Harry was unfired—he and Tyler mostly made up the next day—but he gave me a wide berth after that. All the roadies did. The rumors spread fast and they all got the message that I was off limits. Lana might get passed around more than a bottle of Jack, but I belonged to Tyler. The tour changed for the two of us after that. We’d been insulated before, but now we became inseparable. We shared everything together from our meals to our bed to our innermost thoughts. I confessed everything to Tyler—my jealousies, my insecurities, my secret fantasies and wishes. And I thought he was sharing everything with me too. I had no idea how wrong I was.

It was in Missouri that I first discovered that Tyler was keeping secrets from me.

We were backstage, hanging out, when it happened.

We did a lot of that. Celeste hadn’t been joking. The whole thing ran like clockwork, though, thanks to a lot of organization and planning. Every day there was a schedule posted on the bathroom door of the bus, telling us where the band had to be and when. Sound checks and meet and greets in almost every city, rarely a day off. We were on the bus so much I felt like I was always moving, even when I was standing perfectly still.

Tyler had been quiet for a couple of days. Just off. Very short with everyone, even me. He was sleeping a lot, even during the day, and I’d overheard him talking to one of the roadies, a gentle giant named “Cliffie”—short for Clifford, nicknamed after the big red dog, both for his size and his ginger hair color—that he desperately needed more bracers. I could guess what those were. Ty had been lulling himself to sleep with Oxy since Detroit, and I thought he was taking them during the day now too. They were putting him to sleep in the afternoons and that left him groggy for the show. So, he wanted Cliffie to hook him up.

But that wasn’t the secret.

I knew about the drugs. I mean, who didn’t do drugs on the road? I’d expected it, and there was plenty of it. We smoked weed all the time. The smell of it on the bus was overpowering, even though Rob had banned the stuff. He complained about it, but no one ever did it around him. If he couldn’t catch anyone in the act, he couldn’t direct his anger anywhere. We were all just really careful to keep it away from him.

The secret came out that afternoon, while we were waiting backstage for the roadies to be ready for a sound check. I was bored and wanted to go shopping, but Ty said there wasn’t time. Besides, he was tired, he said. He was going to catch a nap backstage. I found him tucked away in the corner of the dressing room, his guitar in his lap—the acoustic—and his hands bent like claws in front of his face.

“Ty?” There was no one back there. Rob and the other guys were already on stage. They told me to come get Tyler and tell him it was time for sound check. “Are you all right?”

“Katie?” He blinked at me, looking dazed. High. Like he didn’t quite know who I was. Then his face relaxed and he swallowed, pushing the guitar off his lap. It clattered on the floor. “Fuck!”

“What is it?” I came to sit beside him on the little bench—it opened up and there were cushions inside we’d had strewn around the floor the night before during last night’s meet and greet—picking up the guitar and propping it up in the process. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t play.” He closed his eyes at this confession, hanging his head. “It fucking hurts too much. I can’t do it.”

“What?” I ran a hand through his hair, feeling his forehead. He was cold. Clammy. “What do you mean? What hurts?”

“My hands.” He opened his eyes, those sweet, dark eyes, and gave me a bitter smile. “What good is a lead guitarist whose hands don’t work?”

“What are you talking about?” I reached out to take his hands, but he pulled them back toward his body, shaking his head.

“Don’t. They’re bad today. I can’t even bend my fingers.”

I blinked at him in surprise, seeing how he cradled them against his body. He was clearly in a great deal of pain and had been hiding it. Covering it up. Self-medicating.

“Have you been to a doctor?” I asked softly.

“Several.” He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall.

“What is it?”

“Rheumatoid arthritis,” he confessed hoarsely, not looking at me.

“Oh Ty,” I breathed, my heart sinking to my toes. I had an aunt with rheumatoid arthritis. It had made her hands and joints effectively useless. My uncle even had to tie her shoes. Tyler Cook was the lead guitarist to what might become one of the biggest rock bands of all time—and he had a crippling disease that might render his hands ultimately useless. This was bad. This was very, very bad. “No, no, oh no...”

“Yeah.” He sighed, finally opening his eyes to look at me. The pain there was overwhelming, and it wasn’t all physical. “That’s what I said when they told me at fifteen.”

“Fifteen?” So young. My aunt hadn’t been diagnosed until she was thirty, and by the time she was forty-five, it was all but over. She had good and bad days, but it was very debilitating.

“It comes in waves,” he told me. “There are times I’m fine. I can go months. Sometimes a year. Then it comes back, and it’s like getting hit by a fucking train.”

“How long has it been going on this time?”

“A week or so, I guess.” He had been hiding it from me, and well. I’d suspected something was wrong, because our strenuous sex schedule—which was, like, at least once a day, sometimes more—had slacked off. And here I’d been worried some starry-eyed fan had caught his eye or something.

“Can you move them at all?” I asked, looking at the way his hands were curled against his chest. How was he going to play tonight?

“The Oxy helps with the pain.”

That explained a lot. I just nodded. He’d been taking more of it at night to get to sleep, but clearly insomnia wasn’t the only problem.

“There are these shots they give me sometimes,” he told me. “But I haven’t gone back to the doctor for a while... I was doing okay...”

“Let me get Rob,” I stood, now a woman on a mission. Whenever we had any real issues or problems, Rob was the one we could count on. He’d know what to do. “He’ll call a doctor, we’ll—”

“No!” Tyler grabbed my wrist, squeezing hard, and winced. I knew it had to hurt him to do that, but he wouldn’t let me go.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” I asked softly, meeting his panicked eyes.

“No.” He gritted his teeth against the pain. “And you’re not going to tell him.”

“Okay, okay,” I soothed, sitting back down on the bench with him, running a hand through his hair, thinking. He relaxed in my arms, his head dropping to my lap, body curled up beside me on the bench. I just wished I could make it all better.

“What about Celeste?” I suggested, stroking his hair away from his forehead. That little wrinkled spot on his brow always made me want to kiss it when he was like this. “Maybe she can get a doctor to come here...”

“And what do I tell her it’s for?” He shook his head, not opening his eyes. “No. Just no.”

“I’ll tell her it’s for me,” I offered, thinking, I volunteer as tribute! I’d do anything for this man. If I had to pretend to be sick and in need of a doctor’s attention, what was the big deal? “We’ll have the doctor come to our room. No one else needs to know, Ty. She’ll do it.”

“Would you?” He opened his eyes, frowning.

“Yes. Of course, I will.” How could he even doubt it? I stroked his stubbly cheek—he’d been increasingly lax about shaving lately and now I knew why. “How are you going to get through tonight?”

“More Oxy.” He sighed. “Go in the front of my guitar case. There’s a pick case in there.”

I did as he asked, and when I opened it, I gasped. It was full of tiny little pills, no bigger than a baby aspirin, except I knew exactly what they were. The street value of this stuff, just the dozen I held in my hand, had to be over five hundred dollars.

“Give me twelve.”

“How many?” Even I would only take two, sometimes three, and that was only on nights my insomnia was out of control and the rocking motion of the bus and the sound of the wheels had the opposite effect of soothing me to sleep.

“Just give me the damned case.”

“Okay, okay, twelve.” I didn’t want him to take more than that. The tolerance he’d built up was incredible. What was he doing to his liver? I put the pills in his hand and he sat up and swallowed them down with a swig of Mountain Dew. At least it wasn’t alcohol, I told myself. “How are you going to stay awake?”

“These.” He pulled a plastic baggie out of his jeans pocket and waggled the bag at me before putting it back. “That should get me through the show. But I’m going to crash for an hour. Can you tell Rob I can’t make sound check?”

“Yes.” I touched his cheek, saw him attempt a smile through the pain, his eyes half closed already. “Just rest here, take a nap. Don’t worry about it.”

“You can’t tell him, Katie.” He grabbed my arm, wincing again at the pain. “Whatever you do, don’t tell him...”

“I won’t,” I promised, wondering if he’d told anyone else before, ever, aside from whatever doctor had treated him. “Sleep, baby. Feel better.”

I kissed his forehead, kneeling beside him on the floor and stroking his hair until he dropped off. Then I put his guitar away and went to tell Rob and the band that Tyler was coming down with something and needed to rest before the show. Rob frowned, all concerned, ready to come backstage, but I managed to stop him, telling him Tyler was sleeping already and shouldn’t be disturbed.

I didn’t have to find Celeste. She found me, pulling me aside to ask what was really going on.

“Can you have a doctor come to the bus tonight after the show?” I asked. “Can you find someone who makes house calls?”

“For Tyler?” She frowned, already going all Mother Hen on me. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s for me.” I leveled a look at her. “When Rob asks, tell him it’s for me.”

She gave me a knowing look, pursed her lips and nodded.

“What should I say you’ve got? Rickets? Lyme disease?”

“Make something up.” I shrugged. “Tell him I need an abortion for all I care. Just don’t tell him it’s for Tyler.”

“Is he okay?” She looked really concerned, and I didn’t blame her. She really did love the guys, all of them, but Tyler and Rob most of all.

“I think so.” I was far less worried about his condition than I was about the amount of Oxy the man had to take to dull the pain. He could live with arthritis, but that many meds could kill him.

I think I was the only one who could see the pain on his face that night while he played. I stood backstage in the shadows, tears rolling down my cheeks, watching his fingers fly over the neck of the guitar, knowing every motion had to hurt. When the show was over, I took him back to the bus. Celeste said she’d found a doctor and he was waiting for us. She also said she’d make our excuses to Rob as to why we missed the after-show meet and greet.

The doctor was a nice enough guy, dark skinned, Indian, wearing street clothes, not a lab coat. He introduced himself as Dr. Kohli. He asked Tyler a lot of questions, then made him strip down to his boxers and listened to his heart, his lungs and took his blood pressure. I could tell Tyler was hurting again—the Oxy was wearing off, and whatever uppers he’d taken to get through the show were too. He looked exhausted.

“I’ll give you an oral steroid prescription.” The doctor wrote something on his pad. “But you’ll have to go into the hospital if you want to get the injections again.”

“Isn’t there a way I can do them?” I asked. “We’re on the road. We just… we can’t stop.”

“They’d have to be administered by a medical professional.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how...”

“We can hire one,” I interjected. “To come in and do the shots. Would they help?”

“Did they help before?” Dr. Kohli asked.

“Yeah.” Tyler nodded. “A lot.”

“All right. I’ll have someone come by in the morning.”

“We’ll be gone by then,” I explained, glancing at the clock. We had a schedule to keep. The show had to go on and all that. “Roadies are packing up now. We’ll be on the road by five.”

“In the morning?” Dr. Kohli blinked in surprise.

“A. M.” Tyler nodded.

“That’s quite a schedule you keep. And I thought being on call was bad.” Dr. Kohli tapped his pen against his very white teeth. “Tell you what… I’ll call one of my residents at the hospital and have them meet me here. Unless you want to come to the hospital with me?”

“No.” Tyler was adamant, shaking his head. I knew what that tightening of his jaw meant. Stubborn man.

“He doesn’t want his band mates to know,” I confessed to the doctor, ignoring the sharp look Tyler gave me.

“I see.” The doctor gave a short nod. “Well, let me make a call. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Can I get something for the pain?” Tyler croaked as Dr. Kohli turned to go.

The doctor frowned as he glanced back, eyeing Tyler sitting on the edge of the bed in his boxers.

“I have a feeling you’re self-medicating, young man,” the doctor said in his accent with the shake of his head. “And I also have a feeling there’s more where that came from?”

“Well you wouldn’t be wrong there, Doc.” Tyler gave a little laugh, waving him off. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

The doctor gave another little nod, but he left without writing a prescription.

“It hurts, Katie.” Tyler put his head in my lap.

“Shh, just close your eyes. Rest. The doctor is going to come fix it all up,” I promised, stroking his hair. I’d never felt more like crying, but I held it back. I wanted to be strong for him, as strong as I could be. “It’s gonna be okay. I promise. It’s gonna be okay.”

“Don’t stop doing that,” he murmured.

“What?”

“Telling me.”

Oh, my fucking heart. He could break it in one breath.

“It’s gonna be okay,” I whispered, smoothing his hair back from his forehead.

I promised him, over and over, until I thought I might begin to believe it for myself.

The shots worked. It was a blessed relief. It took us three hours to get to Wichita and that was just enough time for the cortisone to work its magic. I woke up to the sound of Tyler’s guitar—not his electric, which could plug into the bus’s sound system and be heard through all of the speakers—but his acoustic one. He was playing some fun, intricate melody with a lot of changes and I smiled, still half-asleep, realizing it meant he was better.

Then he started to sing.

I’d never heard Tyler sing before. He’d never sung on a Trouble album—that was all Rob. None of the other band members did either. Rob Burns was Trouble, and everyone knew it. Tyler had been hailed repeatedly as a guitar legend, even as young as he was, but I had no idea he sang too. And he didn’t just sing—he was good!

Better than Rob, if you asked me, but maybe I was biased.

---

Who broke my bank like she broke my will?

Who cooked my heart up like a liquor still?

Who had my back when we cut and run?

Who held my hand when we went chasin' the sun?

She came along and knocked me on my ass.

I got back up and said let's do it again.

She ain't killed me yet but she keeps on tryin'.

If Katie kills me then I don't mind dyin'.

Who drove me outlaw, never take me alive?

Who's the only one that ever took me for a ride?

Who drove me crazy, baby, like a man insane?

Who made me lose it when she yanked my chain?

K-K-K-Katie did, man, it ain't no lie.

When you ask me who really really made me fly.

K-K-K-Katie did, man, if I'm lyin' I'm dyin'.

K-K-K-Katie did! K-K-K-Katie did!

She broke me open and she stole my heart.

I called the po-lice and I made a report.

The lawyers were the only ones who made it to court.

I grabbed my Katie and we headed for the border.

K-K-K-Katie did, man, it ain't no lie.

When you ask me who really really made me fly.

K-K-K-Katie did, man, if I'm lyin' I'm dyin'.

K-K-K-Katie did! K-K-K-Katie did!

---

I didn’t know the song, had never heard it before, but the words brought tears springing to my eyes. Listening to him play, hearing his voice, like sweet, orange honey, was like waking up to a miracle. I could only just look at him in awe. And the man wasn’t even trying. He was just playing, messing around, singing softly because he thought I was still asleep.

Singing about me.

When he glanced over and saw I was awake, watching him, he flushed, setting the guitar quickly aside and climbing back into bed with me, under the covers.

“You’re full of secrets, aren’t you?” I whispered, touching my forehead to his.

“I’m full of something.” He grinned.

“Are they better?” I kissed his calloused fingertips.

“Yeah. Here, let me see if they can still work their magic...” He slid a hand under the covers.

“Mmmm I like this test.” I parted my thighs for him. Oh, those magic fingers. He played me far better than any guitar—at least I thought so. Maybe the rest of the guitar loving world would argue that point, but they weren’t in our bedroom.

“Me too.” Tyler’s mouth followed his fingers.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, it did. That was my life with Tyler. It was always something else, something more. I tried to stay quiet, but it was impossible. The man didn’t just have magic fingers—those callouses could strum me to orgasm almost instantly, if he wanted it badly enough—but a magic tongue as well. Really, it was unfair for a man to be so damned talented, but I couldn’t complain.

I whimpered and writhed and eventually, in spite of my better judgment, he had me moaning and screaming and calling his name, begging him to stop, begging him to continue, forgetting completely that we existed in close quarters and everyone would later laugh and whisper and talk about Katie being a “screamer”.

Well, hell, what did they expect?

I couldn’t resist the man or keep my feelings for him in check, even when I tried.

The beautiful part was when Tyler let himself go too, when he let me climb on and go for a ride, roll my hips and rock on his cock like we were dancing to the sweetest music either of us had ever known. I loved looking down and watching his face at those times, seeing the emotion in his eyes, knowing exactly what he was thinking and feeling in the moment. We lost ourselves in each other, palm to palm, fingers linked, mouths meshed, slipping deeper together into the void.

I had to admit, sometimes I loved knowing there were other women on the bus hearing us fucking. Girls who wanted him too—but couldn’t have him. I loved it when he grabbed my hips, growling and thrusting deep as he came, calling my name repeatedly for everyone to hear. I didn’t mind being called Katie the Screamer on those occasions when we slipped out together to grab something from the fridge or loot another bottle of Jack from the booze cupboard.

But the sweetest, gentlest moments I’d ever known happened afterward, in Tyler’s arms, pressed belly to sweaty belly as Tyler traced hieroglyphics on my hip again and again. Those beautifully deft fingers, drawing tenderness all over my body.

“What are you writing?” I would whisper in his ear and he would smile that smug, secret smile, shaking his head, refusing to tell me.

I loved knowing there was more to discover about this man, that there always would be. He was my secret to keep, and that was just the way I liked it.

“Have you ever thought about leaving Trouble?” I asked him in the early morning light.

“Leave Trouble?” Tyler raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Why would I?”

“You could do a solo album.” I bit my lip, testing out my theory. “Call it… Katy Did.”

“You weren’t supposed to be awake yet.” He flushed. I’d never seen him actually look embarrassed by something before.

“But I was.” I poked one finger into the middle of his chest. “I heard every amazing word. You could do it all on your own, you know.”

“Trouble’s the bread and butter.” Tyler shrugged, shaking his head. “Besides, Rob’s been good to me. To all of us. I wouldn’t bail on him.”

“It doesn’t have to be an either-or proposition,” I reminded him and then grinned. “Besides, it would be a shame to keep a song like that from the world.”

“Brat.” He laughed, leaning in to kiss me. “Every song I write lately is about you.”

“That’s because I’m such awesomesauce.” I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him, feeling him still laughing. “Admit it, I’m the best thing that ever happened to you, Tyler Cook.”

“You can say that again.”

“I’m the—” I started, but he kissed me quiet, both of us still laughing.