I show up to soundcheck at the last possible minute.

I’m not exactly proud of the fact that I’ve resorted to avoidance, but I don’t have much choice. It’s either avoid her entirely or suffer the agony of standing three feet from her without being able to crush my lips against hers, to lay my hands on her skin and trace the fragile blue veins running beneath the surface like a roadmap to her most sensitive areas — first with my fingertips, then with my tongue.

My cock stiffens at the mere thought. A soldier standing at attention long after the war’s ended, ready to fight despite the fact that his commanding officer already called for a ceasefire.

The battle’s over, boys. A stunning defeat.

This love is a lost cause.

A month ago, floating on a surfboard in the most beautiful place on earth, I thought I’d experienced it: pure desolation.

I was wrong.

Rock bottom is not living in her absence. It’s the slow atrophy of watching her fade out of focus, effectively as the disease that stole her grandmother’s memories one by one.

Losing her when she’s still within reach is far worse than not seeing her at all.

The whole band is gathered on stage, waiting for me as crew members make last minute adjustments. I stand in the dark wings for a moment, simply watching her.

She laughs at something Linc says and my stomach turns to stone.

She smiles warmly in Aiden’s direction and my hands curl into fists.

“Still got it bad for her, huh?”

I whirl around toward the source of the voice, stunned to see the former stage manager from The Nightingale in Nashville sitting on an equipment case, legs criss-crossed in front of her. Seeing her instantly brings me back two years, to the nights me and the guys used to play in dives instead of arenas, our audience made up of barely-coherent bar flies instead of die-hard fans who paid for premium seats.

“Carly? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Felicity invited me.” She hops down from her perch and crosses to me, flashing her VIP badge. “Good to see you, Ryder.”

“Been a while.”

“That is has. A lot’s changed, since the last time I saw you.” Her head tilts, eyes darting over my shoulder to the girl on the stage. “And some things, not at all, apparently.”

I blow out a breath. “I didn’t know you and Felicity were still in touch.”

“Of course,” she says, like that should be obvious. “I mean, it wasn’t easy, what with her strange aversion to cellphones, but snail-mail was better than nothing. If she’d just fallen off the face of the earth without a trace, I would’ve totally… Oh.” She blushes when she sees the dark expression on my face. “Right. Sorry.”

“I’m glad to hear she kept a few of her ties intact.” My smile is razor-sharp. “I guess it was easier for her to cut some of us out of her life than others.”

“Ryder—”

My jaw clenches. “They’re waiting. I should get out there.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean to hold you up.”

I take two steps before she calls out my name. Turning back, I lift my brows in question.

“I don’t know all the details about what happened to her while she was away from here. I don’t even know exactly why she left. But I do know, despite what you might think… it wasn’t easy for her. Not at all.” She swallows nervously. “Still isn’t, if you ask me.”

She’s only trying to help, but her words make me want to put my fist through the closest wall. With a terse nod, I turn and stride out onto the stage.

“Look who finally dragged his ass to soundcheck,” Linc calls from behind his drum set. “The ball couldn’t start without you, Cinderella.”

“We’ve been waiting twenty minutes.” Aiden frowns at me from the opposite side of the stage, where he’s talking to one of the sound engineers.

“Don’t blame me — blame the traffic from all the people tail-gating outside,” I mutter, avoiding their eyes as I take my place by my mic. When I look out over the arena, I lose my breath at the sheer magnitude. All those empty seats — in a few hours, they’ll be full of people listening to our songs, singing along to our words…

“Surreal, isn’t it?” Felicity says quietly from my left. There’s a tremor in her voice. “Hard to believe that many people are coming to see us.”

I don’t respond as I sling my guitar strap over one shoulder and make a few adjustments to the tuning pegs. Turning to look back at Aiden, I call, “Let’s get started.”

The small sound of hurt that comes from Felicity’s throat nearly brings me to my knees, but I don’t spare her so much as a glance. The rage that’s been simmering inside me for the past two weeks, as I’ve sat through interview after interview, listening to her tell the world we’re better off friends, is suddenly threatening to boil over.

Silence is the only thing keeping an explosion contained. Every time I open my mouth, it’s harder and harder to swallow down all the things I want to say to her. Things she’s made pretty damn clear she has no interest in hearing.

When the sound engineer gives us the green light, we launch into Don’t Break My Heart — a catchy, opening number that will have the crowd dancing in their seats within the first few chords. Aiden wanted to start with one of our slower songs, but we overruled him.

This is a stadium tour, not an acoustic open-mic night.

We play the first verse, starting and stopping three separate times while the tech team tweaks the speaker system and adjusts the overhead spotlights. I blink away stars as the beams shoot straight into my retinas, blindingly bright.

From the corner of my eye, I can see Felicity doing the same.

We’ve spent the past few weeks practicing on the makeshift platforms at Route 66, but that can’t compare to being here, standing on the real stage. Built like a capital T, a narrow catwalk extends to a round secondary platform in the middle of the pit section. Later in the set, we’ll leave our mic stands behind and walk out there to play in the heart of the crowd, singing back to back as a sea of swaying fans stare at us from all angles.

The technicians test every microphone, light fixture, and speaker, before they release us to relax and get ready. One final hour of downtime before the doors open. All four of us are eerily silent as we walk to the backstage lounge, the looming reality of our first show intimidating enough to momentarily subdue even Lincoln’s usual chatter.

At least, until the door to our backstage suite swings open and he spots Carly sitting on the sectional, sipping a soda.

“I don’t recall requesting a hot blonde on my rider!” His grin is a mile wide.

“In your dreams, Travers,” she shoots back, rolling her eyes. When they drift to Aiden, her smile falters and her cheeks flush red. “Hi, Aiden.”

“Carly.” He nods, unreadable as ever. A beat of silence passes as they stare at each other, until Aiden turns and walks stiffly into the bathroom.

Huh.

“How’d it go?” Carly asks brightly, looking back at her best friend as though nothing strange has just occurred.

“Swell,” Felicity mutters, sounding uncharacteristically dark as she plunks herself down on the sofa.

I tell myself it’s not my concern, that I should look away, but I can’t keep my eyes from lingering on her face, examining the small indentation between her brows that tells me she’s lost in deep thought, the way she chews her bottom lip that informs me she’s swimming in nerves. I want to smooth my thumb across that line, to plant a warm kiss on that troubled lip.

But you can’t. It’s not your job to be her shoulder to lean on, anymore.

Gritting my teeth, I tear my eyes away from her and force myself to walk to the refreshment table. While Carly may not have been on Linc’s rider, plenty of other shit was. There’s a full spread of snacks, fruit, and refreshments, including a chilled platter of jumbo shrimp. A glass mini-fridge displays an array of cold soda, beer, water, and wine.

“Is this all for us?” I ask, glancing over at Linc.

He twists the cap off a cold beer, grinning. “Bet your ass.”

“There’s four of us, not forty. We don’t need even half this stuff.”

“Dude, everyone who plays arenas like this has a list of demands. The venues expect it. It’s all part of the lifestyle.”

I snort.

“What’s the use of making it to the top if you don’t enjoy the view while you’re there?” He shrugs. “And it’s not like I asked for fresh caviar and bottles of Dom.”

“Fish eggs and a champagne headache — sounds more like a criminal sentence than the lifestyle of the rich and famous.” I grab a water from the fridge and twist off the cap. “You nervous?”

“Me? Nah.” His easy grin can’t quite cover the fear in his eyes. “Can’t rattle a drummer.”

“‘Cause your brains are already scrambled from all that stick-pounding?”

He shoves me good-naturedly. “Why do you ask? Are you nervous?”

“Fuck yeah,” I say, swallowing a sip. “‘Cause my brain is still in tact.”

“You sure about that?” Aiden interjects, catching the tail-end of our conversation as he walks out of the bathroom. His dark eyes sweep the room, lingering a heartbeat too long on the couch where Carly and Felicity are caught up in hushed discussion. His voice drops. “When the fuck did she get here?”

“Carly?” My brows lift. “Today, I think.”

“I’ll rephrase. Why the fuck is she here?”

“I assume Felicity invited her to tag along on the road, at least for a little while.”

“This is a tour, not a slumber party.” His whisper is gruff, but low enough to keep the girls from overhearing. “The bus is going to be crowded enough without her taking up a bunk. She’s deadweight we don’t need.”

I blink, stunned by the threads of anger in his tone. Aiden is one of the most even-keeled guys I’ve ever met. He doesn’t rattle easily. And yet, something about this pixie-like blonde girl’s presence has him undeniably rattled.

Lincoln scoffs. “I for one do not mind her tagging along. I’ve wanted in on that action since the first time we played at The Nightingale.”

Aiden’s glower is so dark, I think for a moment he might do something insane, like throw a punch. While Linc and I have had our fair share of scuffles over the years, I can’t recall a time Aiden ever lifted so much as a finger against either of us.

Thankfully, he manages to get himself under control. Turning on one heel, he stalks out of the suite muttering something about finding Francesca before the show.

Lincoln pauses, a cocktail shrimp halfway to his mouth. “What’s his problem?”

“Hell if I know,” I murmur, my eyes sliding from the doorway to the couch and back.

“Honestly…” Lincoln shoves another shrimp between his lips and swallows. “Forget the physical space limitations; we’ve got an awful lot of emotional baggage to fit on one tour bus.”

I sigh. “I’m going to get changed. Try not to choke on a shrimp, while I’m gone.”

His laughter chases me as I disappear into the adjacent dressing room.