It's difficult to concentrate with the sting of rejection spreading to my limbs. It's not as if we're anything, as if I have any right to expectations. Tom is sexy, rich, famous, adored. He has his pick of women, doesn't have any interest in a relationship. It's not going to happen.

I stay in my skimpy outfit. Hopefully, some male attention will nurse my wounded ego. Maybe my body will want one of the guys at the club. Maybe I'll finally break my dry streak and realize that sex is loads of fun.

Anything is possible.

The mood in the hallway is tense. Whatever Pete and Tom are discussing must be awful. They silence immediately. Pete nods a hello. Tom slides his arm around my waist then pulls it back to his side.

"Sorry," he mumbles then nods to the stairway. "Cab’s waiting in back."

Pete looks from me to Tom for a second. His expression is doubtful but he remains silent. I'm liking this silence thing. Saves me from making a fool of myself again.

We follow Tom down the narrow staircase and out the back door. The rain is no longer a mist. It's pouring. Within moments, my thin cotton top is soaked. The fabric clings to my skin. Picked the wrong day to skip a bra. At least this will be as painful for Tom as it is for me.

He takes one of the end seats.

Pete nods to the middle. "You want to take that or you want me to sit on Tom's lap?"

His attempt to defuse the tension fails miserably. My stomach tenses. Tom frowns, turning to face the window opposite us.

"I'll take it," I say. "I wouldn't want Hazel to get jealous."

"Any day now." Tom taps his fingers impatiently.

I slide into the middle seat. It's a tight fit. My thigh presses against his. There's no way to arrange my arms so they aren't touching Tom. I adjust my skirt and top so I'm as covered as possible. It makes little difference.

Pete takes his seat and slams the door shut. He gives the address to the friendly cab driver. Then we're off.

A bump sends me halfway out of my seat. The belt tugs against my lap. I grab onto the nearest thing to keep my balance. Turns out that's the thighs on either side of me. Now I'm groping two men at once. Maybe I can get two rejections at once. That will make this day even better.

Tom growls. He stares daggers at Pete's thigh. He's silent, of course. It's not like I'm trying to start a threesome back here.

I pull my hands back to my lap. But that does nothing to ease the tension in Tom's torso. He's still clenched, angry. I remind myself that his bad mood isn't my problem, that we are friends, and that friends communicate with each other instead of growling incoherently and pretending they didn't almost kiss.

"How long have you been a photographer, Willow?" Pete breaks the silence.

A distraction. Thank goodness. Tom shrugs his shoulders, shifting his gaze in my direction.

"I took it up in high school, but I didn't get serious until college." I play with my camera. "It was my major."

"Where did you go to school?"

"Berkley. I graduated in December. A semester early."

"Congrats. Can't do much better than working under Hazel Alexander."

"Thanks. She's amazing so far." I make eye contact with Pete. "I think she has a crush on you."

"Can't blame her. Everyone knows I'm the sexiest guy in Sinful Serenade."

"What are you basing that on?" I ask.

"Don't tell me you prefer someone else," Pete teases.

Tom jumps in. "Don't flirt with Willow."

Pete stares back at Tom. It's the kind of look that says volumes. It's not saying any of the volumes to me, but it must communicate something to them, because all talking ceases. Both men press their backs into their seats in silence.

The last two minutes of the ride pass at an agonizing rate. Mercifully, we arrive.

Tom reaches for the door, but Pete stops him.

"Tom, a word." Pete looks at me. "If you'll excuse us."

"Yeah, sure." I don't wait for Tom to move. I climb over him on my way out the door.

He lets out a soft groan as my ass makes contact with his crotch. The man has gone three weeks without coming. It's just physical. Not personal.

I stand under the club's awning to avoid the rain. The place looks nice. Ornate doors, clean walls, dim lighting that makes it hard to see inside.

I play with my camera to pass the time. The Whole Foods across the street isn't the most interesting subject, but the rain adds a lot to the shots. I barely notice Tom and Pete get out of the cab.

Tom grabs my wrist. "Come on. Let's dance."

"Uh." I follow him inside the club. "Okay."

We show our IDs to the bouncers then make our way up the stairs, to the main area.

The ceilings are high, the windows are wide, and the room is packed with people in bright colors. Britney Spears booms from the speakers.

Tom dances, mostly by himself. I attempt to copy his movements but there's no way my motions qualify as anything more than erratic swaying.

I slow. "I'm not a very good dancer."

"It's easy. Come here.

He grabs my hips and guides me until I'm moving in time with the rhythm. My posture softens.

His hands slide to my waist. My lower back. The skin on skin contact sends a buzz of electricity straight to my core. I want him and badly. Without all these damn clothes in the way.

He pulls my body towards his, leading with his hips.

Damn, he's a good dancer. Precise and rhythmic and seamless with his movements. My eyelids flutter together. I soak in the music, the feeling of his body against mine.

The song changes and he moves his body away. Not far, only six or seven inches, but it's enough that I go cold. My muscles tense. My gaze goes to the high ceilings.

Tom's fingertips graze my lower back. Up, up, up, all the way to the bottom of my t-shirt. He moves closer. Leans in to whisper in my ear.

But he says nothing.

He pulls back, releasing his touch. "You want a drink?"

"No thanks."

He's already gone. Halfway to the bar. I try to push out any feeling besides the music. This Shakira song used to be my favorite. I throw my arms over my head. I make circles with my hips.

A bearded guy in a t-shirt, thick arms dotted with tattoos, comes up to me. "Want to dance?"

Okay I can do that. "Sure."

He places his hands on my hips but keeps his distance. His gaze goes to my chest. First my breasts then the tattoo above them. "Nice ink."

"Thanks." I clamp my lips together, move closer so we won't have to talk any more. I'm sure this guy is nice, but I don't discuss my tattoo with strangers. It's too personal.

My body presses against his. Nothing. He's an attractive man. Friendly brown eyes. Short dark hair. His chest is sculpted. His shoulders are broad.

I bring my hands to said shoulders. Nothing. He slides his hands to my lower back. Nothing. Dancing with him is fine but I feel nothing.

"Excuse me." Tom bursts between us without another word. He raises his hands to show off the shots of amber liquid. "Whiskey." He pushes one of the glasses into my hand.

"I don't drink."

Tom looks to the bearded man. "Nice to meet you, but my friend and I have some shots to take."

"Doesn't sound like she's interested," he says.

"All right, up to you, kid. Stay and dance with this lumberjack if that's what you want." Tom slams his shot and steps aside.

"Excuse me." I nod goodbye to the bearded guy and follow Tom to an almost empty corner of the room.

He offers me the drink. "Still yours if you want it."

"No, thank you."

"Suit yourself." He slams the shot then sets the empty glasses aside. His hands go to my hips and he pulls me back to the dance floor. "You catch on pretty fast."

"Huh?"

"Your dancing. You've got the hang of it."

He keeps his distance this time. It's still close enough that my heart is thudding against my chest.

After a few songs, I relax into the rhythm. A long time ago, I loved dancing. It's not quite as freeing with my body keyed up over Tom's proximity, but it's still lots of fun.

Song after song, I lose track of everything but the music and his body against mine. We dance for the better part of an hour, our bodies swaying together, before we hit a slow jam.

I slide my arms around Tom's neck and look up at him. There's all this strain in his expression, like he's desperate to be thinking about something other than what's on his mind.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Yeah." He pulls back. "Just need another drink. You want something?"

"Water."

He nods and makes his way to the bar. I scan the room for Pete. He's on a couch in the corner, brooding. What is it these two guys are going through?

I try to keep my mind on the music, but it's hard to slow dance by yourself. Tom is back quickly. With a water and two double-shots of whiskey. He follows my gaze to Pete and nods let's go.

Tom takes my hand and leads me through the crowd. I guess it's dark enough that no one recognizes him. Or maybe it's the kind of place where no one cares. After all, we're trapped in the 90s. No sense in getting hung up on a modern day celebrity.

He plops on the couch next to Pete and hands his brother a drink. "Moping won't make you feel better."

"Neither will getting wasted."

Tom glares. He slams his drink and drops the empty glass on a side table.

I take careful sips of my water.

Tom holds up his drink to Pete. Nothing. To me. I shake my head.

Tom takes a swig. "Why the fuck is everyone glum all the time?"

"Don't start," Pete says.

"Don't do whatever the fuck this is." Tom finishes his drink and drops it on the table. "You think this is going to change things?"

"You think forgetting your name is gonna change things?"

"Everyone already knows my fucking name."

"God damn, you're an obnoxious drunk."

Tom looks at me with puppy dog eyes. "You think so too, kid? You think I'm obnoxious?"

"I'm not getting involved," I say.

"You won't hurt my feelings." He raises his eyebrows. "I have a massive ego."

"So I've seen," I say.

Pete's jaw drops. "Sticks, please tell me you didn't—"

"I didn't. Damn. You really think I'd be stupid enough to fuck Guitar Prince's baby sister? We're just friends. Real good friends." Tom looks me in the eyes. "Right, kid?"

I'm silent.

"You're making a fool of yourself," Pete says.

"Don't I always?" Tom turns to me, ignoring his brother. "You looked miserable before. I hate to disappoint."

"Excuse me." I nod to the dance floor. "I uh... I really love this song."

Pete makes eye contact. "You want me to hit him?"

I shake my head. "It's fine. I've got it under control."

"If you don't—" Pete points to the couch. “I’ll be here.”

"We've got a chaperone. Fun." Tom motions for me to follow him. "Guess I'm not trustworthy."

I grab onto Tom's wrists and refuse to let go. "He's right. Whatever you're running from is going to catch you."

"I'm aware." He shakes off my hands then takes them and places them around his shoulders. "If you don't want to dance with me, don't. I'm not lacking for interested partners."

"That's charming."

"Just saying." He slides his hands to my hips. "If you're gonna do something do it right."

His hands make a compelling argument. I tighten my grip on his shoulders and sway in time with the music.

We stay close for a few songs. No words. Just the music and our breath.

Then the song shifts to something slow.

With his hands on my hips, Tom leads. He pulls me closer. Closer. His thigh shifts between my legs. Then his thigh is against my sex, the fabric of his jeans creating friction in my cotton panties.

My breath catches in my throat. No doubt my cheeks are as pink as my hair. God, that feels good. I grab at his shoulders. Stare up into his eyes. He's watching me, intently, studying my reaction. I nod the best yes I can muster. Whatever this is, yes.

He responds by pulling me closer. The friction is enough to send pleasure to every nerve in my body.

Tom brings his mouth to my ears. "Do you realize how much you light up when I touch you?"

I say nothing.

His fingers skim the waist of my skirt then settle on my lower back. It's completely appropriate for dancing. Normal. But my body doesn't feel normal. My body is buzzing, desperate to get those hands under my skirt.

One hand traces its way up my back, all the way to the bottom of my still crop top. Then under it. His fingertips grace my bare skin. I'm not wearing a bra. He's so close to touching me properly.

Why isn't he touching me properly?

My body throbs with need. I stare into Tom's eyes. There's no clue in them. No explanation. He's been clear about us being friends. This isn't what friends do. Friends don't dance like this.

Don't lead each other on.

"Excuse me." I step back. "I'm going to sit the rest of these out."

The song shifts to something faster.

"Willow, don't. I'll stop." His fingers graze my wrist. "Don't brood with Pete. It's no fun."

I will myself to push Tom away, but his body feels too fucking good. Okay. I need to focus on something else. On whatever it is that's upsetting him. "Yeah. But you can't run away from your feelings. You have to let the pain sink in sometimes."

"Not interested in pain. I prefer pleasure."

I stare back at him. It's hard to tell if he's serious, especially with the limited lighting. "What does that mean?"

"I'm not trying to be oblique, kid. But I'm more than happy to explain in detail if that's what gets you off."

Okay. He is mocking me. That's enough. "Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Teasing me. I get that you're a slut. I get that you can nail any woman you want. I get that you can tell I'm attracted to you, that it amuses you that someone like me would want someone like you. Stop rubbing it in my God damn face."

"Doesn't amuse me."

"Yes it does."

"It doesn't. I... Forget it."

"Just stop teasing me. I don't care how long it's been or how many days you have left until you can finally nail the first girl who meets your stringent criteria." I take a step backwards. "I haven't had sex in six years, and you don't see me torturing my friends to pass the time."

Tom's jaw drops.

I continue before he says something to make me even more angry. "I've got the message. You can do better. We're friends. Platonic. That was your edict, not mine."

"Six years?"

"Yes."

"That's not possible."

I ignore his commentary. I need to stay focused on making it out of this alive. "Stop flirting with me. Please."

"Stop looking at me like you're thinking about me naked."

"Fine."

"Great."

I spin and head for the couch.

Pete has that same calm expression on his face. He leans in close enough to whisper. "You can go. I'll keep an eye on Tom."

"No, I'm great. Having a lot of fun."

It takes Tom the briefest of moments to find a dance partner. He picks a blonde women with long hair and a short skirt. His hands go to her hips, inches from her ass. She whispers something in his ear and clings to his shoulders like he's a buoy and she's lost at sea.

"He won't fuck her," Pete says.

"Cause he can't fuck anyone."

"True." Pete watches the action. "But he won't take her home."

"If I'm really lucky they'll start necking."

"They won't. He doesn't kiss on the lips."

I stare back at him as if to ask really.

"You learn way too much about a person's sexual habits on tour. Not that I can talk."

I look at him curiously.

"Phone sex. I get carried away. Or I did. Long story, not very interesting." Pete turns to me. "You like him?"

No sense in denying something this obvious. "Yeah."

"Tom's never thought about anyone that way. Not sure that he believes anyone will ever love him."

That's sad. The acid in my stomach settles down. It's hard to stay angry at someone who seems so lost. He's dancing with the girl, yeah, but he's not here. Not really.

Pete pushes off the couch and offers his hand. "Come on. Let's go. He won't keep making a fool of himself without an audience."

Tom is already on to a new dance partner. She paws at him. She's clearly not interested in Tom Steele, human being. She stares at him like he's a shiny celebrity trophy to show all her friends.

I nod a yes to Pete and follow him out of the club.

* * *

Back at the hotel, I brush my teeth and collapse in bed. Screw pajamas. I strip to my panties and hide under the covers.

My mind is racing. Almost three a.m. and I'm nowhere near sleep. I toss and turn for a solid hour, trying to think about anything but how good Tom's hands felt against my skin.

He was drunk.

Didn't mean anything.

I will myself to stop thinking about him, but that's a completely useless goal. Fine. I guess there's only one way to satisfy my desire.

I pull the covers over my head and slide my hand down my torso. It's been a while since I've done this. Haven't felt any inclination. My fingertips skim the waist of my panties. Already, I can tell it won't be enough. Won't help the situation any.

There's a light knock on the door.

No. Whoever that is, no. I slink under the covers.

They knock again.

"Willow, hey."

Tom.

Hasn't he tortured me enough?