The bad thing about waking up in hotel rooms is I never know which side of the bed the nightstand is on. This morning, it doesn’t even matter, since my phone is on the floor in my jeans.

“Hey, Mama,” I grumble when I finally manage to answer it on the third call.

“Morning, baby,” she says, the faintest hint of a Southern accent still there, even after thirty-some years in LA. “How was the show last night?”

I almost kissed Evie last night, which wiped out all memory of the show before it. “People screamed, no one fell off the stage, and I still have a voice. So, good?”

She chuckles, equal parts wry and knowing. “Not blowing out your voice is always a good thing. I’m sorry to wake you up, but I’m going to be at the club all day getting a show together, and I just got the preliminaries for the next festival. You have a minute to send whoever’s in your bed on their way and answer a few questions?”

I pull my head out from under the pillow and look around, even though I already know I’m alone. The sheets stick to my dick, evidence of the dreams I had about Evie last night, though I’m not about to tell my mom that, no matter how cool she is.

“We’re good, hit me with your questions.”

There’s silence from the other end, then, “Are you feeling okay? I mean, whatever you want to be doing, but that’s not like you on tour.”

I slump back and throw an arm across my eyes. A perk of having a video vixen for a mom is that she’s not only seen it all, she’s done it all. And then some, probably. “Yeah. Um. So I got a problem.”

“What kind of problem? Do you need to see a doctor? Give me a minute and I’ll find you the name of one.”

That’s my mama, even her worry is no-nonsense get-shit-fixed. “No, nothing like that. But thanks. It’s um…”

“Grady, spit it out before I run every worst case I can think of.”

“No one worst cases like you.” I smile, but there’s only more silence. I’ve sent her into Mama Bear Mode and slump a little even though she can’t see the guilt. “I like a girl. And she hates my guts.”

The look in Evie’s eyes when I leaned in last night flashes across my closed eyelids. “Well, maybe not hates, but she’s not happy about being hot for me.”

“Who is she and how did you meet her on tour?”

“Our new pyrotechnician.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“That could present a few problems.”

The sigh gusts out of me and I wince at sounding like a love-struck teenager. I don’t remember having ever been love struck, as a teenager or otherwise. I don’t like it.

“First things first. Do you like her more because she isn’t interested?”

The thought hadn’t occurred to me. I bite my lip and pull at the sheets to sit up. I’m going to have to leave housekeeping an extra big tip to make up for this mess.

“Maybe at first, but she’s exhausted from rooming with Gobber and—”

“Why is she rooming with Gobber?”

“Huh? Oh, she’s supposed to room with Lass, but Lass is with Skeet now and Skeet was rooming with Gobber and they switched.”

“Poor girl. Noble cause, but she better start getting some sleep before she blows one of you up.”

An idea itches at the back of my brain, but it won’t form until I’ve had some caffeine. “Yeah, so that’s why I don’t think it’s the challenge. As soon as I wiped the dirt off her face and saw the bags, all I wanted to do was wrap her up in a quiet spot and let her sleep for a month.”

“You turned out okay, you know that?”

“Only because of you.”

Her coffee cup clicks against the phone, and I can see the small smile she’s wearing. I’m glad I can still put one there after all the years and shit we’ve been through. Some papers rustle and she asks, “Is it you or the rock star she doesn’t like? Because I gotta tell ya, baby, rock star you is a lot to handle for more than an occasional fuck.”

She’s said this about my dad too. It’s true on both counts, though she made sure it was one of few things he and I have in common.

“She’s fine with the rest of the band.”

“Is she hot for the rest of the band?”

The sudden urge to punch all four of them clenches my fist. Punches have flown before, but never over a woman. I take a deep breath and think it through. “No, she’s not. It’s all light-hearted jabs with them. She’s never done a rock tour before,” I add.

“So she’s in a new environment, where female roadies are still rare, and the rock star is all over her. Yeah, no idea why she might be pushing you off.” Suzy Baker may be all cut-offs and big blonde curls, but her sarcasm game is top notch.

“Is this the part where you tell me not to fuck where I work?” I mean it as a joke, but it falls flat.

“Don’t fuck where you work? All you do is fuck where you work. Try {dating.”

I don’t bother pointing out that dating leads to relationships, which for me have to be long-distance because of touring and not doing that again.

Only Evie’s on tour with us. Close. So close.

Just not for very long.

So much for that.

She takes a deep breath, toning it down when she continues, “I’m not sure about dating someone who works for you either, as I’m sure the rest of the band will agree, but if you want to anyway, show her the guy you are off the clock.”

Hanging out. We can do hanging out for a while. That worked. Kinda. Once.

It’s still good advice.

“I love you, Mama.”

“Love you, too, baby. Now about these numbers? Have you had a chance to look at them yet? They’re good.”

We’re on the phone for another twenty minutes, though I don’t remember much of it as I slog my way to the shower, mug of awful hotel room coffee in hand.

***

I have to wait for the risers that flank the drumkit to be assembled before I can start running cords for the pyro, so I wander into the small cinder block room Lass is using as her office today.

“Rough night?” Lass asks as I sink into a chair. Her freshly painted nails tap quickly on her keys.

It’s not out of the question that Lass is actually a high-efficiency robot, capable of multitasking at incredible speeds.

“Not that I heard anything worth repeating. Or did I?” The tapping stops and when I look up, she’s eyeing me over the screen of her laptop.

“Seriously?” I groan. How does the damn road crew gossip mill churn so fast?

“Oh, yes.” She picks up a pad of pink notepaper and makes a show of reading it. “Fifty-five percent say it was totally innocent, twenty percent couldn’t give, and I quote, ‘less of a flying rat’s ass’, and twenty percent think Grady was just being nice and checking in with the new guy. Or gal, as it were.”

“What does the other five percent think?”

“Hmm?”

“Shove the prim and proper shit, Lass.”

“And people think I curse a lot. They think you’re banging the boss.”

“Ewww.”

“Wow. Never heard Grady get an ewww before.”

“Not Grady. He’s a client. Technically my boss is sitting in a gaudy office back in LA.”

The delicate tip of her nose tips almost imperceptibly higher as she sniffs. “Yes, well, he isn’t looked on too fondly around here either.”

She starts at my unladylike burst of laughter, but then she grins.

“Is that British for you think he’s a raging douchebag?”

“I make Terrel answer when he calls. Too bad I can’t say the same for emails though.” A quick flip through a neat stack of papers and she hands me a printout.

Scanning it, my shoulders fall. “He’s just sitting around looking for reasons to be pissy, isn’t he?” He’s demanding explanation for my order of a new brand of fuse. It’s the same cost, available through all the same suppliers, just easier to bend in tight spaces like flash pots, so I have no idea what his problem is.

“That’s my guess. Just between you and me…” She leans conspiratorially across the desk. I lean forward in my chair so our noses are just inches apart. “There’s a rumor that the band is thinking of going with another company next time. One that isn’t so difficult to work with.”

My heart drops into my stomach. From the band’s point of view, I understand completely. But I can already see how I’m going to get blamed for the departure, somehow.

Of course Grady chooses that moment to pop his head around the doorframe.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he calls. “Anything you need from—” He cuts off when I stand up. “And good morning to you, fire woman. Sleep well?”

“Don’t start, Grady,” Lass warns, pointing a sharp finger in his direction. “The crew is already abuzz about what you did last night.”

He leans against the frame and points to himself. “What I did? What did I supposedly do?”

Lass turns back to her work, cracking her neck and adjusting her already perfect posture. “You know exactly what you did. I can’t be expected to keep everything around here running smoothly and put out fires at the same time.”

“Fires? Evie’s in charge of fires. Speaking of which, Terrel’s looking for you. Fire marshal wants a word.”

“Oh, joy.”

Grady smiles as I walk toward the doorway he’s still blocking. “Terrel never lets me talk to the fire marshals. Want to override him? Please, just this once?”

He’s like a toddler asking for a treat, knowing full well he’ll probably get it.

“Why would you want to talk to the fire marshal? I don’t want to talk to fire marshals. Talking to fire marshals is not the fun part of my job.”

“Save the hassle and just take him. If nothing else, it gets him out of my hair,” Lass says, her heels clicking against the floor as she walks over and hands me a clipboard. Efficient as always, it’s everything a fire marshal could ever want.

“Fine. Just don’t tell him how much you love blowing things up, okay?” I wait until Grady nods, faking seriousness for all of five seconds before another grin breaks out.

“This is going to be a long ass day,” I grumble and make my way to the arena floor.

An hour and a half later, I’m finally back at my road case, fusing flash pots with my new fuses. Terrel was, as expected, not overly happy to have Grady in tow, but he did help charm the fire marshal, whose grandsons are fans, but live in another state. Apparently, a quick phone call from their favorite singer will cut an inspection in half.

Only now I’m stuck working through sound check. Listening to sex songs from the same guy who just gave some of the best “follow your dreams, but learn the business side too” advice I’ve ever heard to a bunch of teenagers is…weird.

My jaw cracks with a yawn as I finish the last canister, scraping another knuckle raw in the process. I shove the screwdriver in the back pocket of my cargos and begin hauling the fifteen-pound devices to the stage. The crew has already taken down the ramp, so I have to lift them onto the stage and then scramble up after them.

“Options for tonight,” Grady says as I’m making the third trip.

At least he isn’t drawing attention to me. There were a few odd looks this afternoon, mostly from the guy who definitely doesn’t like me and the few other guys who hang out with him. Lass texted me to beware, but that Terrel wasn’t sure they were going to work out anyway. This was their first tour, and they’d already caused trouble in a few cities on their days off. Other than them, no one seemed to care, and I wanted it to stay that way.

Office romances were a bad idea. Even worse when you lived in the office.

And romancing the star of the show? That was the worst idea of all.

Nope, I had to make this work. In a few months, I’d be off on another tour, maybe a country show or a pop diva, and a few years after that, I could stay in one place and design the pyro for shows instead.

Then, maybe, but only then, I’d think about relationships. But not with cast members. Or musicians. Definitely not rock stars.

“Okay, dude, what’s your choice for tonight?” Dodge asks as I reach the stage. Absently, he reaches down and helps me get the final two flash pots onto the stage. I barely whisper a thank you before Noah is there too, both of them grabbing my arms to pull me up before I even realize what’s going on.

I may as well have been a guitar case for all the attention they pay me, which after the initial surprise, is fine with me. Actually, they pay more attention to their guitar cases.

I roll my shoulders and decide it’s just the exhaustion and I’ll thank them later, when they aren’t arguing about possible covers.

“I don’t have a guitar tuned for that one,” Noah says as I crouch down on his side of the stage and begin setting up the device.

“All right, how about ‘Fire Woman’ by The Cult?” Grady asks, and a chill sweeps down my spine. That’s what he called me in the truck last night, but I had no idea it was a song.

“We haven’t done that one in years,” Bax says, amusement clear in his tone.

Grady’s response is drowned in the opening riff. I move to the next device, staying as low to the stage as possible while begging any supernatural beings who may be out there for this to not be the kind of song I think it is.

It’s exactly the kind of song I think it is. And it fits Grady’s voice perfectly, a low growl that just screams dirty primal sex.

My neck, then my face, heats up as the lyrics continue about flames slow dancing and build into a chorus I can already hear an audience singing along with.

I refuse to look up, but it feels like every set of eyes in the place is locked on me. A feeling that intensifies as the lighting guys start testing the spots and one lands directly on me. I’ve never set a device and moved on so quickly in my life.

Which probably only makes me look guiltier, so I toss a glare over my shoulder, straight at Grady’s smiling face.

Thankfully, he loses the rock-paper-scissors that night, and the band is swept off to their buses for the trek to Vegas before the audience is even out of the arena.

No one says anything as we load out the equipment that night, but as I roll into my bunk I hear that little shit Steve make a comment about fucking your way to the top before I shove in my earbuds.