After work, I change into a cocktail dress and wedges in the backroom. For a second, I consider doing as Pete asked and skipping the underwear, but I can't muster up the nerve.

He's due to pick me up in ten minutes. I boot up my phone to pass the time.

Damn. I have a hundred new texts, a few dozen missed calls. My Facebook is slammed with people who want to get in touch. There are lots of questions and comments but most of them boil down to the same thing:

Oh my God, Jess, is that you with Pete Steele? No fucking way! He's so hot, you lucky bitch.

All of a sudden, all the friends who chose Nathan over me desperately want to talk to me. One measly video making out with a rock star and I'm Ms. Popularity.

My thumb hovers over my cell screen. I should feel powerful, victorious—my old friends, the ones who were perfectly happy to ignore me, are desperate to talk to me now that I'm a rock star's girlfriend.

My stomach churns. I don't feel powerful. Instead, my head is heavy and my shoulders are tense. Those friends felt real, once upon a time. But they don't care about me. They never did. I'm still a tool to them.

How the hell am I supposed to know who I can trust when I can't trust my sister?

My phone buzzes in my hands. Pete. He's here. I wipe my misty eyes. I'm celebrating tonight. No matter how much the thought of Madison still makes my stomach clench.

I shove my phone back into my purse and shoot Rick a goodbye forever wave on my way out the door.

There's Pete, leaning against the passenger side door of his black Tesla. He's wearing black jeans and a black button-up t-shirt. He's wearing eyeliner again. A hint. Just enough to make it impossible to avoid staring into his deep brown eyes.

The smile falls off his lips as he takes me in. "What's wrong?"

I shake my head and smooth my cocktail dress. "Nothing."

He squeezes my hands and pulls my body into his. "Let's try again. What's wrong?"

"All my old friends want to talk to me."

"Fuck. I forget to tell you I posted those pictures from the park." He tilts his chin so he's looking down at me. "I'll make it up to you."

"I knew you would. That's not the problem."

"It killed me when I first realized it." He presses his palm between my shoulder blades. "That people are willing to use you like that—" He snaps his fingers.

There's an ocean of sadness in his eyes.

The feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach deepens. I'm using him to get what I want. He's using me to get what he wants. Is either of us really any better than the friends who want to talk to me because of my access to a celebrity?

"You aren't using me, Jess." He stares back at me. "I offered you a rate for a gig. You accepted."

"So that makes me a contractor?"

He chuckles. "You're gonna be a fantastic lawyer."

"I want to get everything straight." I want to be sure where he stands with this whole don't want a girlfriend, my heart is closed thing.

"Guess so. But we're still friends. We're not going to fall in love, but we're gonna fucking enjoy ourselves."

I nod. I don't like love being totally off the table, but it's better that way. Safer.

Pete opens the car door for me and helps me inside.

"Have you ever had to keep up appearances because of your fame before?" I ask.

"Can't make a scene. But that's not my thing. Don't have to work at it."

"How old were you when you became famous?" I ask.

"Was nineteen the first time somebody stopped me on the street ‘cause she recognized me. Twenty-one when it became a regular thing."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"I'm twenty-two." I play with my purse. "I can't imagine anyone stopping me on the street because they recognize me."

"It'll happen. People will forget the gossip soon, but the next month or two you'll be famous by association."

"What do I do?"

"It's like customer service. Smile, nod a thank you, get on with your day."

"Did you work, before you became a rock star?"

He cocks a brow. His lips curl into a half smile. "Being a rock star isn't work?"

Mmm. That smile. It takes great effort to avoid melting.

I half-smile back. "You know what I mean."

"Do I?"

I nod. "You're giving me a hard time."

Again, he cocks a brow. "Not yet. But I will."

My cheeks flush. "Oh. That's good." I smooth my skirt. It's hot today. Really hot. "Did you work a regular job before you became a rock star?"

"At a music shop. Talked a few people into picking up the bass."

"What's the difference between a bass and a guitar?"

"Jess, don't do this to me. We're getting along so well," he teases.

"Is that a deal-breaker, me being bass illiterate?"

"Absolutely."

"Then explain it to me."

He smiles. "Most people see the bass as some less cool guitar. No solos, can't sit on the curb playing songs acoustic for tips. Can't get laid wooing women with Dave Matthews Band."

"You play guitar too?"

He nods. "And the piano. Bass will always be my favorite. It's the backbone of a rock song. It doesn't call attention to itself, but the song feels empty without it."

There's so much passion in his voice. It makes it difficult to contemplate the boundaries of this relationship.

I clear my throat. I have to think about something besides how much I already like him. "How did you pick it up?"

"My father played it." Something in his voice changes. "He always encouraged me to pick it up. I wanted to make him proud."

"Is that your prepared answer?"

His brow furrows. "Guess it is."

"What's the truth?"

"Dad was an asshole. Learned guitar, bass, and piano trying to impress him but he never gave a fuck."

My chest pangs. My family isn't exactly sunshine and roses, but I always feel like my dad is proud of me. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Play three instruments well now."

"Why'd you stick with bass?"

"Like the way it feels in my hands."

"Can we make a deal?" I ask.

He cocks a brow.

"Let's agree not to lie or bullshit each other. Even if the truth hurts."

"You sure?"

"Why? Does my hair not look good this color?"

He laughs.

I nod. "I'm sure. I need honesty right now." How many times did I lie covering for Dad? Must be a few thousand. More even.

He bites his lip like he's thinking it over. Finally, he nods. "Okay."

We shake on it.

Already, I'm nervous over the potential to reveal myself. Okay. Need to grab something. I like him talking about music, like the passion in his voice.

I look up at Pete. "Tom, your brother, he plays drums, right?"

He nods.

"What's that like?"

"We create the rhythm together. There's a connection when we play—it's like nothing else."

"What about sex?"

"Nothing is better than great sex."

Mmm. I'm flushed and sweaty just thinking about being with him. But we need to talk more. I need to know more about him. "Can you believe that woman at the club? She called your ex a… a c-word right to your face."

"Not the first time I've heard that."

"You never think that?"

"A cunt is a beautiful thing, not an insult."

My cheeks flush. He looks at me, his lips spreading into a smile. He enjoys teasing me.

I like it too.

"So you really don't hate her for cheating?" I ask.

He takes a long moment to compose himself. When he speaks, his voice is low. Vulnerable. "You must know what's it like. Still hurts that she betrayed my trust. We were on and off that last year. Would have been easy for her to keep things off, but she chose to lie to me instead."

I nod. "Why do people do that?" It would have been easy for Nathan to send me an it's over text before he slept with Madison. It would have been easy for Madison to say no, let's wait until it's official.

But neither one of them cared how I'd feel.

Nathan hurt me, fine. He didn't owe me anything.

But Madison… we've always been allies. I took care of her most of the time, but she had my back when I needed her. I thought I could count on her. I thought I could tell her anything.

"Hey." His voice is steady. "Where are you going off to?"

I look back at Pete. "My ex-boyfriend cheated with my sister. They're still dating. I don't think about him, but she hasn't apologized. And I haven't told her how much she hurt me. We haven't spoken since I found out." My eyes go to my bare thighs. "I don't want to upstage you."

"It's not a competition." His fingers brush my cheek. "You're still hurting?"

"Yeah. She's the only person I've ever trusted."

"You want me to call her and tell her she's a bitch?"

I let out a laugh. "I think she'd take her own life if the Pete Steele called her a bitch." I run my fingertips over the back of his hand. "Do you still think about your ex?"

His voice drops to a whisper. "Not about her but about what happened."

My heart pangs. I want to touch him, to hold him, to wipe the memory of his ex away with my lips.

* * *

The club is small and dim. All the light is on the stage, on a four piece jazz band. At least, I think it's a jazz band. I don't know much about music beyond I like it or I don't like it.

The host greets us with an oh my favorite regular smile. "Nice to see you, Mr. Steele. Take any empty table."

There are ten cozy, round tables in the center of the main room and about that many booths lining the edges.

Pete takes a booth in the far corner, out of the way of any prying eyes, and slides in next to me.

A waiter stops by our table. "For you, Miss?"

"Just a coke."

He nods to the waiter. "Same for me." Once the waiter is out of earshot, Pete scoots close enough to whisper. "You don't drink?"

"Not usually."

"Any reason?"

My self-preservation impulses fire away. "No."

"Jess—"

This honesty thing was my idea. I'm going to tell the truth, even if it kills me. "Yes, there is. Someone in my family has a drinking problem, but I don't want to talk about it right now."

He nods. Scoots closer. "You ever listen to jazz?"

"Never."

"Most people, their first reaction is that it doesn't make any sense."

I close my eyes and try to find some logic in the music. There's no pattern. It skips all over the place.

"It's not like a pop song. No chorus, bridge, verse." His fingertips slide over my chin. "That's the beauty of it. You can't predict where the song goes. You have to forget your plan and feel the music."

Forget my plan? Not a chance in hell. "Sounds terrifying."

"It can be." His fingers curl into my hair. "Close your eyes."

I don't. Instead, I stare back at him. "Is this your thing—taking girls to strange places and asking them to close their eyes so you can assault their senses."

"Assault?"

"You know what I mean."

"It's my thing taking you places and asking you to close your eyes. Yeah."

"Why?"

"I want to know everything there is to know about your body, every place I can touch to make you purr."

My sex clenches. The man can talk.

His fingertips skim my temples as he pulls off my glasses. Gently, he folds them and sets them on the table. "Try it."

I close my eyes.

His fingertips brush against my inner thigh.

Almost.

He strokes my inner thigh with his thumb. I reach for something and get the soft fabric of his shirt.

His fingers brush the sides of my panties. "Jess, we talked about this. Now I'm going to have to tease you twice as hard."

My skin tingles with anticipation. "Really?"

"Yeah." He moves closer. His fingers brush against my clit, over my panties.

I sigh with pleasure. I need more of that. Need him to continue.

"Stop guessing what's gonna happen," he whispers. "Take it in, one thing at a time."

I try to stop guessing. To feel every note of the music. To feel every brush of his lips against my neck, every stroke of his thumb against my thigh.

The song fades into an outro and one of the musicians steps up to the mic. There are footsteps coming our way. The waiter.

I press my lips together, feigning innocence. It's clear Pete's got his hand up my skirt but it doesn't seem to bother the waiter.

He drops off our sodas with a smile, turns, and disappears.

Pete leans close enough to whisper. "Did it work?"

I shake my head. "I don't like jazz."

"It's not for everyone."

"I like knowing what's going to happen." I press my cheek against his as I bring my lips to his ear. "I like girly pop music."

"So you aren't a fan?" he teases.

"You're not bad."

His lips curl into a smile. "Jess, you're going to break my heart."

"I mean, you're no Pearl Jam, but you're solid," I tease.

He laughs. "Who's your favorite artist?"

"Amy Winehouse. Her songs were so raw, the way she'd put the ugly parts of herself in her lyrics. I wish I could do that."

"Most people can't."

"Are you good at it?" I pull back so I can look into his eyes. "At forgetting your plan and being in the music?"

"Better some days than others."

"I don't know if I can do that."

"You can." He runs a hand through my hair. His expression is attentive, curious. "Right now, there are things weighing on you. They're going to keep weighing on you as long as you keep running from them."

I swallow hard. It's disarming, how easily he sees through me.

"What are you running from?"

"The person everyone wants me to be."

"Who is she?"

"I don't know. But she's not me." I grab my soda and take a long sip. It's too sweet, too sticky. I barely know Pete. But I'm tired of bullshit. "She's an enabler."

"Who do you want to be?"

"Someone assertive. Who gets what she wants. Who doesn't let people push her around."

He leans in to whisper. His voice drops an octave. "Right now, what do you want?"

"To celebrate."

"Then let's cut the heavy shit." He nips at my ear. "What else?"

"Is this your thing—having sex in public?"

"Yeah."

"It's not a good idea for me. If I get caught, that will screw up my reputation. Lawyers don't get caught having sex in public."

"You want to wait until we go home?"

"No."

Again, he nips at my ear. "What do you want, Jess?"

"Are you going to make me say it?"

His voice drops. "You want to be assertive."

Damn. I did say that. I take a deep breath, allowing my eyelids to flutter closed. I move closer to him, so I can whisper. "I…" My cheeks flush. I can't say it yet. "I want to know why you chose me. You could have asked a million girls to do this and you asked me."

"Because you like The Hunger Games. And you wear sexy librarian glasses."

"Really?"

He presses his lips into my neck. "You haven't once tried to bullshit me or use me."

"Oh."

"If the answer to that question is all you want, I can move to the other side of the bench."

I can hear the smile in his voice. Okay. Deep breath. I can do this. I can ask for what I want. I bring my lips to his ear. "I want to fuck you."