If he wants my approval, he’s not going to get it. But he’s not going to get my disapproval either, because I have no right to give it.

He’s not mine. He never was.

“I heard that too,” Victoria says as Mike’s shoulder parts from mine. He heads for a table full of food and drinks in the corner, and I gravitate toward Joel’s arm of the couch, watching as Victoria turns her smile down at Shawn, who looks like he always does after a show—worn out but wide awake, like he pushed past exhaustion and decided he never needs to sleep again. His irises are darker, his hair is damp and curling at the tips, and his entire body looks like it would sizzle at the touch. I’ve spent nights wondering how his chest would feel against mine, right after a show, when we’re both still fueled with adrenaline and stage light. Now, Victoria is the one trailing her fingers over his collarbone.

He turns his chin up and meets her gaze.

“Not you though, right?” Victoria continues, her hazel eyes sparkling down at Shawn as she brazenly asks if he has a girlfriend. “You’re still up for grabs.”

Aaand that’s my cue. Not waiting to hear his answer, I push off the couch and meet Mike at the food table. I grab a cookie, take a bite, and pour myself a much-needed shot of vodka, swallowing it down and scrunching my face at the aftertaste—a welcome distraction.

“When we get big enough,” Mike says as I try to reverse-lick the cookie-hairspray taste out of my mouth, “I’m demanding there be pizza at every show.” His big fingers lift a petite mini-sandwich to his mouth, and he makes a face at it before popping it in his mouth.

“I’d ask for a froyo machine,” I counter. And right now? I’d drown myself in it.

“What flavor?”

“All of them.”

Mike chuckles as we both turn back toward the room and lean against the table. I stand at his side—trying to avoid glancing at Shawn, and failing. My heart aches with jealously at the way Victoria can flirt with him like I never could. At the way she can touch him like I never can.

“I heard Van Halen likes M&Ms,” I continue, “but with all the brown ones removed.”

Mike swallows down another mini-sandwich. “Seriously?”

“Yep.” I peel my eyes from Shawn, pinning them on Mike and commanding them to stay there. “And Mariah Carey likes furry animals backstage.” When he lifts a thick brown eyebrow, I explain, “Like kittens and puppies and stuff.”

“You’re kidding . . . ”

“Nope. I did a paper on backstage request lists in college. And that’s not even the weirdest thing. Marilyn Manson requests a bald hooker with no teeth.”

Mike’s disturbed expression gives way to a short laugh, and then he shouts across the room, “Joel! Did you know that someday, you’ll be able to put a bald toothless hooker on your backstage request list instead of having to track one down yourself?”

And of all the questions Joel could ask after he spins around on the couch, the one he chooses is, “What the hell is a backstage request list?”

“It’s a list you give the tour organizers,” some random person in the room answers, “of all the shit to have ready for you backstage.”

Joel’s elbows slip from the back of the couch as he whirls on Shawn. “Why don’t we have one of those?”

“You could,” Victoria croons, her long fingernails dancing up the side of Shawn’s neck. “Most of our bands—”

“Not happening.” Shawn unceremoniously shifts her off his lap before making his way over to me and Mike. As acting manager of our band, it’s his job to handle music execs like Victoria’s dad. The guys support his decisions, and so do I—especially if they involve pissing off Victoria in the process.

“You could be so big!” she protests.

“Will be,” Shawn corrects. His shoulder brushes mine as he collects the vodka bottle and a stack of disposable shot glasses, but he doesn’t even glance at me before walking back over to Victoria.

“Don’t you want the fame? The money? The girls?”

He sinks back into the couch and sets the vodka and shot glasses on the table, immediately unscrewing the cap. “Not if it means selling my soul.”

“Vicki thinks souls are overrated,” Adam taunts, earning a smirk from Shawn, who’s busy pouring the world’s messiest round of shots. “Isn’t that right, Vicki?”

Victoria sticks her tongue out at him while Shawn swallows two shots in short order, but she loses her good mood when he holds the third up for me. “Kit?”

My name on his lips is like a foreign thing, something that happened before Victoria and not after. I take the shot in a sort of daze, feeling her eyes on me as my fingers close around the clear plastic. When Shawn settles back into the leather couch cushion, she crosses one of her legs over his, and I get her message loud and clear. I sit on the arm of the opposite couch, declining the second shot he offers me because the last thing I need to do tonight is get drunk and emotional. He shrugs and downs his third.

“Look, I get it,” Victoria says, her pink tongue flicking over the vodka on her lips. “You’re not ready to sign with anyone. Whatever. You have my number when you are. I didn’t come all this way just to talk business.”

“What’d you come for then?” Joel asks, taking the bait she dangles.

“To see all of you, of course.” She turns her meat-eating eyes on Shawn and gives him a photo-ready smile. “I missed you.”