M aria Vega had been twenty when she died. I read about it, hated that I had. When I knew her, Maria was the knobby-kneed cousin who always irritated Jamie on Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks. She’d liked the snow, she’d confessed to me once, because Arizona was so hot. She didn’t like the sandy desert near the home she shared with her mother or that the yards were covered in gravel and rock. Those breaks were her favorites because she preferred the cold to the heat and because her father, Jamie’s uncle Hector, let her have everything she wanted, eager to compete with the spoiled way his ex-wife treated the girl .

Maybe it was the tug of war between her parents that led Maria down the wrong path. Maybe it was that Jamie had changed once he left Indiana behind; he forgot about his family and them needing him. I’d read that he lived in the studio, a habit that hadn’t changed in the ten years since he became a success. Whatever the reason, Maria got lost in the tide of neglect. Hector died when she was sixteen, and her mother remarried, had other children that didn’t remind the woman of the mistake she left behind in Willow Heights .

Maria grew up skirting the line between excess and need. By the time the tabloid Blotter reporter had her spying on Jamie, for an in-depth view on the evasive Dash Justice, Maria was too thin, too broke, and too hooked on H to understand what a betrayal it was to expose her cousin. Fifteen hundred bucks was the price she got for ending her life and any faith Dash had in the media .

Attention was a drug worse than the poison she shot into her veins. Maria overdosed and Dash, from what I’d heard, laid the blame entirely at the media’s feet. “Parasites,” he’d called them .

I was one of them .

Maria’s OD and the hidden camera she wore around Dash—the one that depicted him drinking too much whiskey, smoking too much weed, and entertaining too many young girls, was a disaster that frequently got echoed any time reporters mentioned Dash’s refusal to ever do interviews. A Dash Justice interview was the unicorn everyone wanted, but no one could get. It was also that very interview I promised Joan Wein, the editor of Stage Dive , I’d land after I left Bessie’s office. I had to do something .

“They’ll bury us in delays and appeals,” Bessie had told me, leaning back in her office chair to reach for a bottle of Jack she hid in the bottom drawer of her desk. “I know Nathan. He’ll convince Dash to countersue and any other damn billable conniving ace-up-the-sleeve he can think of. We’re not gonna win this one, Iris .”

“He ruined my reputation!” My voice had gotten loud, a fact made apparent when I glanced through Bessie’s window looking out over the lobby and two secretaries stopped to stare at me. I waved them off, a weak apology. “Amelia won’t even use the report I did in Paris now and that story is trending. She said they’d be the laughing stock if ‘Iris Daine’ got mentioned, even though my report was one of the firsts .”

“Didn’t you say you met with Lager ?”

I nodded, not comfortable with the look Bessie gave me. “Before you make suggestions, I told you, that was off the record .”

“Let me think,” she’d offered, drumming her long, red nails against the class top of her desk. But I didn’t need my lawyer imagining loopholes and Hail Mary plays that would have me paying Dash Justice back for calling me a whore on the air waves. I had my own means, and I intended to use them .

Two days later, I sported black skinny jeans that I could barely breathe in, a black motorcycle jacket, three-inch heel boots and a gray lace tank and stood next to Daisy Duke, the groupie. That was a stage name according to her, though the piece I’d written four years back on the road life of rock stars had showed me exactly how Daisy liked to perform . Technically, I hadn’t seen the performance, but Grant Ennis, The Plebes fill-in bass player certainly seemed to enjoy the show. He screamed and moaned loud enough to rattle the windows on their tour bus .

“So, Dash is a little strict with his crew, but I’ve been doing his tour manager, Blake for ages so I can always get in.” Daisy flipped her head over, rustling her long nails into her curls before she righted herself, fluffing out the ends before she led me to the loading dock at the back of the venue. There was already a line of groupies flirting with two security guards, one of which was waving a backstage pass at a girl who didn’t quite fill out the red leather bustier she wore .

We approached the small crowd of women, none of whom paid attention to us, until Daisy walked through them, barging toward the front of the line with a death grip on my wrist. I’d promised her four hundred bucks if she got me in to see Dash, and by the look of her scuffed boots and pinned-together skirt, I figured she could use the money .

There was a press pass in my back pocket, but with me being something of a joke in the industry, thanks to Dash’s stupid song, I knew it would be pointless trying to use it. Wein hadn’t given me approval for the Justice interview. She didn’t believe I could land it, that much I could tell from how quickly she dismissed me. But she’d take an excerpt, so I was on my own getting in and funding this trip to New York .

“That’s her?” I heard behind me and jerked my attention at a redhead with purple eyelashes. Her teeth were yellow, but she had a pretty face; young, a lot younger than me from what I could tell. She spoke behind her hand to her friend, elbowing the blonde while they both looked away from me as though just my attention would somehow bar them from getting through those doors .

“Daisy,” the taller bodyguard called, waving my companion through the red rope behind him. I warranted a once over, then a shrug, but not more than that. Daisy brushed a kiss on the man’s lips in thanks and we went through. The dismissal was understandable. Though my jeans were tight and the jacket certainly made me look like I belonged backstage, I wasn’t dressed like Daisy or her ilk .

“You know,” she confessed, weaving through the thick crowd as we approached the backstage. “I wasn’t sure you’d get in with me.” She looked over her shoulder, giving me a glance before she marched ahead, chin in a lift. She navigated the hallways like she owned the place and demanded a few impressed grins from the crew and stragglers that passed us. “You dress like you’re in the band. Like you aren’t interested in…” Daisy waved a head, leaving the rest of her sentence unspoken .

“Well, I’m definitely not interested in the…extracurricular activities,” I told her, catching up when we got separated by a roadie pushing a rack of clothes through the small corridor .

“Oh, I like that. Extracurricular.” She snorted, smiling so broadly that two roadies stopped to watch her. “Well, you’ll do, I suppose.” She stopped just in front of the stairs leading to the main stage. To the left, Blake Lewis, Dash’s tour manager, stood thumbing through his phone while a harried-looking balding guy barked orders at the crew around him. Daisy caught Blake, her wide smile growing eager and lethal, reminding me of a lion who just spotted a gazelle .

“Give me five minutes and I’ll have two backstage passes.” She adjusted her skirt and pulled up her boobs in a weird, one-handed cup and lift maneuver that impressed me before she walked straight for Blake .

The bald guy next to Lewis rolled his eyes when Daisy approached, ignoring her to glance at me, frowning. The man was overweight and looked like the sort who always itched for a worry; as though he wasn’t content unless something had him anxious. I stood there, arms folded, staring up at the stage as Dash wailed on the mic. In my peripheral the bald man continued to gawk like he knew me, or at least recognized me, until I dug the press page from my pocket and waved it in his direction. After that, I was left on my own while the man went off to worry someone else and Daisy followed Blake into a closet down the hallway .

The music was loud, thumping and I recognized “Love Is a Vampire,” one of Dash’s earlier tracks that had done well from him. The stairs were clear and I took them, coming to the side of the stage behind a thick curtain, near a collection of speakers. He couldn’t see me because of the risers to my right, but I had a perfect view of him .

Despite the heavy make-up—white face paint, black eyes smeared down his cheek, to the jet black paint over his mouth, he hadn’t changed much. Shock rock. That’s what he liked to be called. There was a lot of glitz and glam in his shows, of the macabre variety. There were pentagrams and weird alters around the stage and near the speakers, and a mock graveyard erected around every free space not directly in line with the stage front. Above the speakers and behind the drum kit, flames and ridiculous pyrotechnics arched and stretched fifty feet in the air, burning so bright it lit up the entire arena. I felt the heat from those flames and the quick whip of air that fanned my hair off my shoulders when they shot up .

Showmanship. Theatrics. Distraction—all things Dash Justice didn’t need. All things Jamie Vega would have never considered using in his shows ten years ago. Under all that noise and fanfare, there was still that low, whiskey-soaked voice and the magic in his words. This one was an older song, something he’d done when he first started out. Something that was wildly different from his new releases. Those, the record company seemed to want simple, shocking and rocking to the top of the charts. But even as he sang, I caught something of the boy I knew in the rocker on the stage .

Through the make-up, I saw he had the same pout overtaking his wide mouth. Eyes dark, though they were hooded and hidden behind his long bangs. The jaw was still sharp and angular, his eyebrows unchanged but his body was wider, more muscular and the cut definition of his stomach when he stretched his arms out and his black T-shirt exposed his abdomen, was more pronounced, sharper than they had been when I knew him .

That bastard was still so beautiful .

Just for a second I let myself watch him, pushing back the irritation and humiliation I felt. He’d taken my reputation, something I’d worked hard to build, and destroyed it with a few biting lines. Dash Justice had no right to hate me. Jamie Vega, though…well. I didn’t ever expect to earn his forgiveness .

The music changed, and he took a breath. From my vantage point, I saw him turn, wipe his face dry with a towel, smearing more of the make-up, then a slow exhale he released that looked like exhaustion. It wouldn’t be unusual to be worn after such a high energy show, but I’d known his expressions. I’d known his features and what a shift in his mood looked like. That was the man irritated, completely ready to walk away. I shouldn’t notice. I damn sure shouldn’t care, but I seemed unable to help myself from worrying .

Isaiah, his cousin, backed away from the front of the stage, still playing on the bass, and I managed to catch the quick question he asked Dash. “You cool?” There was a moment when Dash looked decidedly not cool, but he downed a bottle of water, threw it on stage and gave his cousin a nod .

“I’m straight, pai .” And then they were off again, lost in the music, in the screams and energy of the crowd .

The music went on for another half hour, coupled with the wild hysterics of the crowd when Dash called for their roars and fed their mania with his theatrics. When he took to spraying the crowd with red paint, meant to emulate blood, I left the stage, spotting Daisy and a pleased-looking Blake leaning against the wall next to the stairs .

“There you are,” she said, offering me a yellow pass connected to a lanyard. “Blake, baby, this is my friend …”

“Carrie,” I offered, sticking out my hand .

“Hmm.” The man watched me close, eyes narrowing as he examined me but I turned away, pulling the pass over my head. “Carrie what?” I heard behind me, but Blake seemed immediately uninterested in an answer when Daisy whispered something in his ear, distracting him .

“They’re almost done?” I asked, still watching the stage .

“Last song, yeah.” Blake tugged Daisy toward him, arm around her shoulders and they stepped in front of me, watching as the bodyguards and five roadies with flashlights lined up near the stage. “The boys will lead the band off the stage and into the dressing room. That’s where they’ll chill for a minute and then we can all go party with them. Twenty minutes.” He turned, looking behind Daisy to watch me. “First time at a show?” He looked over my body, appraising, then smiling as his eyes lingered on my breasts. “First time backstage ?”

“Something like that .”

The last chord sounded and the crowd roared, their voices like a chorus I’d never heard before. The crew stood watch, then quickly shot to the stage and I stepped back, toward the hallway not lit with fluorescent light .

“Is there a bathroom down here?” I asked Blake, stepping back when the rumble of feet sounded as the band descended the stairs .

“Yeah. Two doors down.” He wasn’t paying attention to me, and I was glad to be ignored. Daisy, though glanced my way, shrugging when I waved her off. I didn’t want to be spotted, not just yet .

The lights went up in the auditorium and as Dash made his way toward us, I slipped into down the hall, needing a reprieve from the crowd and the sudden chanted they’d started. I tried to tell myself it was white noise, but didn’t quite pull it off. Blake whispered something in Daisy’s ear, then patted her ass as he joined the band walking away from the stage .

Seeing him live, seeing that performance had done something to me; something I couldn’t quite understand. Ten years was a long time. I’d told myself what I’d done had been for the best. It was what he needed. But his behavior had made any happy memories with Jamie seem stupid and naive. I didn’t trust them anymore .