"I already miss Hope."

Damon's brother Ian flopped on the sofa next to his twin, despondence on his face.

Damon opened his mouth to speak.

"I know," Ian cut him off. "I just said goodbye to her five minutes ago. You don't need to remind me."

"I wasn't going to say anything," Damon faked an innocent expression. "I just don't want to see you moping the entire tour. This is the fun part of our job. You should be pumped."

"I am. I will be. I need time to adjust, that's all."

"You're not the only one going through it."

The bassist, Cameron, ran a hand through his bright red hair, revealing both dark blue eyes for a moment, before his hair fell down to cover half his face again.

"I'm going to miss Lily," he said. "I'm not used to missing anything from home. This sucks."

"You're attached at the hip," Noah, the lead singer, said. "Maybe some time apart will make her come to her senses and dump your sorry ass."

"Never gonna happen," Cameron declared with a cheeky grin. "Our love for each other is pure and true."

Noah snorted. He flicked his gaze to me.

"So you're our photographer? I suppose I'll have to get used to you sticking your camera in my face all hours of the day."

Noah Hart's dark eyes were cautious, guarded. Nothing of the passion and fire I'd seen on stage.

Cameron threw a sofa pillow at Noah's head, smacking him in the face. Noah glared at the bassist.

"Don't be so cranky," Cameron told him. "She's here to make us look good." Cameron turned to me. "We're not used to sharing our tour bus with anyone. Hope we don't scare you off."

"I'm sure you're not that bad."

Cameron grinned. "I think you underestimate us."

"Have you done many concert tours before?" Ian asked.

"No. This is my first real job. I just graduated."

"So what sort of photography do you usually do?"

"Street photography, I guess. Abandoned buildings, graffiti, stuff like that."

"That's cool." Ian's eyes lit up. "You should show us your stuff some time."

A flutter of anxiety hit my gut. Sitting there while someone flipped through my photos always made my stomach churn. They always asked too many questions. What was the meaning behind my photo? What inspired me to shoot this scene or that? It always felt like a game of twenty questions. I never knew why it mattered so much. Why did everyone always want to know what I was thinking?

I much preferred to be the anonymous artist.

The artist and their art cannot be separated, Ashford always said.

We hit a series of bumps in the road, causing my stomach to drop even further. It was the same feeling as going up and down on a roller coaster, only without the fun.

"You feeling okay?" Cameron asked.

"Just a little nauseous."

From both the idea of them asking about my work and from the ride itself.

"Do you get car sick?" he asked.

"Sometimes," I admitted, glad to have another excuse. "Do you guys?"

"No, thank god," Cameron replied. "It would suck to be sick the entire time we were touring. Cassie, is it?"

I nodded silently.

"August told us a little about you."

I quickly glanced at the drummer, who'd been silent so far. He seemed content to let his bandmates do the talking. Dread filled my chest, wondering what he might have told them.

"He said you were some kind of genius photographer. You've got a special talent or whatever." Cameron smirked. "I suppose you'd have to be a prodigy to get the attention of someone like August Summers. You should be flattered."

Flattered was only one out of a thousand emotions that swirled in my stomach when it came to August.

"Cassie's a fan," Damon drawled with a devilish look in his eyes. "Aren't you?"

"I like your music," I said. "I've never been to one of your concerts before today."

"We fucking rock on stage, right?" Cameron said, no humility whatsoever.

"You guys are pretty good."

"Pretty good?" the bassist groaned. "You're killing me with faint praise."

"I've never been to a rock show before. I have nothing to compare it to."

Cameron sat up straight. "So we popped your concert cherry, huh?"

I flushed. Cameron laughed.

"Speaking of cherries, what do you thinking of our new opening band, Cherry Lips?" Ian asked.

"They're good," August said simply. "Talented."

"Which is August-speak for beyond awesome," Cameron explained to me.

I thought back to what he'd said about my photos of tonight's concert. Maybe good wasn't as bad as he'd made it sound. I wondered what high standards I'd have to meet to be deemed great in August's eyes.

We hit another bump, bigger this time. A small, sickly sound escaped my lips. I put my hand on my belly to quell the queasiness.

"Is the ride always this rough?" I asked.

"Why don't you go lie down for a bit?" August suggested. "You can take the bedroom at the back. No one really uses it."

Nodding, I stood up gingerly. This way maybe I could put off more questions from them. At least for now.

"You said you mostly stay in hotels, right?" I asked. "I don't think I'd like to try sleeping on this bus."

"If it was up to August, we'd stay in hotels every night." Damon laughed. "The music execs all thinks he's high maintenance and demanding."

"Sleeping on a tour bus every night has a negative effect on your health," August said plainly. "We need to stay in top shape to give our fans one hundred percent. They understood once I explained it to them."

"Someday, someone's going to tell you no and you won't be able to handle it," Damon told him. He handed me a small waste basket. "In case you start throwing up. Don't want puke all over the bus."

Flushing, I took it from him. It was thoughtful, in a snarky sort of way.

Making my way to the back, I passed the bunkbeds. The sheets were crisp and smooth.

It seemed August had a lot of sway in the music industry. I wondered how he'd managed that. Maybe being a genius drummer, composer, and music producer all in one afforded him more leeway than most.

Opening a sliding door at the back, I found a small bedroom with a queen bed. Considering the rest of the luxurious bus, I'd half expected to find a king-sized mattress with black silk sheets, decadent and over the top. Instead, the bedspread was a simple light blue cotton.

The bed was soft when I laid down on it. Staring at the ceiling, on my back, with nothing else to occupy my mind, my thoughts drifted back to August's words.

He'd guessed so much about me. It was uncanny. I couldn't have been that transparent. I had no idea how he'd guessed half the things he told me.

August even guessed what happened with my first boyfriend.

Jake was a good guy. Always smiling, upbeat. He didn't mind I sometimes held back, confused or overwhelmed by his attentions. He dived into our relationship, holding nothing back, giving everything. He told me how much he liked me every day.

I tried to feel the same. I wanted to feel the same.

But those feelings never surfaced, no matter how hard I willed them to.

I felt nothing.

The first time we held hands.

The first time we kissed.

The first time we had sex.

The first time he said he loved me.

I felt nothing.

I broke it off. It devastated him. He wanted to know why. To know what he had done.

I didn't know what to tell him. The problem wasn't him. It was me.

For a long time I thought I'd just been too young. Not mature enough.

But it happened with the next guy. And the next. No matter how hard I tried to force it, I never felt a single thing.

I stopped trying.

Then I met August Summers.

When he saw something in my art that no one else ever had…

When words like passion and desire left his lips…

When he pinned me down with those ice blue eyes…

I felt everything.

And it terrified me just as much as it thrilled me.