S ometimes the title was deserved, self-imposed or not. Dash Justice, God of Rock, held court. His band were his fellow gods. The crowd, his worshipers. The stage, Olympus. He moved around it like he was made to; subtle, commanding, voice guttural, slicing through the arena like a whip .

“Do you want more?” he growled, arms uplifted, an erotic supplication to his followers, making them scream, making them crave his voice; smoke billowing around him as the screen at his back flashed images of white, red and blue lighting. In the screen silhouette, among all that light were women, young, lithe, their bodies perfect, their dancing seductive. “Tell me…show me!” The roar of voices came over the stage in a wave, screams and screeches that could have knocked him over if they’d gone a few octaves higher .

“Let’s go…” Jamie threw his guitar around to his front, slamming into a chord, head back, laughing as Isaiah leaned forward and Dash rested against him, their fingers working over each guitar like a wizard working a spell .

One full minute they played that way, both expressions open, free. This was the life they’d planned, ten years ago. This was the dream they’d wrangled into submission .

I sat backstage, watching them, seeing the chaos that was a Dash Justice show come alive in a Technicolor orgasm of sight and sound. Energy flowed around us, mystery and magic in every aspect of the show—the face paint, the imagery, the mock macabre, gothic sets, it all made sense, somehow, if you didn’t look too hard .

Problem was, I always did .

The music amped up and the roars dimmed, something that Dash seemed to notice. He paused as Isaiah played a solo, scanning the crowd, lost in the adrenaline thrill that pumped in every conceivable space around us. The front row was filled with industry folks, but they were carted off to the side. The center was reserved for women—beautiful, young, eager women barely dressed, who flashed smiles and obvious mouth licks between the band, security and the roadies manning the floor. Someone, anyone, would do usually, could help them on that stage or behind it. And Dash played to those women, eating up their adoration like it made him drunk and he craved the high .

I was not a consideration to him, but that wasn’t old news. Who would be? There could be no competing between the movement of lust and adrenaline pulsing from the crowd or the roar of his name coming at him in waves. Every woman wanted to fuck him. Every man wanted to be worshiped and praised like he was. The ex-girlfriend who broke his heart, the one he barely managed tolerating, would be an afterthought among all that .

“You need anything?” Landon asked, offering me a bottle of water as he came to my side. The man ran all over the arena before, after and during the show. He was sweaty, his face pink and I wondered, fleetingly, how good the money was. I didn’t think any amount would tempt me into this madhouse on the regular .

“Thanks,” I said, nodding toward the stool at my side. “Can you take a break ?”

Landon lifted his eyebrows, blinked a few times while he watched me, as though the offer surprised him. He gave a swift look around the backstage, nodding to the Bryan, the tour manager, before he shrugged, flopping onto the empty stool. “God,” he breathed, grabbing a folded towel from a stack behind the curtain. “It’s February. Why the hell is Memphis so hot ?”

Water dripped onto my fingers when I opened the bottle and I wiped my palm dry against my jeans. “It’s the humidity.” I waved the bottle, motioning toward the crowd. “See how their dressed?” I didn’t mean the women, and I think Landon understood that. He laughed at least. “Not the groupies who seem to think they’re in Brazil and it’s Carnival, the others. The people here to party. T-shirts and jeans, mostly .”

“A few painted faces and leather pants .”

I shrugged, agreeing. “Those are the die-hards. Jamie and I…” I stopped myself, not sure if Landon would tattle on me for using the name. “I mean …”

“He’s being stupid about the name.” Landon leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Even Isaiah calls him Jamie .”

“Yeah, well, they’re cousins. They’re blood .”

“To tell you the truth,” Landon started, shifting his gaze to the stage. Dash bent over, taking a red lace bra from a girl on the front row. “Everyone mostly calls him Jamie, except when there’s a party. When there’s women and media…and …”

“And I’m both of those things.” Landon’s shrug was apologetic, and he managed a weak smile. I thought of asking him more. Jamie’s answered had been more telling today on the bus, but not entirely honest. Maybe Landon could offer some insight. Maybe he’d …

“Where are my putas sucias? ” Dash shouted, interrupting my thoughts and I jerked my attention to the stage, to Dash pacing the front, that bra twirling from his finger. “For you gringos , I said, where are my dirty whores?” He stopped when one girl jumped on her seat, arms waving, tits bouncing .

“I’m right here, Dash! Fuck me !”

“Wow,” I said, lip curling .

“They get a little…obvious,” Landon said, standing when his boss looked to the side of the stage, right at us .

Dash watched me for a small moment, enough to recognize me sitting there before he continued with the act, smiling down at the girl bouncing in the front row. “You want this, chica ?” This direct attention made her bounce harder, screaming his name like just the taste of it on her tongue would make her come. “What about now?” he said, taking the bra, sniffing it, licking the cups before he rubbed his face in the fabric, smearing white and black paint all over it. Then Dash dangled it from the stage and a large group of women descended, climbing over each other reaching for the bra .

“Is this…different from his first shows?” Landon asked me. I shook my head, attention on the stage, on Dash as he took a bottle of whiskey form Isaiah, guzzled deep, then poured it over the women still jumping and screaming his name .

“Yeah,” I told Landon, head shaking. “This is nothing like who he used to be. Nothing.” Those shows had been raw, but not like this. This was voyeurism and erotic seduction. Dash would turn on every eager woman in the area, then send them off to whoever they ended up with for the night. This was vulgar and gratuitous, and it had nothing to do with the music .

“Have you had your fill of me?” A resounding scream of “no” waved from the crowd and Dash laughed, drinking again as the band played low, not synergistic to their tune; it was filler music, a melody they played that was bass line and drum until Dash got ready to continue the set list. From my memory, I recalled “Love is a Vampire,” the track they’d just finished, had been the final song they played in the past two shows. But Dash didn’t look ready to stop. He looked, in fact, like he could play all night, eating up their adoration until it filled him .

The chant started low; the smallest muttered of noise that inched and worked through the crowd. It grew louder, stronger and the music lowered, as though the band wanted to hear what they were saying. Dash waved a hand behind him, having Lou kill the music and the chant grew louder, then became a scream when he cupped his hand to his ear .

His features were guarded, but I watched them anyway as they twitched from surprise at hearing the constant refrain of 1221 to small disappointment that did not linger on his face. He glanced at me, frowning, forehead lined before he grinned and shrugged, taking in their excitement like the elixir it was. Dash wanted to stay high on them .

“I know what you want!” he screamed, playing the intro, riffing hard on his guitar as his band followed suit and that fucking song kicked off; a chorus of voices sang, echoing my shame, that stinging insult all around me .

Dash glanced once more at me, his smile lowering when I stood, handing Landon the half-full bottle of water and left the stage .

* * *

L andon had insisted I take a bodyguard with me back to the bus. “The fans, at the end of the show, they sneak out to the back and try to catch Dash heading out of the arena,” he’d explained. “Strictly speaking, Mr. Justice hasn’t told me to watch out for you, but hell, Ms. Daines, you’ve been with us for a week. You’re not the bitch I thought…” He stopped himself, scrubbing his fingers through the back of his hair. “I’d feel better if you took one of the guys with you.” He nodded, calling over a beefy Mr. Universe-looking guy with light brown hair and a goatee. His eyes were green, and he had a scar that ran along his chin, up to his jaw .

“Ma’am,” he said, nodding to me when Landon waved him over .

“Take Ms. Daines back to the bus. Make sure you watch over her .”

I opened my mouth, ready to argue, but Landon had already waved and headed back toward the noise of music and hedonistic screaming .

After a silent few seconds, I faced the giant, wondering how long he could stand that still before I sighed. “What’s your name?” I asked him, trying not to smile when he moved his gaze down to my face, but not his head. A slight glimpse at my eyes and then his own moved around the arena, watching, calculating the threat of anyone coming within five feet of me .

“Clay, ma’am .”

It was pointless to ask for Mr. Universe to lose the stiff bearing and I was too irritated and too eager to release some tension to bother trying. “Tell you what, Clay,” I started, tapping his tree trunk of an arm to get him to following me down the hallway. “They’re gonna go on for at least another half an hour and then there will be a meet and greet, possibly lots and lots of frivolity that I have no interest in being around.” I slipped my gaze up at those green eyes, grinning when his blank stare twisted into something almost resembling a smile. “I’m working on a week of wasted energy and I need to release it .”

Clay stopped, eyes widening as though I’d just asked him to get on his knees. I held up my hands, laughing at that shocked expression. “No. Oh, God no. I don’t mean…” He took a step back, like I’d just admitted to having a pistol in my back pocket, but he didn’t assume any sort of defensive stance. “Clay, I’m used to running ten miles a week and there’s a trail about a block from the arena.” I tilted my head, working my gaze over his body to assess what I thought he did to get that large. “You up for a late-night run ?”

The bodyguard looked over my shoulder, then down at his watch, before a slow, barely there smile inched over his face. “I could burn some carbs .”

“Good. Then let’s get changed and I’ll meet you at the bus in ten.” He didn’t agree to that, but Clay did see me safe inside, then returned ten minutes later, sporting Nikes and a gray US Marines T-shirt tucked into his long workout shorts .

Turned out, Clay had taken three rounds to the chest in Fallujah five years back. He’d liked the time on leave recuperating. He really liked the woman and her five-year-old son who lived two doors down in his building so much that he decided not to re-up .

“This bodyguard gig is temporary,” he told me, an hour later as we rounded the end of the trail and the parking lot came into sight. “My buddy Jose said I could make some nice bank if I did a few dates for Justice.” A flash of an older man with a couple dozen tattoos shot in my head. He looked scary, severe but had a nice smile. I wondered, fleetingly, how the hell a straight-laced marine got mixed up with someone like that. “I’m headed back to my girl at the end of the month .”

“Good,” I said, smiling at the glint in his eyes when he mentioned her. “Engaged?” My breath wasn’t as even as his, but it wouldn’t be. Clay clearly ran far more than I did .

“That’s why I’m doing this gig,” he said, shooting a wink when he smiled at me. “Got my eye on a big ring, and Uncle Sam’s pension is crap .”

“A little advice,” I told him, inhaling deep as we hit the parking lot, “the right sort of girl doesn’t give a single shit about how big the ring is.” We came to the back entrance and moved through a small crowd milling around the band’s bus before we stopped. “Trust me, all she wants is you .”

“Noted, ma’am,” Clay said, nodding at me. The smile he wore disappeared when the bus door opened, and Landon moved down the steps. He frowned at us, glancing behind him before he jerked his chin, sending Clay away with one movement. “Night, Ms. Daine .”

“Night, Clay, and thanks .”

I turned, my body aching, bones tingling from the dying adrenaline in my blood, ready to go inside and shower, but Landon blocked the door. One look at his face, and I understood there was a problem .

“Is he entertaining ?” I asked, folding my arms against my chest. My skin was sticky, damp and I was sure I probably smelled of sweat and the night air .

“No. He’s just…” Landon walked away from the door, moving his head to the left, a fraction of a movement, like he wanted some distance from the bus. “He was pissed you weren’t there when he got back. I don’t…” Landon looked over his shoulder, then turned to watch the thinning crowd of roadies as they packed away the equipment. “We’re set to leave in an hour and get right back on the road so I’m not sure why he was …”

“Does he not want me on the bus?” I was tired; tired of the endless night. Tired of the noise and smell of fog smoke. Tired of the perpetual child in a grown man’s body who ruled by the whims of his bipolar moods .

Landon shrugged. “He didn’t say anything like that. In fact, he seems to be…waiting for you .”

“Then his funky mood isn’t my problem.” I stretched my shoulders, twisting my arms from one side to the other. “I haven’t broken any of his little rules and I haven’t pestered him tonight with any questions. He’s got zero reason to be pissed at me .”

“But Mr. Justice is …”

“You know, what, Landon? I don’t care. I’m tired. I want a shower and eight hours of sleep .”

Landon might have followed. He might have watched my retreat and muttered some sort of warning. I didn’t know if he did. My focus was on the closed door and the small button I punched to open it. As soon as I walked inside, the rush of a cold hit me, and I exhaled, blissfully content at the frigid air chilling my hot skin .

The front room and kitchen were both empty, but I greeted Charles, the bus driver, as he adjusted the cooler next to him and moved a bag from the passenger’s seat .

“Good show?” he asked me, a practiced smile lighting up his face .

“Something like that,” I said, waving at him before he shut the door and I turned, intending to head right into the shower .

But Dash was sprawled out on the long sofa beyond the kitchen, his legs stretched across the cushion, blocking the hallway .

“‘Something like that?’” he asked, leaning up on one elbow. “What’s the matter, chica ? You didn’t like it ?”

“The music was tight,” I said through a sigh, not caring enough about what my attitude would do to Dash. “Isaiah was on point, and your vocals were strong .”

“Isaiah was on point?” He sat up, pulling off his jacket, the same one he’d worn during the show. His eyes were bright, but red-rimmed and he leaned forward, fists curled on his knees .

“Yes,” I said, not bothered by his attitude. “And your vocals were strong .”

“Damn straight .”

I rolled my eyes, walking toward the hall but Dash stopped me, shooting a long leg to block the way again. “You angling for a fight ?”

“With you? Always .”

“Well, I’m not. I’m tired. I’m sweaty and I want to take a shower and crash .”

As if he’d only just noticed my tight workout pants and sports bra, Dash moved back, smile slow as it stretched over his lips, eyes appraising, approving as he shifted his gaze over my stomach, straight to my chest .

“Nice run ?”

“Very.”

He stood, leaning toward me and I could not move. Behind me was another small sofa, to my right a table. Dash took advantage, slinking off the couch like a snake, lithe, long body grazing against mine .

“You work out all that aggression ?”

I tilted my head, eyes narrowing to watch his expressions. “What aggression do you think I have ?”

“You looked pretty pissed tonight.” He wobbled a little, and when he exhaled, blowing his long hair out of his face, I caught the strangling whiff of whiskey. He was drunk, more drunk than I remembered ever seeing him. He reached for my face, resting an arm against my shoulder as though it was too much effort to hold his touch against my cheek. “You know, when we played your song. You looked …”

“Not my song, Jamie .”

“You’re not…supposed to call me that.” He wobbled again, losing his balance and I pushed on his shoulders settling him down against the cushions .

“And you’re supposed to be a professional .”

“I fucking am, chica .”

He swatted away my hand when I tried to take the glass in front of him. Melting ice cubes moved around the bottom; there was no liquor left at all, but Dash still tried drinking it down .

“Yes. I saw your little display of professionalism.” The window next to the kitchen was large, darkened by tint, and I caught Dash’s reflection, spotted how closely he watched me. His gaze moved up, over my shoulder and arms when I reached for bottle of water, then down, focused on my thighs, my ass when I bent to grab the ice from the freezer. “You do that in all your shows?” I asked, shifting my gaze back to that reflection to watch him. “Get those girls all worked up and then just leave them hanging ?”

He made a sound, something akin to a grunt, his nostril flaring when I pushed the ice water in front of him. “Sit,” he said, nodding to the seat across from him. When I glared at his face, then down at the full glass of water, Dash shook his head, releasing a sigh as he picked up the glass and drank. “Pain in the ass …”

“So?” I said, wondering what about this night had made him want to get twisted. He actually had been a professional so far in the tour. He did the shows, worked the meet and greets and came back to the bus before midnight. From what I’d heard the roadies saying, it was out of the norm for a Dash Justice tour. The early nights, the good behavior in the shows, none of it was he usual M.O .

“So, what ?”

“What’s going on with you?” I pulled the empty bottle of Jim across the table, motioning it in his direction. “Tonight was different .”

“Tonight was epic.” He frowned when I laughed, mouth hard, severe. “You don’t agree ?”

“No, sorry. I don’t.” Dash went on watching me, eyes brightening, mouth set firm as though he expected an explanation. He’d be disappointed .

“You’re loca, chica . I was solid. My vocals …”

“Yes. Those vocals. You’re right.” I leaned forward, patting at my bangs as they moved across my forehead in the stream of cool air coming from the vent overhead. “You’ve always had strong vocals, no one can deny that. You’ll never hear me say you aren’t talented .”

“But?” he asked, holding his cup in front of him mouth, eyebrows lifted .

“It’s the same thing over and over. It’s the same schtick you’ve perfected. The showman, the dark Goth bastard who disrespects women and offers himself up as some sort of god they should worship .”

He downed the water, the ice cubes clinking together. There was a bout of nervous energy, likely remnant adrenaline still working through my body. Dash had a crew that went around cleaning the buses, but they hadn’t been in yet, not since that drunken asshole said goodnight to his fans and crashed on the sofa. I left the table, looking to burn down some of the adrenaline, picking up crumpled chip bags and empty whiskey and beer bottles. I rinsed a few cups and one or two plates, the whole time feeling that sharp, hot gaze over my body .

“I shouldn’t be worshipped ?”

He didn’t flinch when I jerked around to face him, my hands dripping water onto the tile floor. “Wow.” Head shaking, I watch his face, wondering how much of this ego was genuine and how much was fueled by liquor. “Are you…” I sat in front of him at the table, laying the wet fork in my hands onto the surface. “You think they should worship you? You can’t truly …”

“No one does what I do. No one …”

“A hundred guys do what you do, Jamie, for fuck’s sake !”

He sat back, bottom lid curled and twitching as he watched me. There was still a wobble to his stance, but his eyes were clearer now. I didn’t know if it was the water or his anger that made him seem sober. I didn’t care. Watching Dash, I wanted to find something familiar, something sweet. Since I’d joined the tour, it had been that very thing I wanted to see—recognition. Jamie had always been honest. He’d always been sweet and genuine. But since that night all those years ago, since I’d ripped his heart from his chest, that sweetness had vanished. We all grow. We all become more cynical, a little wounded by life, but all the things I’d loved about Jamie hadn’t just left him. They’d been exorcised, extracted like an infection. Now there was only ego left. It made me sick .

“What happened to finding the magic?” He shook his head, laughing under his breath as though he found my question ridiculous. “One night at Hector’s you and Isaiah did an acoustic set,” I started, eyes closing, trying to recall the image of him on that small stage, the him he had been. The boy I’d loved. I glanced at Dash, ignoring his frown and the sullen way he glared at me .

Hector had built the stage in an empty section of the shop where normally he kept tables and chairs for small listening parties. “There had to be thirty people in that shop, both our mothers included. They’d wanted to see what everyone in town talked about. Jamie Vega and his band. It was something else. It was such a treat to hear you sing. And I remember sitting there in the back of the shop, on top of Hector’s metal filing cabinets, not watching you, not at first, I watched the faces around you. Seeing how they damn well absorbed the music. It seemed to float out of you, it poured into their cells and ran over them like the wind. Everyone in that room fell in love with you. They saw what I always had .”

Dash’s face softened, his glare less vicious as he watched me, and I wondered what he thought. I wondered if his memory of that night was anything like mine. I wondered if there was anything else inside him but vanity and ego .

“Then I watched you singing, playing. Your voice was so magical, it was everything we’d loved about the music that connected us, and I thought that’s what everyone else felt when they watched you; that they’d found the music of their souls, in you. I’d…I was so proud of you then. I was so proud that I’d been there, watching it happen, watching you get better. Watching you work your own magic .”

If Dash was still drunk, he hid it well, pulling his Zippo from his pocket to move it around his fingers, the action quite this time, soundless. He remained still, but there was a question working in his eyes, something that made his irises dark .

“Now,” I started, closing my eyes. The loop of Dash teasing, seducing those girls, how that seemed more important him, how it sullied him, played over and over in my mind. I rubbed my eyes, hoping to diminish the memory, but it remained, making my stomach tighten. “Now you perform to the crowd, like you’re trying to fuck them. Like you crave their reaction more than the music.” Dash didn’t speak, didn’t do a thing to deny my accusation and after several minutes, I got tired of the silence. “Well,” I said, exhausted. “I keep waiting for the magic, Jamie. I suspect it’s there somewhere, deep down .”

I left the table, tossing the fork and empty cup into the sink. Behind me that Zippo started clicking, the rhythmic noise working over and over like nails on a chalkboard. “You don’t know me,” he said, and the clicking stopped .

I was at the hallway entrance, half a step from my room. I should have ignored him. I should have proven that I didn’t care what he thought or how he felt .

“You can’t change the music inside you,” I told him, turning to watch him as he left the table. “It’s like a fingerprint. It’s deeper than that. It’s like a gait or an accent or the exact color of your eyes. Something core deep that doesn’t disappear no matter how hard you try to be rid of it.” He stepped close and I turned around fully, mesmerized by the slow movement he made to stand in front of me. “It’s not something you…can …”

Dash had me against the wall, whiskey breath not as strong, one hand above my head. I flinched when he lifted his free hand to grab my face, moving my chin close to his mouth. “You don’t fucking know me, chica .” Something wild and primal shifted in my chest, and I hated the sensation, hated that it was Dash that worked it so quickly inside me. “I am a god on that stage. Soy una bestia! It pours from me.” He pressed closer, breathing in, coming so close that when he inhaled, our chests moved against each other. Dash followed my shudder and brought his gaze down to my breast and the hard points of my nipples against my sports bra .

He didn’t speak, seemed as surprised by my reaction as he was, and he tilted my head, bringing my mouth toward his. I should have resisted, told myself I would, but all I managed was to lick my lips, a subconscious invitation that made Dash grit his teeth and release a guttural noise that sounded just like sin .

“Coño, así …” he whispered, slamming his mouth over mine, fingers tight on my chin, holding me still, acting as though he wanted me to take his kiss, brutal thing that it was. Like he wanted to take, not caring if I gave him back a thing .

But Dash Justice wasn’t the irresistible God of Rock that he believed himself to be, and I was no weak-willed woman that would receive, taking nothing for myself .

Dash’s tongue consumed, demanded, and his hand slipped to my waist, pulling me until we were hip to hip and I felt the thick outline of his hard dick, pressing against his jeans. He wanted me and fuck me, I wanted him too. But I would not stand there and be taken .

“Iris…” he growled, hand squeezing my ass and I pulled away from him, making him go still and quiet .

Two seconds. I counted, while we stared, challenging with a look, tempting with the heat that pulsed between us, then I smiled .

“My turn .”

He caught me, sliding against the wall when I pushed him, landing his fingers in my hair as I went after his mouth, tongue rubbing against his, hands greedy, desperate for his body, for the feel of his cock against my palm. I opened my eyes to watch him, smiling at the way he shuddered, at his hissing cry when I pulled his face closer and bit his bottom lip .

“Coño, ay …fuck me…” he said when I touched him, when he shifted our positions and threw me back against the wall, Dash moved his hands to my breast, seeming to remember what I loved best, pinching my nipple, making me arch against his touch, then he licked a hot, wet path against my neck, pulling the skin there between his teeth .

He was different like this, showing me for the first time hints of the Jamie I’d known. Attentive, passionate, not like the pig on the stage. Not like the asshole laughing as he sang a song that called me out for being a whore .

The thought felt like a bucket of ice water against my skin, and I jerked my mouth from his, steadying myself with my fingers grasping his biceps .

“Stop,” I said, shaking my head, trying my hardest to erase the taste of him from my mind. “No. I can’t…” He’d humiliated me. He’d destroyed me, and he wasn’t the man I’d fallen in love with at eighteen. This grungy, half-drunk rocker in front of me, giving me a disappointed frown would likely never be my Jamie again. “No,” I repeated pushing him away. “Not with you .”

Dash lowered his shoulders fell, then threw his fingers into his hair, scrubbing, grunting as though he was about to lose his shit completely. “Then who, chica ?” he asked stepping toward me when I retreated. “Who do you want ?”

Dash looked at me like defeat was something he knew but never got used to. He was a champion at his game, a success in all ways that mattered to most people. But just then, the frustration, the drunkenness seemed to make him slip; that composed air shifted and I saw plainly how frustrated he was, how disappointed .

I knew the feeling .

Head shaking, I decided the truth was better. The truth would likely sting but at least it was real. In my view, Dash didn’t see much real in his life. “I want the boy who made magic.” It was honest, and came out in a rush, my voice raspy. “I want Jamie .”

He watched me, the tightness around his eyes in his jaw relaxing only for a second before he took to frowning again. “Any magic I had in me, died a fucking long time ago.” He brushed pass me, pausing to face me, head shaking as his gaze worked from my hair, down to my mouth. Dash pushed a knuckle under my chin, lifting my face up. There was something haunted in his expression, a look that made something tight and choking form in my throat. “It ain’t coming back .”