From the second we hit San Francisco the guys are whisked off to get ready for the show and I can finally breathe. Free. Not that there’s anything wrong with the guys. It’s more I don’t know how to relax in a room of hot and famous rock stars. Especially the two I’m painstakingly attracted to.

Austin’s a flirt, and friendlier than the bad boy he portrays online. Yeah, I Googled him after he offered to teach me to play guitar. He’s insanely gorgeous, and his inked skin only adds to the attraction. But I can’t imagine I’m more than a toy to him. He’s older than me by more than ten years, and more experienced in every facet of life. Totally intimidating. Even though he has this uncanny ability to make me laugh, I feel the need to guard my heart against his infectious smile. He’s trouble and I know it.

Then there’s Leighton. Sigh. He’s the type of guy I’d crush on back home. Clean cut. Intelligent. A strong jaw and cheekbones reminiscent of the old Hollywood bad boys. James Dean. Brando. Those deep-set eyes that hold equal parts mischief and darkness. I don’t know his exact age but I’d guess he’s much closer to me than Austin. Which is stupid to even contemplate because neither man is interested. They’re not merely way out of my league, they’re in another atmosphere.

A knock at the bus door draws me from my thoughts. The man who pokes his head inside is familiar. I didn’t catch his name, but he was there when we left LA this morning. “Opal?”

“That’s me.” I stand up and wave.

“I’m Dave. Trent asked me to escort you backstage. You ready?”

I nod and glance down at my sundress once more before I follow Dave outside and through the back entrance of the arena. The floral patterned fabric of the skirt brushes my knees. It’s one of the nicest outfits I own, and even paired with my brown leather boots, I feel as though I stick out like a sore thumb. Too country. Too modest. First opportunity I have, I’m splurging on new clothes.

“Excuse the madness.” Dave grins, and not a second later yanks me to the side as a roadie barrels through and almost knocks me to the ground. “Whoa. You okay?”

“I’m good.” Eyes wide, I nod and follow his path. That roadie would have run me over. Rolled right over my feet like I don’t even exist. I shouldn’t let it get to me, but it rattles more than my nerves. Am I really so invisible? I don’t give voice to the answer.

The sound of the chanting crowd pulses louder the further inside we go. There’s even more of the crew, and they move with speed and precision, switching out equipment and moving things off-stage while another group of men strum at least five guitars off to the side of the stage. There’s so much commotion. I stay close in case I need to use Dave for a body shield again.

“Over here.” Dave glances over his shoulder and waves me further back. I don’t see the guys anywhere, but I guess they wouldn’t be waiting on the sidelines for this part. Dave shows me over to one side of the stage. There’s a few rows of chairs, and from here I can see the lighted arena. Rows and rows of fans clap and cheer as the lights dim twice. It’s almost show time.

“Need anything?” Dave shouts, but I see him mouth the words more than hear them.

I wince as the crowd erupts in screams. The stage and arena go black but for the few safety lights. “I’m good!” I lean forward, hoping he can hear.

His face pulls to the side with a grin and he nods before scrambling back to the stage. I have a feeling that guy has an eclectic list of job responsibilities if he’s also tasked with walking me to my seat.

The crowd maintains a chorus of screams and shouts that makes it impossible to hear a thing as the stage fogs with smoke. The energy in the air is palpable and I find myself too anxious to sit. My eyes squint as I stare through the thinning haze. Leighton’s who I notice first. Even with the darkened stage his shadow stands out, his movements graceful and fluid for a man his height. All long limbs, he doesn’t seem like a drummer. He doesn’t give off a rock vibe, either. More J. Crew model. But I know they wouldn’t have hired him if he couldn’t play. Through the shadows I watch him take his place behind the drum set.

“Hi.” A voice says at my left and I practically jump along with the first beat of the bass drum.

Bedo’s lips pull into a tight smile and he takes a seat in the empty chair at my right.

I don’t like him and not only because of the guys’ warnings. He has an air about him I don’t trust. His eyes are unnerving. The way he’s staring, even right now, makes me feel as though he’s able to see every private detail of my life.

I blow out a breath of nerves and tilt more toward the band so I don’t catch his stare in my peripheral view. I’ve never been this close to a live show and I’m excited to watch Three Ugly Guys in action. The spotlights flick on, pouring over Trent’s hair as he tosses it from his face and grips the mic. The music swells, guitars, bass, and drums all crashing together in a rough harmony.

Trent belts out the first line and I swear the screams from the crowd increase to meet the volume of the music. My ears ring and I jump as something touches my knee. I glance down.

Bedo’s holding out his hand, and his open fist contains two bright yellow ear plugs. He’s not even looking at me. His other hand grips his cell and he’s typing out what looks to be an email with only his thumb. He glances up and juts his palm closer. “Take them.” He mouths the words.

“Thank you,” I murmur even though there’s no way he can hear, not with the same yellow plugs protruding from his ears. It almost feels like cheating the experience, to put up a barrier to the sound, but as soon as I slide them in I realize it doesn’t block the music completely.

Stage lights illuminate the band with the bridge of the chorus and my gaze immediately draws to Austin. He’s hard not to watch. My Lord, the way his fingers run up and down those steel strings floods heat to my skin. His long fingers move with skill and a practiced precision that causes me to squeeze my thighs together. My mind conjures all the illicit ways he’s no doubt able to use those fingers. Dirty visions only skyrocket the moment he steps up to a mic and joins in to sing backup vocals. Rock stars? Sexy. But a rock star who also sings? Guard my ovaries, because right now if he asked, I’d so have his babies.

You’re going to hell.

Shame washes over me, and guilt instantly replaces my naughty thoughts. I shouldn’t objectify him. He’s working. This is his career. I force my eyes not to follow as Austin struts toward the edge of the stage and screaming fans. At the crash of a cymbal, I glance back to Leighton.

Sweet Jesus.

My skin prickles with a rush of awareness as I study the changes to his appearance. Gone is the clean-cut boy. He still looks like a model, but with the black eyeliner and tousled dark hair—the ends practically begging to be touched—he is every bit the rock god he plays on stage. A pang of longing and lust flood my veins.

I’d have his babies, too.

What is wrong with me? I spend one day on this tour and I’m ready to throw my virginity out the window? Not that I’m holding on to it forever or until marriage, but I am waiting for someone special. Someone who values and respects me; who treasures what I’ve spent so many years protecting.

Reality check. It’s neither of those men on stage.

A quick glance out to the thousands of screaming fans only confirms that thought. There’s no way I could compete with any of this. I don’t know how Lexi does it. Actually, I do. She exudes a confidence I’ve never had. That and the fact she’d cause permanent bodily harm if Trent even dreamed of cheating. Still. I don’t know how she can share him with the world.

Point in case, he takes the break between songs to peel off his sweat-soaked shirt, much to the screaming adoration of concert attendees. Even with the earplugs I can feel the reverberation of applause. Yeah, I don’t know that I’d be okay with that. My boyfriend on-stage half naked for others to ogle and fantasize about?

And how hypocritical is that, since moments ago I was doing the very thing while admiring Leighton and Austin.

But they don’t have girlfriends. At least none that I know of. That thought grants me some absolution for my lust-filled thoughts. I was raised better. I shake my head and try again, this time fully intending to only admire their musical talent.

Rough. Hard hitting. Sensual. So, so good. Austin turns, swiping his fingers across the strings and lifts his chin as he walks to this side of the stage. For one measly second his stare meets mine and that’s all it takes for my body to react.

How am I going to survive an entire summer of this? I need more than a PA job to keep me distracted.

In fact, that’s a great idea. I unbuckle the snap to the leather bag hanging across my chest and retrieve my phone. Now’s a perfect time to work. For the next hour I clean, sort, and organize the emails in Trent’s inbox. I don’t look up once. Okay, so I steal glances whenever my resolve wanes, but I’d dare anyone in my place to do better.

The lights fade at the conclusion of their final number and I suck in a breath as they all strut off stage—in my direction. I shove my cell into my bag and brace myself for the wall of sweaty sexy men. Seriously? Could one of them be ugly? I feel wrong looking at Trent, especially with his shirt missing, but his is the safest set of eyes to focus on so I do that.

“You like the show?” He grins, his lips pulling up more on one side as he catches a towel from one of the stage assistants and wipes his face.

“Y’all were great.”

“Just great? Come on, Opal, you’re breaking my heart.” Austin squeezes by Trent and drops a kiss on the top of my head.

Trent’s eye ticks with irritation, but he doesn’t say anything.

Bedo garners Trent’s attention, turning so that I can’t read either of their lips.

“Y’all were more exciting than a night of cow tippin’.” I raise my brow and meet Austin’s gaze, careful not to drag my eyes over his chest and all the ink that trails his skin.

He bursts into laughter—my intent. “You’re too much, you know that?”

Before I respond with a clever comeback, his attention is stolen by a group of fans. I never once looked up from my phone or away from the stage during the show, but there must be over a dozen other people gathered to this side of the stage. Everyone wears a special badge, some labeled press, and every single woman is dressed to impress. High heels, perfect hair, curves on display and lots of exposed skin.

I glance down at my boots, feeling awkward and out of place. The crowd continues to chant from offstage, demanding an encore, while the guys chat it up with people I should probably know or get to know as Trent’s assistant.

“Hey.” The nudge of a leather jacket against my arm lifts my gaze. Leighton, the transformed rock god who looks sexy and sinful and straight from the devil’s lair parts his lips, lifting the edges with the hint of a smirk.

“Hey.” It’s the only response I can manage. I’ve never been one to find a guy with eyeliner attractive, but it’s working for Leighton, especially with the way his hair twists forward over his brow in a mess. I clench my hands together at the impulse to brush it back with my fingers.

“Fuck, it’s hot.” He swears and stretches the collar of his jacket and shirt combo away from his neck. The lights on stage must be worse than the sun. I glance at the other guys who all ditched their shirts a few songs into the show and are sweating all the same.

“Maybe you should take off your shirt?” I shout above the blur of chanting fans.

His lips quirk up with his grin. “Yeah? You’d like that?”

Um, yeah I would. My mouth drops open but nothing coherent comes out. I’m embarrassed, not just from the heat that travels over my skin, but also by how uncool I am. “I mean, sure, but only if you’re comfortable with partial nudity.” Lord, could I sound more idiotic?

He lifts his brow expectantly.

“Not that you shouldn’t.” I shake my head to clear my thoughts, but his full attention only jumbles my nerves. He’s so handsome. “I mean, I wouldn’t go topless in front of thousands of people . . .”

His eyes light with something more than humor and I swear the look goes straight between my thighs.

I want to look away; I need to unless I’m prepared to melt into a puddle of goo. But I can’t. He’s beautiful. Seriously beautiful, and the way he’s looking at me, with total and complete attention as if I’m the most desirable woman in this crowd of thousands, as if I’m someone special, it does something to my heart. The parts of myself I hide and keep safe splinter under his stare and I swear in this moment I’d do anything he asks.

“Encore, kid.” Sean breaks our connection with a slap to Leighton’s back, and he swaggers back on stage. The crowd erupts in a frenzy as Sean picks up his bass and fastens the strap across his chest.

Austin’s next, his strut lazy and sensual all the way over to his guitar.

I expect Leighton to follow suit, especially when Trent calls him over to the edge of the stage, but instead he glances around, a line of worry etched into his brow. “Fuck it,” he mutters under his breath and meets my stare as he shrugs out of his jacket. “Can you hold this?”

“Sure,” I say but I’m already gripping the leather in my hands as I get an up close and personal view of Leighton stripping out of his sweat-soaked T-shirt.

Sweet Jesus.

His abs are a religious experience. All smooth skin over ridges of muscle, and the way his bones protrude at his hips? They’re practically begging to be followed past where they disappear into his jeans and straight for the bulge straining against the fabric at the front.

What is wrong with me? I’m staring at his package. His very impressive package. My eyes are practically glued to it. Look away! I scream the words inside my head but my body takes much longer to react.

By the time my gaze travels up his chest and back to his eyes, he’s staring back, a slight smile on his lips. “I should . . .” He doesn’t finish his thought, but turns and jogs back to the raised drum set on stage.

Thank goodness, too. My cheeks burn with the heat of my blush and I can’t imagine what I could say to him, more than making an even bigger fool of myself.

At the swell of the crowd’s screams, Leighton counts off the beat and leads the band into a variation of The Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction.” It’s as if they read my mind. Dear Lord. Get me through the rest of this night in one piece, and the rest of the tour—specifically without throwing out my morals in exchange for an irresistible rock star.