and all kinds of stuff I’m crap at.”

It’s true that Christian isn’t the smoothest guy in the world. He’s got no guile, never mind the Machiavellian skills you need to succeed in this business. Luckily, his natural inclinations make him look aloof and too cool instead of clueless, which the other guys in the band shore up because we don’t want him taken advantage of.

Christian takes off his shoes and lines them up against the wall on the mat, puts his jacket in the closet, whereas I’ve dumped the whole lot on the floor. I’m tired, and I don’t feel like being neat. I pay someone a good salary so I don’t have to be, and Dora is the best.

“I know you don’t like it,” I say, coming up behind him and wrapping my arms around his shoulders, dipping my head so I can kiss his neck the way he likes. “But you’re going to have to get better at it. I mean, I’ll do what I can to help you, but, dude, seriously.”

I want him to melt, expect him to melt, especially since he must be feeling my erection that’s digging into his back, but he stands there. Still and quiet and rigid, not in a good way.

So I give him an extra squeeze before letting him go so I can turn him around. When I do, he shrugs off my hand and glares at me. Not playfully like he usually does either.

“Would you not do that, please? I don’t like it when you…” His arms that don’t fill out the sleeves of his tee flail around. “Move me. I’m not a doll. I’m not a lump of clay you can do what you like with.”

Okay, I can be kind of thick-headed, but I don’t think this is about me turning him around. Or not just about that anyway.

Even though it’s the last thing I want to do, I drop my hands because I don’t want him to feel like I’m trying to control him. I’m not…not really. I mean, I did, but it…fuck. This is what my parents warned me about. I don’t think he’d have the same reaction to Nicky doing that or even Zane, but I’m fucking huge and I could’ve turned him around whether he wanted me to or not.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel…handled, and I won’t do it again. About the other stuff, though…I worry about you. Zane’s got his plans laid down, and Benji and Nicky are both starting to hustle and get their shit together, and I don’t even know what you’re doing. Nothing, as far as I can tell, except messing around with Dylan.”

He flinches and looks away from me, crosses his arms and gets even smaller. How am I fucking this up so badly? I’m trying to help. “I was hoping you’d hit it off with Jared, and he could set up a tour for us together or something. You know as well as I do that once we start getting on the road as separate acts, we’d never be able to see each other. It’d be like months in between, and it wouldn’t be half an hour drive across town. It’d be hours on a plane, if we could even make it work. I want us to be on the same level, doing the same thing, because I want to be with you.”

“Just because I’m not schmoozing with every asshat in the business doesn’t mean I’m not doing anything. I am, but probably not in circles you’d think to look at, never mind move in. Dylan and I aren’t messing around. We’re making something good and real, even if it’s not going to earn us a platinum record to hang on our walls. You think pop and the top 40 are the be-all, end-all, but not everyone has to be on Pop Nation.”

I mean, I guess he’s right? But what else is there? Where we are is where people want to be. This is where the money gets real. Every band playing covers in a bar on Saturday night would kill to be us and with good reason. There’s the cream at the top of this industry where—through a combination of talent, hard work, and pure luck—people have risen to get the big money and the fancy tours and the record deals, and then there’s a whole lot of people who are barely scraping by. Who jam out on the weekends with their shitty equipment at weddings and company picnics. Who tour out of falling-apart vans and would probably sell their soul to even get a meeting with our label. No one wants to be those people.

“So you’re, what, packing it all in to play at some dive bars back home? What are you talking about?”

Wow, does he look like he wants to punch me in the face.

“I’m talking about that this was never what I wanted.” He flails again, encompassing everything around me, and while I’m 98 percent sure he doesn’t mean me, exactly, it sure fucking feels that way. Maybe not a physical blow, but one that hurts far more than any punch he could throw. “I never wanted to be famous. I never wanted all the shit that comes along with being in the public eye. I never wanted this much money or this much attention or anything like it. You guys have always been into the big houses and the fancy cars and the clothes with the labels and everything, and that surface shit hasn’t ever mattered that much to me. I’d rather be doing something I really loved.”

“So what the hell are you doing here? You’re replaceable.”

The color that had gotten high on Christian’s cheeks drains, like someone pulled a plug.

“Christian, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“You fucking did, and I don’t need your apology. I’m not the best drummer in the world, but I’m good enough for the bubble-gum pop hit crap you people churn out and sell to the masses.”

I had been feeling genuine remorse for saying he was replaceable because that was epically shitty, but not anymore. You people? You people? What the fuck is that? My blood is boiling, and I feel hot and prickly all over, like I’m going to bust out of my skin and become the Hulk.

“You people? Is that what you call your best goddamn friends in the world? Your boyfriend?” Does he honestly think he’s better than us because we wanted success and money? If so, he can get the fuck out. He’s reaped the benefits without the tarnish of wanting them, and now he’s going to turn up his nose? Hell, no. “And what are you, some fucking artiste? You’ve been happy enough to take all the goddamn money you’ve made off this, and most of that is thanks to ‘us people.’ You would’ve gotten so fucking screwed if you were out there on your own. The only reason you’ve been able to wash your hands of all this business you seem to find so distasteful is because your friends were dealing with it for you, you pretentious dickwad.”

“Name-calling isn’t a good look on you. And do you know why I did it? I did it for you guys. Because you wanted this, and I wanted all of you to be happy. I stay away from the business stuff not because it feels tawdry to me, but because I’m not good at it and I don’t care enough about the money that I’m going to force myself to be uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t appreciate being called a sellout.”

“You think it made me feel awesome when you said I was replaceable?”

He shakes his head, and I’m honestly not sure where we can go from here. That was a lot of mean shit we said to each other, and it’s not stuff that can be easily resolved. Or resolved, period. It’s stuff creative people have been arguing about since forever. But this isn’t some academic debate—that I might be able to deal with. This? It’s hitting way too close to home, and aside from disagreeing with each other, it impacts our future together. Like, if there will be one.

I might be uncertain, but Christian isn’t.

“I can’t talk to you right now,” he says, right before he grabs his coat, stuffs his feet in his shoes, and leaves, the goddamn door squeaking behind him.