A tlanta to South Carolina, then on to Virginia. Two weeks became a month, and we finally returned to Indiana. Home. My mother still lived in Willow Heights, though she’d graduated to a larger place with a yard big enough to accommodate her improving green thumb .

The roads around us got dense, cars moving up and around, trying to catch up, trying, I supposed to catch a glimpse of Dash Justice or maybe one of the young guys in The Rising, Dash’s opening act or this leg of the tour. The closer we got to home, the rowdier the crowds became. And, of course, the more attention we garnered .

Everyone wanted to see Iris Daine with Dash Justice. They wanted to know, it seemed, if I was as weak as the media portrayed me. They wanted to know my story, see what it was that still compelled me to stay with him. There had been four interview requests with major networks and a long phone conversation with Joan Wein, the editor of Stage Dive about my process .

“Word is,” Joan had started one late night as we left South Carolina, “that you spent an entire night at a pub with Will Lager. You know something, don’t you? Everyone wants details on why he’s leaving Hawthorne. You get me that info, Iris, and coupled with this mythical Dash Justice interview you keep promising and you can write your own ticket. What do you say ?”

“No” had been brimming on my lips, but I refrained. She’d find out about Lager and why that conversation had taken the entire night—mostly because that was how long it took for him to convince me to seek Dash out. When the song hit, the very next day, Lager had phoned, asking me to put aside my anger and use the insult as a means to meet with Dash .

Joan and Lager had their own agendas. I had mine, all of which were being clouded by the friendly, easy-going vibe moving between me and Dash .

It unsettled me .

“We have a few days before the Indy show,” Dash said, coming out of the shower, running a towel through his wet hair. He wore nothing but a larger towel around his hips and a smile he didn’t bother trying to hide. “What’s the matter, chica ?” he asked, coming to the table where I sat, my laptop open as I wrote my interview .

“Nothing,” I lied, pretending to focus the paragraph Dash had related about finding the Gibson his mother had pawned for booze money. Dash had spent most of that following fall tracking it down, finding it in the arms of a kid who’d just started a part time job at the pawn shop in Madison. Three hundred bucks, far more than the guitar was worth, had bought back Jamie’s baby .

“Why don’t I believe you ?”

He knew what he was doing, leaning so close to me, skin smelling clean and sweet. The last few weeks we’d worked on the interview; him filling in the blanks left by our distance and me trying my hardest to be unbiased. Our past colored the narrative, but it was still good, very telling for Dash’s first interview. Between all those discussions, which tended to linger into the very late hours every night, there was the heat that we could not totally repress .

He had not attempted to kiss me again, something that left me equal parts calm and mildly frustrated, despite my usual internal reminder that I hated him. Which I absolutely did. Still .

But even I couldn’t deny how beautiful he was. Especially when he made a point of moving around the bus looking either freshly fucked or freshly showered. There was no in between, though I did wonder about any “entertaining” he did during those two-night stays in whatever city we were staying. I hadn’t seen him with anyone but Isaiah or Jose, sometimes Clay before the marine left the tour .

“Do you have a point?” I asked, furiously typing, though I was pretty sure I’d just written the same line twice .

He held up a finger, walking toward the hall and I snuck a glimpse at his naked back, the wide stretch of his shoulders and the tapered dip of his waist. My God, he was beautiful .

And you hate him .

Right.

“When was the last time you went home?” he called, returning into the living room, buttoning his shirt, blocking my sweet view of all that beautiful brown skin .

“Um, I was home when we left for the tour,” I said, sitting back in my chair to watch Dash as he tossed ice into a glass, then added the water. He offered to me, but I waved him off .

“No, not New York.” He slumped in the chair across from me, shifting his fingers through his damp hair. “I mean Willow Heights.” At my high, quick laugh, Dash frowned at me. “What ?”

“Oh, you got it all wrong, mister.” I closed my laptop, folding my fingers over the top. “New York is home. Indiana is…well, where Midwestern hordes go to die. Why would I go back ?”

“Didn’t you say your mom lives there ?”

I narrowed my eyes, unsure where this conversation was headed. “Yes. And ?”

“Don’t you want to see her ?”

“She’s not home .”

Dash leaned back, folding his arms as he watched me and I thought he looked so young then, that mouth relaxed, threatening a smile. He spent a good deal of his time meeting fans and industry types, on the stage or around it before shows. Other than drive time and the occasional down time in his hotel suites, he typically wasn’t without either all that dark make-up smeared over his face or wide, face-concealing shades. It was nice to see him like this; so like the kid I’d fallen for so long ago .

“You wouldn’t be saying that because you don’t want to deal with the hassle of me being around when you visit ?”

“Visit?”

Dash nodded, leaning forward to grin. “Jose got me a bike. It’s just a rental, but I can take it to Willow Heights, to see the sights. Thought maybe you’d like to come with me .”

This astounded me. I’d heard rumors, mainly from shoddily researched articles I’d read about the beginning of Dash’s career. One mentioned the post-high school gloom that had descended on him and seemed to linger for at least a year following his graduation. I’d known better where that forced-existence had come from, but I never believed that Dash had turned his back on music completely .

“So, let me get this straight,” I started, pushing the laptop farther away from me. “You want me to agree to not only go back to Willow Frights , but you want me to have enough faith in you that I’ll risk riding some biker’s old crap ?

“Ay, chica , bite your tongue!” He rubbed his face, holding back a smile. “Typical…it’s a fifty-thousand-dollar bike. Pretty little Softail Deluxe Cruiser.” He leaned forward, licking his bottom lip. “And she purrs like a cat in heat .”

I rolled my eyes, laughing at his expression—teasing seduction. Something Dash was good at. “Remind me never to get a cat. And if I do, I’ll stay away from you with the thing .”

“Oh, chica , are you scared to let your pussy around me ?”

I snorted, packing away my laptop. “My theoretical pussy .”

“Either way, I’d treat it so sweet.” He leaned closer, moving his hand right next to mine. “I’d pet it and kiss it, because you know so well, I do love kissing pussy.” He lowered his voice and I had to grab his half-empty glass of water to keep from laughing. Dash knew it too, kept the teasing and that filthy tone up just to see me flustered .

“Pussies. Plural, right ?”

“Si , and the pussies love me. They run their backs and asses against me, purring when I scratch them.” I couldn’t take my eyes off his mouth or the slow, slippery slide of his tongue moving along his bottom lip. “Your pussy need scratching, chica ?”

“I don’t have a…” I shook my head, jerking my gaze away from his smirk as I packed away my laptop. “Anyway, I have no desire to go back to Willow Heights or get on a motorcycle with you .”

“That’s a shame,” he started, leaning back to move a hand over his stomach. “I was going to tell you what I’m planning for the next album .”

“What album?” I stopped moving, lowering the laptop into my bag before I faced him. “You haven’t mentioned anything to me .”

“Think I tell you everything?” Dash laughed, a gesture that was more movement than sound. “This just came to me, and it’s going to be asombroso .”

“And?” I stared at him, waiting for him to continue, but Dash just shrugged, leaving his chair to grab a jacket form the hook next to the door and pulled his shades from the pocket. “Well?” I said, following him to the door .

He slipped on the jacket, checking the lenses of his shades for smudges before he slipped them over his nose. “It’s a two-hour ride. We could even stay the night some place. Maybe Hector’s old house.” I frowned, and he moved his head, nodding. “I own it and the shop.” He opened the door, gesturing for me to walk in front of him. “You could find out everything you want. Maybe add it to the interview. Might even let you hear a few things I’m working on.” When I only stared at him, Dash stepped in front of me and again that tongue peeked out to tease his bottom lip. “You scared ?”

“Not of you,” I said with more bravado than I had. “I…I’m not packed .”

“There are stores there. We can buy shit if we need it.” He looked over to the table. “Grab your laptop and let’s go .”

“I…” This was bad, and I knew it. Something was brewing, something that told me to stay on the bus and work. Being alone with him, in our home town no less, was an exceedingly bad idea. But Jamie had always been good at getting me to do things I knew I shouldn’t. Skipping school, smoking weed under Crooked Creek Bridge, trusting him when he said ridiculous positions wouldn’t hurt—every time I threw caution to the wind and joined him. But I was not that stupid kid, willing to be careless when challenged. I was an adult. Mature. Seasoned. I possessed hindsight and logic .

Then Jamie took off his shades and winked at me, moving his head back as if to say, “come on, coward, let’s go,” and my reason got foggy. “Exclusive interview and you and me back home. What’s wrong with that ?”

“It’s a risk …”

“Chica, ” he said, grin sexy, tempting. “Life isn’t worth the ride if there aren’t risks.” Dash opened the door wide, waiting for me at the bottom of the steps. It took exactly four seconds for me to make up my mind before I grabbed my bag and followed him out for a long ride .