"Sweetie, Futurama movies do not count as movies," Kara says. "I'll let you have it because I love you, but you have to know it's total bullshit."

"You're such a stickler."

"You're the one who came up with the idea of taking turns. I don't give a damn. We can watch sci-fi every week. Anything except Battlestar Galactica."

My phone buzzes. I try to ignore it. It's difficult. I haven't heard a word from Miles since he left my apartment late enough it was technically Saturday morning.

It's been more than twenty-four hours.

I tap my fingers against my cell's screen. "It's not the show's fault everyone called you Starbuck in high school."

She watches my tapping and raises a brow. "You gonna check your phone?"

"It's probably nothing."

"Uh-huh." She shakes her head and moves to the kitchen. "Frosted Flakes or Cocoa Puffs?"

"Both."

Kara and I have a weekly routine. Sunday brunch. It's supposed to be for homework, but mostly we watch movies, eat cereal straight from the box, and drink medically unsound amounts of caffeine.

Last year, our weekly meetings were the only time I wasn't studying. I was so focused on that stupid MCAT. It was the only thing I paid attention to. It's why I let it slide when Rosie told me she was fine, even though that uneasy feeling in my gut screamed that she was lying.

My phone buzzes again.

I know it's Miles. He and Kara are the only two people who text me. But I don't want to be desperate to turn my phone over. I don't want him to have the power to leave me in knots.

My fingers curl around my phone. I want to read his reaction. I need to know what he's saying.

I unlock my cell.

Miles: Any soreness?

Meg: No. I'm good.

Miles: Only good?

Meg: Only good. I'm studying.

Sort of.

Kara plops next to me. She hands me a can of green tea and a bowl of puffed corn coated in sugar and cocoa powder. I pop open my can and take a long sip.

"Earth to Meg?" She taps my shoulder. "Is that who I think it is?"

"We're just talking."

"That is 100 percent grade-A bullshit." Her eyes are sincere. "You have any details to share?"

"I'm working on it."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means I can handle it."

She stares me down like she's challenging me to tell the truth.

"If I can't, I'll talk to you," I say.

She plays with her t-shirt. "After what happened with Rosie, I don't want to see you hurting again."

My gaze goes back to my phone. "I'll be okay."

She studies my expression for a long moment before she speaks. "If you're going to text during the whole damn movie, I'm going to put in something I like."

"Okay."

"Something with subtitles."

"Go for it."

She shakes her head like I'm hopeless. But, still, I turn back to my phone.

Miles: We have a show next week. Why don't you come? Then you can come and come and come.

Miles: That was three. But three is the bare minimum.

I turn my phone over and slide it into my pocket. "There's a Sinful Serenade show next weekend?"

Kara taps the remote, starting play on some independent film with stark scenery and a minimalist soundtrack. She raises an eyebrow like she's challenging me to explain. "Friday. Starts while you're at work, but I can wait."

I shake my head. "I'll take the bus."

"You can't take the bus to Hollywood that late. No way in hell. I'll pick you up."

"You'll miss—"

"It's decided," she says. "And you'll text me if you decide to leave with someone?"

"I promise."

* * *

My shift at the ER ends at ten on the dot. By 10:05, I'm in Kara's car, in one of her bodycon dresses, applying makeup with an unsteady hand. Black eyeliner, dark lipstick, plenty of blush. One of the upsides of having dramatic features is that I can pull off a lot of makeup.

I run a comb through my messy hair. It doesn't help. Better to return it to a work-appropriate ponytail.

At least the dress is nice. A little short for my long legs, and I certainly don't fill it out well, but it looks better than I'd expect given the ten inches I have on Kara. Or the four cup sizes she has on me.

I scroll past the flirty texts about nothing to get to Miles's promise.

Miles: We have a show next week. Why don't you come? Then you can come and come and come.

Miles: That was three. But three is the bare minimum.

I'm not dreaming. This is really happening.

Kara parks two blocks from the venue at an expired meter. She smiles. "Here goes nothing."

I take a deep breath, pulling in all the confidence I can manage. The walk to the venue nearly undoes me. These aren't even heels. They're wedges, short wedges, but I can barely move in them.

Kara gives our names to the bouncer. We're on the list. I've never been on a list before. I've never been anywhere that needed a list.

I try to channel Miles's cool aloofness but I fail. I'm teetering. My dress is too tight. Do people really go clubbing for fun? I feel hopelessly out of place.

Until I hear his voice.

It's a low moan, not actual words, but I'm still positive that Miles is the guy who is singing. Which means Sinful Serenade is in the middle of a song.

Sound echoes around the high ceilings. It gets louder the further we get into the club. A guitar screams. Drums pound. The bass-line throbs. The energy from the music flows into the room.

There must be three or four hundred people squeezed into a space meant for far, far fewer. Mostly girls, mostly screaming their lungs out.

Everything is dark, almost black, save the bright white stage lights.

Miles stands on the front of the stage, his fingers wrapped around a microphone, his eyes closed as if he's feeling the song so deeply he can't bear to keep them open.

All of my attention is on Miles. His voice is beautiful. Not just beautiful. It's breathy, and throaty, and wounded as all hell. Every word comes out with a thousand pounds of emotional force behind it. It's like his voice is seeping through my skin and bones, all the way into my soul. It's like I can feel whatever it is that made him write this song.

It hurts. Not as badly as In Pieces, but enough.

The songs ends. There's no break. Sinful Serenade transitions right into the next number. This one is faster, harder, louder. It's more upbeat, but there's still an undercurrent of hurt in Miles's voice. I catch a few of the lyrics. They're beautiful wisps of poetry.

Right now, he's not cocky, arrogant, or aloof. His heart is in his words. The ache in his soul is in his words.

My chest is heavy. I'm hurting with him.

I close my eyes and lose myself in his voice. There's so much sound around us—the screaming, the guitar, the bass, the drums—but all I can hear is Miles. It's like he's singing to me.

The song ends. I open my eyes, startled by the quick return to reality. The room feels darker and brighter at once. Miles feels closer and farther away.

The singer smiles at the crowd with that same cocky expression on his face. He waves and blows a kiss. A dozen girls squeal, sure his adoration is meant for them.

He looks back at his bandmates. Can't say that I'm paying much attention to the other guys. They seem to be in some kind of blissful, meditative state. They're all so effortlessly cool.

Miles looks back at the crowd. "I'd like to dedicate this next song to a very special girl. I'm not sure that she thinks much of me, but Meg, I wrote this song, too."

The drummer brings his sticks down hard on his drum kit. "Only the lyrics, Romeo."

Miles sends the drummer a sweet smile then blows him a kiss. Must be some kind of inside joke. The drummer shakes his head, stands, and pulls off his shirt.

The screams are so loud I can't even think. The crowd likes him sans shirt. They like it a lot.

Hard to blame them. He's an attractive man—wavy dirty blond hair, sculpted torso, a tattoo with thick black lines on his chest and snaking down his arm.

Next to me, Kara laughs. She's eying Drew like she hopes the stripping will start some kind of chain reaction. I don't call her on it.

Miles tugs at the bottom of his t-shirt, teasing the crowd to a chorus of cheers. He walks over to the equally handsome dark-haired bassist and hands him the mic.

It's unfair, having four attractive men in such close proximity. There isn't a woman alive who could resist all four of them.

Miles's eyes go back to the crowd. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he's looking at me. I'd swear he's doing this solely for my benefit.

He pulls the shirt higher, higher, higher. And then it's off his head and on the ground.

There's barely an inch of fat on his body. He has a six-pack. And those v-lines. They make it difficult to think. The color tattoos that decorate his chest and arms keep my brain in a damn, he's hot loop.

Miles drags his hands over his sculpted chest like he can't bear how sexy he is.

The cheers are deafening. Mr. Miles Webb is certainly the object of lust. Hard to blame the girls staring at him with their eyes wide and their jaws dropped. No doubt, there will be a dozen pairs of panties on stage by the end of the song.

He could have any woman he wants, and he wants me.

He made me come.

He's going to make me come again. Three times. He promised three times.

Miles takes the microphone back. "Is it hot in here, or is it just me?"

The crowd screams.

"So it's just me?" He winks at the crowd. He points to the guitarist then to the bassist. "Only two songs to go. Think we can get the string jockeys shirtless by the end of the show?"

There's another set of cheers. Every guy in the band has his fans.

Miles smiles that same smug smile. He throws up four fingers and uses them to count down.

The song starts. It's one of their singles. It plays on KROQ but not nearly as often as In Pieces does. It has a slick guitar riff, a throbbing beat, and, of course, a perfect vocal melody.

Kara squeezes my hand. I can't bring myself to look away from Miles to catch her expression. No doubt she's ecstatic, too. I squeeze back. I shift my hips to the music. I scream. Just another fan. Just another girl who wants that sexy boy on stage she'll never have.

Only, I can have him.

I have had him.

The song transitions into the next. The last song, according to Miles's earlier claim. There is something final about it. It's like everyone is playing harder. Miles goes all out with his vocals. He's not in smug mode, not flirting with the crowd. He's there, in the music, in the moment that made him write this song.

It's captivating, sexy, and terrifying at once. There's more to Miles than bad boy rock star. There must be, or he wouldn't be so lost in his words.

The song ends to a chorus of screams and cheers. The Sinful guys wave goodbye. Miles takes a bow. The drummer blows kisses. He even holds his hand up to his ear to make the "call me" motion. They walk offstage, and a roadie collects their discarded t-shirts.

Kara pulls me away from the main crowd. She gives our names to the bouncer guarding the backstage area. He lets us pass.

The small space is crowded with gear. There are other musician types here—must be the opening act—but most of them are busy soaking in groupie adoration. One of them is sucking face against the wall. And oh, God, he's getting a handjob.

I guess they don't call it sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll for nothing.

There's a door marked "Sinful Serenade." It's a lot less busy than the rest of the backstage area. Drew is sitting on the couch alone. The light-haired drummer is surrounded by a cloud of fans. His attention turns to us.

He nods to Drew then to Kara. "Kara, right?"

"You're not sleeping with my friends." Drew waves the guy off. "So why don't you get Aiden to put another one of our songs in a commercial while I'm occupied?"

The drummer offers his hand. "I'm Tom."

"Meg." I shake.

"Nice to meet you. And to see you again, Kara." He looks from Drew to me. "Sometimes, I think I'm the only person in the band who cares about making money." Tom shakes his head with outrage and returns to his cloud of fans.

"Want a drink?" Drew asks. His gaze fixes on something behind me. "Maybe a shirt."

I turn. It's Miles, standing there in his tight jeans, still sans shirt. He shakes his head but he grabs a t-shirt off the couch and pulls it on.

Miles throws Drew a cocky wink. There's no challenge or animosity to it, just mutual understanding. They're teasing each other.

Drew goes to grab Kara's wrist but she pulls it into her chest. He looks at her a little funny. She shrugs like it's nothing.

"Come on, Kendrick. You'll miss the good tequila."

She nods. "Meg, you want something?"

I shake my head. "No, thanks."

She follows Drew to a table in the back, leaving me alone with Miles. Or as good as alone.

He runs his fingertips over my exposed shoulders. I'm hot instantly. It feels good being near him. It will feel better without the audience, without the space between us, without the clothes.

"I like your dress," he says.

"Thanks."

"And the heels, too. Tall girls are usually afraid of them."

My mouth refuses to form words.

"Bet they give you extra leverage when you're pressed against a wall."

A blush spreads across my cheeks. I open my mouth to speak, but it's still not happening.

Dammit, he's effortless again. And I'm nervous and bumbling again.

This is too much, too fast. I need to collect my thoughts. I take a step backwards. "Excuse me. I changed my mind about that drink."

The bar in the corner is mostly booze in every color. There are mixers. Only one interests me. Grapefruit juice. Truly the most under-appreciated fruit in the world—tart, sweet, and sour all at once. I pour myself a large glass and take a sip. It's not fresh squeezed, but it's not bad.

I want Miles. I'm sure of that.

But there are other feelings stirring in my gut. Something besides desire. Something I might not be able to handle.

By the time I'm done with my juice, the room is packed. People bump into me, nod hellos, introduce themselves in breathy voices meant to imply I'm another girl here to hand out blowjobs to anyone with the ability to play a musical instrument.

I slip out of the room. The backstage area is equally slammed. It's a real party scene—people drinking from red cups, flirting, kissing, sharing stories, and laughing at the top of their lungs. I find the closest door and push through it. Air. I need air. And I need to not be here.

The alley-slash-parking lot is an asphalt wasteland. There are a few loners leaning against the wall smoking cigarettes. I copy their position, breathing deep to suck in as much air as possible. Instead, I get a lungful of smoke.

Forget that. I move to the corner of the parking lot.

A girl in a mini-dress and stilettos waves at me. "We don't bite, hun."

She giggles and motions for me to come closer. I do.

There are half a dozen people milling around a parked car.

One of them, a skinny guy in a suit, is tapping white powder out of a baggie onto the back of his cell phone. He drags a credit card across it and rakes it into straight lines.

They're doing cocaine.

My heart races. I can't be around this. That's how it starts. How it started for Rosie. First, it was her jerk boyfriend dragging her to parties where everyone was desperate to be up or down. Then she was trying drugs—Rosie never was the type to back down from a dare.

Then she was gone.

It happened so fast. Just playing along, being one of the cool girls at the party, and then she's gone. Overdosed. Dead.

The skinny guy leans over, bringing his nose to the back of the phone. And just like in a fucking movie, he snorts the line.

He snorts the other line, sits up, and rubs his nose. Then he's back at it, raking another line and passing it around.

My phone buzzes in my purse. I ignore it. I have to watch these people, to see what they're doing, to see why this had so much power over my sister.

They laugh. They stare at each other with the deepest anticipation, like they can't wait to be in the middle of bliss. Another person snorts. The skinny guy taps out another two lines. Snort.

I can't move. I'm a deer and I'm staring straight into the headlights.

There's a sound behind me. Someone else is out here now. Maybe a smoker desperate for an even stronger high.

"Meg."

It's Miles.

His voice booms. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"