Getting back on the road was almost a relief. Iris still felt drained from her illness and more than a little confused about her feelings, but at least out here, there were things to do. She tried to keep the boys occupied, who were going stir crazy. Their dad was always running off to do press or shows or hang out with his rock star buddies, which was fine with her—when he was nearby, the tension was unbearable. It wasn’t the hostile tension of the tour’s early days, though. It was far worse. Her entire body felt him when he was close, and the temperature in the room seemed to jump twenty degrees. She felt every look he gave her, and it was only getting worse.

He might have been trying to shut out some inner voices and feelings himself. It seemed bone-rattling industrial metal was always blasting from somewhere whenever he was on the bus, stuff that would’ve made her parents clutch their crucifixes. There were always people around. Beyond the bus walls was nothing but a chaotic blur of faces and drunken laughter and music, though she never witnessed Elijah partake of any substances himself. Her little sleeping bunk became a haven, and she hoped this wasn’t about to become the hedonistic nightmare that Heidi had predicted. He still seemed like the protective father he’d started out being, but obviously for many of the others on the tour, the party was just getting started.

Dallas was interesting. Hotter than hell with sauna-like humidity. The venue was open air, allowing no reprieve from the inferno, and concert-goers were passing out or getting sick left and right. Too much alcohol mixed with too little water and too much heat, and their bodies couldn’t handle it. Iris watched medics cart several people out of the crowds from her safe vantage point at the side of the stage. It wasn’t time for Ruin to go on yet, but they were taking in one of the opening bands. Seger was a big fan.

“Fucking fires of Gehenna,” Elijah muttered as the set wrapped up, wiping the back of his hand across his brow. Under her shirt, Iris felt another drop of sweat trickle down her back. She’d twisted her hair up in a bun and was fanning herself with a set list that some random roadie had handed her. Eli wore a rugged T-shirt with the sleeves cut out, the holes way oversized, revealing not only his powerful arms but a lot of smooth inked torso. She tried not to look, but her eyes kept going there, and her hands ached to slip under that shirt and touch. Iris wasn’t alone, clearly, because every woman who walked by made eyes at him. She should be used to that by now.

The lead singer of the band—she never could remember names—came over and high-fived the boys, taking a second to greet Eli and sign Seger’s T-shirt. While he was doing so, his eyes met Iris’s over the boy’s head, and he smiled.

Cute. She’d noticed him around. He was young, his band new on the scene, or so she’d heard. Closer to her age. Suddenly she wished she could remember names. He didn’t seethe with raw sex appeal like the man next to her, and who knew what depravities he was about to go partake in, but he looked somehow safer. When his smile and his eyes lingered on her a little longer than necessary, she tore her attention away and put it dutifully on the boys until he moved on. “Come on, guys. Let’s go cool off.”

“Good idea,” Eli said, and the bite in his tone made her look at him in surprise.

He’d noticed that exchange. Brief as it had been, he didn’t seem very happy about it, jaw set in a firm line. Iris frowned at him, guiding the boys away as roadies flocked to the stage to change the set. “What’s the matter?” she asked, pulling her sunglasses down over her eyes as they emerged from the chaos into blinding, relentless sunlight. Seger and Dylan, as usual, ran ahead of them, everything a race.

“Nothing.”

She’d somehow known he was going to deny it. So she decided to milk it. “What’s his name?”

“Whose name?”

“The singer of that band we just watched. And what’s their name?”

“His name is Aaron Santigar. The band is First Strike.” She could positively hear the irritated growl in his voice.

“They’re pretty good. I guess. I mean, I don’t know much about this kind of music.”

“They’re talented. Just kids coming up. If they can keep their shit together, they have a chance to go far.”

“Kids? He looked to be about my age.” God, maybe even younger.

“I don’t know how fuckin’ old he is, Iris.”

“Well. Bite my head off, why don’t you. Because I showed some interest in the music for once.”

“It wasn’t the music you were showing interest in.”

She drew herself up. “So?”

He opened his mouth, paused, shut it again. She almost had to trot to keep up with his pace. “Never mind.”

“Are you mad?” she asked.

“Why would I be mad?”

“You seem mad.”

“Be careful around these guys, Iris. All of them.”

She drew a hot, humid breath in through her nose. “I should be careful around you.”

“Yeah. I’m including myself in that.”

Before she could reply, he stopped to talk to the tour manager, who’d been approaching from the direction of the buses. Seeing they had a few things to discuss, Iris beat a hasty escape, following the boys onto the bus where the air conditioning was bliss. Seger needed to work on his math, but even after she wrangled him to the table and began the lessons, she couldn’t keep her mind off Eli’s words. Be careful around these guys. Himself included.

All she’d done was smile at someone, jeez. Every woman who walked past Eli looked him up and down, back to front. Earlier today, when they’d first left the bus into the oven-blast of Dallas heat, a girl had sauntered up to him in booty shorts, fringe boots and a tiny top that looked painted on.

Flawlessly sculpted body. Blonde hair cascading from beneath a jaunty black cap. She’d talked to him without hesitation, touched him several times, laughed brightly, tall and cool and bronzed and the exact kind of woman Iris would expect him to chase after. A Heidi clone. Brimming with a self-confidence that seemed almost surreal.

But after a few moments he’d torn himself away and continued on to catering with Iris and the boys. She still kept looking around for that girl to reappear. Heck, if Iris had been a man, she probably would’ve gone for her.

Seger caught her smirking at her own thought. “What is it?” he asked, because he was always trying to get out of working his math problems.

“Oh, nothing. Just stay a kid as long as you can.”

“Do you like my dad?”

Iris had been flipping a pencil over and over again in her hands, lost in thought, but it froze at his question. “What?”

“My dad.” His perceptive green eyes followed her every move, seeing everything. “Do you like him?”

“Well, I mean, sure. I don’t not like him.”

“I mean do you like like him.”

She had been his age once. She remembered the seriousness of like like. “Oh, Seger. That’s . . .” God, what to say? Kid had put her directly in the hot seat. Couldn’t very well tell him Eww, gross, no, I don’t like your dad. And couldn’t very well tell the truth, either. “That’s so not an appropriate question.”

“Why not?”

“It just isn’t. And you have work to finish.”

“Can’t I do it later?”

“No dice, apple slice.”

“Ugh.” He sat back, exasperated. “This is lame.”

He looked so much like his father right then, she had to smile. It was Elijah’s own Mini-me, brooding eyes, low-set eyebrows, a lock of hair falling stubbornly into his face. When he grew up, he was going to be an absolute ladykiller. She almost felt sorry for all the hearts he would break.

She also knew it wasn’t any lack of understanding that made him struggle in some areas of study, it was that he hated sitting still unless he was highly interested in the subject—science was no problem for him, for instance—or had a game controller in his hand. “But you’re doing so well. You’ve got this. Let’s keep going. The sooner you get done, the sooner you can do something else, right?”

He gave her a pouting look that almost said he could go do something else right now if he wanted to, and there was little Iris could do to stop him. He was almost as big as she was. Instead, though, he sighed heavily, sat up and picked up his pencil again. “Okay.”

“Good. Thank you.” She also felt sorry for his dad when that true teen rebellion kicked in.

“I still think you like my dad, though.” He said, smirking as he focused on his paper again.

“Seger!”

––––––––

QUIN WAS BECOMING A problem, and Elijah wasn’t sure what to do about it.

He never considered himself anyone’s boss. He was the frontman, and the guys usually deferred to him musically, but when it came to big decisions, they all made them together.

A few nights ago, Quin had held a party in his suite and trashed the fucking place, typical rock star bullshit Eli thought they had outgrown years ago. So now they had to cough up damages, and they were banned from that establishment for life. No big deal, really, but it pissed off their promoters, which pissed him off.

And right now, mere hours before their headlining set was supposed to start, Quin was so messed up on something that their tour manager was afraid they wouldn’t be able to use him tonight.

Lead fucking guitarist, and they might have to get the tech to fill in for him unless Eli thought he could play Quin’s parts himself. Goddammit. As Eli stormed up Quin’s bus steps, he knew he could, but he didn’t fucking want to. He liked working the entire stage with only the mic in his hand, that was his dynamic, it was the way it had always been. Strapping him down with a guitar was going to seriously fuck up his presence. Besides that, he was good, but he knew he wasn’t as good as Quin—when Quin was straight, anyway—and the fans deserved to get their money’s worth.

“Aw, fuck,” he snarled when he laid eyes on his bandmate. Quin laughed maniacally and waved at him, his eyes flashing strangely. “He’s on fucking X, Dan.”

Their tour manager sighed, lacing his fingers behind his head as they looked down on the sorry sight of their star guitarist as he wallowed on his bare mattress, the sheets lying in stinking piles on the floor. The bus smelled like sour sweat and stale beer and pussy. Dan said he had just thrown three groupies off. Quin had probably scored the Molly off one of them.

“Wouldn’t be the first time he played while he was rolling,” Dan observed, wiping one hand down his stubbled jaw. He was usually a clean-cut, average looking middle-aged guy, but dealing with this one had aged him almost overnight.

“I’m ready, maaaan!” Quin insisted, playing air guitar for their benefit, then fell back on the bed laughing.

“I don’t want him on my fucking stage.”

“We might not have any choice if we want the show to go on, E.”

What did he always harp on to these young guys who came to him for advice on longevity in the industry? Keep. Your. Shit. Together. You aren’t here for good times, you’re here for love of the music and the fans. Quin was turning him into a fucking fool in front of everyone by behaving this way.

He hated canceling a concert more than anything. It was never something he took lightly. Aside from the financial hit everyone took, there were the fans to consider. In this case, it came down to offering them a subpar show today or disappointing them even more to come back and give them their money’s worth later. Either way, they were fucked. People would bitch over Quin not playing, and people would bitch over a postponement. But Dylan and Seger liked watching the shows, and he wasn’t having them anywhere near this shit. “I can’t fucking believe this.”

“We can try it with him,” Dan suggested, “and have Trip on standby. Or you.”

“I’d rather Trip do it all. He knows the parts even better than I do.” Their guitar tech was badass in his own right.

“Stand him offstage?”

“No, put him on. He deserves it.”

“I’m on it.” Dan gave him a somber glance and left, leaving Eli alone with Quin. He wanted to snatch him off the bed and beat the everloving fuck out of him.

“You aren’t sitting me out,” Quin complained, apparently lucid enough to have caught the gist of what just happened.

“Are you trying to kill yourself, asshole, or just your career?”

“I feel good, man. It’s all good. I’m ready to go on.”

“You’re not ready, you’re an embarrassment, and you’re not leaving this nasty fuckin’ bus until you come down. Sit and wallow in your own shit for all I care, but I don’t want to lay eyes on you until you’re straight. You get me?”

“Fuck you, Vance. You don’t run shit. You don’t run me.”

“All right.” He couldn’t take the sight of him one more minute, so he turned and left. He’d been trying to put this train wreck back on the track for too long. It was time to have a meeting about Quin, and show the motherfucker who ran shit around here.