The 405 is not a good place for epiphanies.

Practicing rage management techniques, yes, but today I get an epiphany and four lanes of stopped traffic between me and an exit.

I hadn’t heard a word from Grady. Not a single text since we talked on the phone. Until last night.

Plane just landed in LA. Might want to put your safety goggles on.

Half asleep, I’d squinted at it until my vision blurred, then tossed it back to my nightstand. I had another five am call time, another horrid shoot, and was now stuck in traffic. The only station not playing sports updates every three minutes was the rock station.

Who instead was having an eighties rock marathon.

I needed to get a car with a CD player.

What the hell were they up to? Mind turning his text message over and over, it takes a few lines until the song currently playing penetrates my brain.

The Cult’s “Fire Woman.” My nickname namesake song.

The universe has a funny way of bitch-slapping you sometimes.

Adrenaline spikes through my system, making my hands tremble as I whip my head around, trying to find a break in the line of cars slowly starting to move in the next lane.

Suzy was right. Good things come from the worst mistakes.

Twenty minutes and a mile later, I finally get over another lane.

Simon was wrong. What it is will always be more important than what it looks like.

Only half a mile and fifteen minutes for the next lane.

Blood roars in my ears like a packed stadium screaming for an encore.

Into the last lane, and down the exit ramp.

Grady was the most right of all. I do spend too much time worrying about potential damage to enjoy the show.

It was time to blow shit up.

After I incinerate my career, I’ll fuse Grady and I back together.

Then I’ll beg Terrel for any available job on the road crew.

It’s the least detailed plan I’ve ever made, but it’s enough for me to storm past his secretary and into Simon Watts’s office.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he barks from where he’s standing behind his desk, face a livid red that only gets deeper as he glares at me.

“I am done holding fire extinguishers and fending off cheap jokes. You know damn well I am qualified for more than that. Consider this my two weeks’ notice.”

“Two weeks’ notice? Do you have any idea how much shit you’ve caused me?” He picks up a sheaf of papers and slams them back onto the desk, scattering other papers and office supplies. I suppress a flinch, but take a step back.

“Because of you, your dickwad boyfriend and his fucking band cancelled their contract. I’d sue you for the damn money I’m losing, but you’d just suck his dick until he paid it.”

I heave a sigh. “You always underestimate people, you co—” I can’t bring myself to call him a cockbag, that term is forever saved for Grady now. “You conceited asshat. Contracts have buyout clauses, and Bourbon Suicide has far better managers and lawyers than you could ever hope for. You’re not suing me because you got anything that contract grants you.”

The vein in his neck throbs so hard I can see it from across the room. He stalks around the desk and I reach behind me for the door handle.

Jabbing a finger at the air in front of my face, he lowers his voice, but the threat just makes me laugh. “They thought they could demand your reassignment to that tour. Said your replacement was adequate, but not up to the standards laid out in the contract, giving them grounds to terminate without penalty. But the joke’s on them, because they’re going to pay every cent of that penalty, and I’m going make sure no company will ever work with them, or hire you, ever again.”

The grin that slowly spreads across my face even feels evil. Grady would love it. “You go right ahead and try that. You have no idea what your reputation really is. You think you have leverage? Find out.”

I press the door handle and back out of the room.

“You can shove those two weeks up your fat ass!” he screams at me. “Your termination letter is waiting out there!”

All the shouting drew a crowd. Eyes wide, the secretary holds out an envelope. I snatch it from her trembling fingers and raise an eyebrow at the people crowding the door.

They scramble quickly back to their work stations and I take long, fast strides out the door and into my car. Thankfully, the door latches on the first pull and I’m out of the parking lot before it all catches up to me.

They tried to get me back. They cancelled the contract over it.

The penalty was in the millions of dollars.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Pulse racing, I finally find a spot to pull over a few blocks later and take a deep breath. In two…three…four…out two…three…four…

It takes three cycles before I realize it’s the opening to the sixth song on the set list.

The steering wheel cover abrades my forehead as I roll my head back and forth. At least the initial impact was cushioned.

I pull out my phone. His voicemail picks up on the second ring. I hang up and immediately call back. Then send a text. Then send five more. Then call again.

Once you know the formulas, chemical reactions are predictable. Except the chemicals crashing through my system, leaving me shaky and freaking out.

What the hell did they do? What did Grady do? Why did their people let them do it?

“And why aren’t you answering your damned phone?” I scream at the dark device, startling the little old lady walking a dachshund.

My deep breaths blow across my palm as I circle my thumb over my scar. The gesture does far less to calm me down now that my libido associates it with Grady’s lips and tongue.

Then the trill of my phone startles me, a little instant karmic payback.

Bax’s name appears on the screen. Cue another rogue firework. I swipe to answer it.

“So you may have noticed by now that we did a thing,” he says by way of greeting. I pull the phone from my ear and stare at it. He’s so nonchalant about it he’s eating. I can hear him crunching and chewing.

“A thing?” I finally repeat. “You say it like you changed a roll of toilet paper.”

“A thing I can also do, by the way. So put a few extra checks on your scorecard by my name.”

“I am not scoring you. Besides, you don’t get points for basic life skills.”

“Do I get points for awesome drumstick trick sex skills?”

I roll my eyes and growl a warning. “Bax…”

He just laughs. “Look how far we’ve come since Vegas! Which is a good thing, because of the thing we did. So can you stop at our management office?”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Dude. Say fucking please at least.” This from Dodge, and then, from James, “Deduct points for invitation etiquette, Evie.”

“I am not keeping score!”

“We’re going to be here for a while, so if you’re free, just come over. Reception is expecting you.”

“Okay, Noah gets a cookie.”

Three voices rise in protest. Grady’s voice is suspiciously absent and the adrenaline kicks back up a bit. I stop myself from asking about him at the last possible second, though an uncomfortable silence develops.

“I like snickerdoodles,” Noah finally says.

Two cookies.

They’re still warm when I hand them to him in the conference room an hour later. His smile is bright for me and snickering for the other guys.

Grady isn’t in the room. Not a single sign of him. I scan as much of the hallway as I can see through the open double doors and wall of windows.

“He isn’t here,” Bax says gently, pulling out a chair for me. “Said it was important you know this is a business decision that we all made together and that you get to decide as a business decision too. Whatever you two do outside of that is up to the two of you and will not affect this.”

I scoff, even as my ass hits the chair. “I don’t think it’s that easy. No matter what sort of business you’re talking about.”

Dodge pushes off the table and rolls his chair around beside me, bumping into my shoulder with his. “Sure it is. It’s only rock and roll, after all.” He winks at me and despite myself, I chuckle, a little maniacally. I am not adrenaline junkie material.

“Okay, time to do the serious stuff,” Terrel says, slapping a folder in front of me and pushing Dodge out of the way to sit beside me. On my other side, the band’s business manager David Alster also takes a seat and gets right to it.

“As of nine o’clock this morning, Bourbon Suicide terminated their contract with BlastFX, with an expensive penalty and a lot of personal satisfaction.”

By the smiles and smirks around the table, they care more about the personal satisfaction.

“Which left us with a problem,” David continues.

“That I was already solving,” Terrel chimes in.

“And that we like the solution to,” James finishes.

“We’re going to hire you outright for the remainder of this tour,” Terrel says, pulling a pen out of his pocket and flipping open the folder. “The discharge of your contract, and the non-compete clause, were part of the negotiations.”

I gape at him for a full minute, then jolt when a fingertip brushes the scar under my chin.

“Sorry.” Hand still extended, Bax scrunches up his face sheepishly. “Your mouth is sort of hanging open.”

That Bax, King of the First Times, can be sheepish is almost as shocking as the job offer. My teeth clack as I snap my jaw shut.

Then promptly open it again. Then shut it.

Noah nudges James and stage whispers, “Have you ever seen her speechless before?”

“Maybe we need to tell her Grady tried to pay the whole penalty so she’ll get mad and start calling him a cockbag.”

“He fucking what?”

“Told you that would do it.” James laughs and extends his palm toward Bax.

“Motherfucker,” the drummer grumbles, lifting out of his chair enough to pull his wallet out of his back pocket.

“If you gentleman,” David says the word in a way that makes it clear he considers them anything but, “can hold off on the bets for a few minutes, there are some details to discuss with Miss Pearson.”

“Miss Pearson? When the fuck did we get formal?” Dodge asks, leaning back in his chair to put his feet on the table. “Family calls each other by their first names. Or nicknames. Pet names…”

Terrel scrubs a hand down his face. “Anyway. This is the contract, Evie. It’s good for the rest of this tour. During that time, we’ll continue looking into several possibilities for the future, though with over a year remaining on this tour, we have plenty of time to make a decision.”

I look down at the contract, all the usual legalese on the front page.

“It has some, um, unusual clauses,” David says uneasily. “Though I want to make clear, the entire band agreed to them. Suggested most of them actually. All are legal, though you have the right to have your own lawyer look over the contract. I strongly recommend that. If you have any questions, all of my contact information is in the folder.”

I nod, scanning over the front page. David raps his knuckles twice on the table before pushing another sheaf of papers in front of me.

“We do need you to go ahead and sign this NDA though. It concerns the termination of the contract with BlastFX, not the contract we’re offering you.”

Terrel hands me the pen and after a quick glance, I sign it and hand the pen and NDA back. Damn lawyers. Of course that weasel made sure there was an NDA.

“You will note,” David says, “that NDA specifies not talking to the media, postings on the internet, anyone currently contracted with BlastFX, and those in certain industry-related organizations. It does not prohibit disclosures between private individuals not covered under those conditions.”

“Such a shame how roadies gossip, isn’t it?” James says offhandedly.

“Especially those techs. If I wear polka dot underwear, I swear my guitar tech tells everyone he’s ever met within an hour,” Dodge adds.

“And don’t forget those concert promoters,” Bax says around a potato chip. “Especially those blonde bombshells.”

The mention of Suzy tugs the corner of my lips up. They did this for her, too.

“Congratulations. You are now officially free of BlastFX. Too bad you’re stuck with us.” When I look up, Terrel winks at me and leans back in his chair.

“That confident I’m going to sign this contract, huh?”

One slow nod. “I’m betting the ink is dry before sunset.”