This limo is a little smaller and a lot less party central. No booze, no mood lighting, no stripper poles. It's plenty of room for to two to sit. Or lie.

"Pizza with vegetables on it?" Tom scrunches his nose like he smells something bad. "Really?"

"If you don't want it, get something else on your half. Just not meat. It touches."

"Okay. Red peppers, artichoke hearts, and broccoli it is." He shakes his head but taps the order into a takeout app on his phone.

"You'll like it."

"That's my line." Tom pulls me into his lap and nods to the moon roof. "We're not in an 80s movie. Fight your urge to get up and look around."

"I don't think it's possible to be around you and have an urge to do something besides jumping your bones."

"That's an urge I can get behind. Or in front of. Or under. Or on top of."

"Or all of the above?"

"I like the way you think."

Tom presses a button to slide the roof open. The dark blue evening light falls over us. The city is too bright for stars but the moon is big and beautiful.

I lean back on the bench seat and stare at the sky. Minutes pass without conversation but the silence is comfortable.

Tom really has no idea how romantic he is. How sweet he is. He's cocky about his looks, his music, his fucking, his role as bossy band protector... about a million things. But, somehow, he can't see how lovable he is.

His hand slides into my hair. "Don't fall asleep on me."

"I'm not on you. I'm on the bench."

"Don't fall asleep until I make you come at least two more times. I hate to let a beautiful woman down."

"You can make me come," I murmur. "Just don't wake me."

"Won't be doing it right if you sleep through it."

A fair point.

He scoots closer, shifts me so my head is in his lap and he's looking down at me. "You really want me to wake you with an orgasm sometime?"

"Sometime." I stare back at him. "Not yet but sometime."

There's understanding in his eyes. He doesn't need it explained. That kind of thing is the next level of trust.

"You can wake me with sex anytime."

"You won't feel used if you wake up to me riding you senselessly?"

"Mmm. I lost my train of thought." Tom pulls me up and into his lap. He presses his lips into my neck. "Have you eaten anything since breakfast?"

"No."

"Then don't fall asleep until after dinner." He checks the time on his phone. "You skip a lot of meals?"

"When I'm preoccupied." I dig through the mini-fridge for a bottle of water. "I don't need someone reminding me to eat. I'm a big girl. I can feed myself."

He shakes his head. "Afraid I can't agree to those terms, kid."

I bite my lip. Part of me is touched by his concern. The other part is terrified of a not-quite-boyfriend asserting control over any part of my life. "I'm sure you have good intentions, but I need you to back off about looking after me. That's how things started with Bradley. At first it was little things—don't wear that dress, don't stay out late after your swim meet, don't walk home by yourself at night—until it become big things. Skipping class. Ending friendships. Running off from my family."

"I won't push you, won't try to control you. But there's nothing you can say to convince me not to take care of you."

Okay. That part of me that's touched is winning. I nod.

The limo pulls to a stop. The driver's door slams open and shut. A few moments later, he pulls open our door and slides something into the backseat.

A pizza box. That was fast.

Tom pulls it open and tears off a slice and offers it to me. "You really should eat. You need your strength before I exhaust you."

I take the steaming slice. It's topped with broccoli, red peppers, and artichoke hearts. He got the whole pizza the way I like it.

Tom nods goodbye to the driver and takes a bite of a slice. "That's not as bad as I was expecting."

"It's good."

He peels off a piece of broccoli, tosses it in his mouth, chews and swallows. "It's decent."

I dig into my slice. It's better than good. It's fucking amazing. Cheesy and chewy and bursting with the rich flavor of red peppers. I talk with my mouth full. "It's great."

Tom pulls a packet of hot sauce from the box and tosses it to me.

Yes, pizza and hot sauce. I used to love eating pizza with hot sauce. It's been a million years since I've enjoyed a meal this much. It’s been a million years since I've enjoyed anything as much as I enjoy being around him.

I tear open the hot sauce and douse my slice in spice. "Thank you. For the pizza. And—"

"Don't worry about thanking me for the orgasms, kid. More than happy to oblige."

My cheeks flush.

"And there's more where that came from." He nods to my slice. "As soon as you're done eating."

* * *

I come four times in the limo. True to his word, Tom gets behind me, in front of me, under me, and on top of me. By the time we arrive at the airport, I'm completely out of energy. Thank goodness we don't have to go through security. Hanging out with a rock stars has its perks. The private jet is a new one.

It's amazing. Room for about ten people, big cushy seats, a widescreen TV with a massive collection of films. It's almost a shame that it's well past by bedtime.

The pilot, a slight man with a charming British accent, introduces himself with an apology for the delay, then gets into the cockpit. We're scheduled to depart in half an hour. Pete is yet to arrive but has sent word he's on his way.

I get cozy in a corner seat, ready to sleep until we land. But there's something about Tom's expression that won't allow me to relax. He's on edge. Worried. About his brother or about something else?

"You okay?" I ask.

"Yeah. Just... should have asked Pete where he was going. He wouldn't have told me, but... I was a little distracted."

"You really love him."

"He's my brother."

"That doesn't have to mean anything." I shift closer to Tom. "I don't love my parents. Not anymore."

His gaze goes to the window.

He must have been through a lot ending up in foster care. I want to know everything there is to know about Tom but I'm not sure either one of us is ready to go back to those dark places.

I change the subject to something easier to discuss. "How did we end up on a private jet?"

"It belongs to the label. We're probably their third or fourth most popular artist. We only get offered it when the VP is in a giving mood."

"Who gets it first?"

Tom shrugs. "Some pop star who sings about being a bad girl."

"All pop stars sing about being bad girls."

"Not Taylor Swift."

"You're a fan?"

He shakes his head. "Not my kind of music. You?"

"If fits a certain men are shit, they need to stop doing me wrong mood." The words echo in my head again. Please don't break my heart.

"The VP and I have had some tense conversations. Don't think he likes anybody in the band except Pete, and that's only cause he wants in Pete's pants."

"Oh. He's gay?"

"Bisexual. In his case, it means he has twice the potential sexual harassment victims. Gives other bisexual people a bad name."

"Did you fight about that?"

Tom shakes his head. "Our manager."

"The asshole?"

His face lights up. "You remembered?"

"Of course."

"A few years back, he was involved in our day to day. Back then Miles partied pretty hard. Mostly slamming vodka shots and fucking a different girl every night. Seemed normal. We were all excited to be playing big enough shows to feel like rock stars."

"I can't imagine you as anything but a rock star."

Tom smirks. "I always had the ego and the drive. But I had those moments during our first tour when we were packed into a van, playing for two-dozen bored people, sleeping on the floor, eating fast food off the dollar menu. Moments where I asked myself if it was worth it."

"Was it?"

"Yeah. Didn't really have much to go home to. Just my mom. She would have told me to suck it up and get back to chasing my dreams. Not to be cruel but because she knew I'd never forgive myself if I quit."

"She sounds amazing."

"She is." His expression hardens. Back to someplace ugly.

I clear my throat. We can't go there yet. "So, you were partying like rock stars and..."

"It became pretty obvious that Miles had a problem. And it only got worse once the label rented us this mansion in Hollywood and Miles got caught up in the party scene. Aiden was always pulling Miles out of meetings for some BS reason or another. One day I caught them doing coke. Aiden's, of course. Miles was never really into being up but then he'd do anything to not be in his head."

"How come I've never read a tabloid story about Miles using? Or going to rehab?"

"You follow gossip?"

"There could be something about Drew. I'd be a bad sister not to follow it."

Tom laughs. "You won't believe me."

"Try me."

"A few almost popped up but I persuaded the journalists to change the conversation."

"To?"

"Those leaked nude pictures."

"You leaked them to keep your friend's addiction a secret?"

"And to fuel my massive ego. Turned out to be a great move."

"I never looked at them."

He raises a brow. "We have wifi on the plane."

"I'll keep that in mind."

He smiles. "After I dealt with the press, I asked Aiden, very nicely—"

"I don't buy that for a second."

"Threatening to break someone's legs when you want to kill them is nice."

I laugh.

"Asked him nicely to stop with the coke. When he didn't, I pulled strings—"

"Was that more fighting and threats of violence?"

"Mostly. Might have involved some blackmail too."

"Might have?"

"I owe it to the blackmailed to keep that a secret," he teases. "Nothing could get him fired. He's somebody's fuck up nephew. So I had a polite conversation with Aiden—"

"Polite conversation?"

"Very polite."

"Did you hit him?"

"Just once. I know you hate violence—"

"The asshole was enabling your friend. You were upset. It happens."

"You shouldn't cut me slack, kid. I like that you stick to your principles. Won't forgive myself if you sacrifice them for me." Tom looks into my eyes. "Told him he could keep the title and the money, but I would take over his job. And that if I saw him again his nose would be broken so bad he'd never snort shit again. Coward got lost right away. Only shows up when it's strictly necessary."

"That must be a lot of work."

Tom shrugs. "He never did it right anyway."

"Why don't you take credit for running the band?"

"What's it matter who takes credit? Miles would have done the same thing for me. Once he got clean and got his head out of his ass." Tom runs a hand through his hair. "I should have confronted him sooner. I let him go on using for ever."

"He's an adult. You didn't let him do anything."

"Knowing someone needs help and doing nothing is just as bad as being the asshole pushing drugs on him. I knew Miles was gonna die, sooner or later, if nobody stepped up."

"You really believe that?"

He looks at me like I have two heads. "Of course."

"Not many people think that way."

"It's nothing. Should have given him an ultimatum a lot sooner. Truth is, I didn't want to threaten him with expulsion from the band. Miles is the face of Sinful Serenade. We wouldn't be where we are if girls didn't go apeshit for his tortured voice and his pretty blue eyes."

"But you did give him an ultimatum."

"Eventually. He still hates me for it. But that's better than him dying in some hotel room by himself." Tom's expression hardens.

He has no idea how much he's willing to sacrifice for his friends.

"You are a good guy," I whisper in his ear.

"Just getting shit done."

He really believes that.

But I don't. "When Miles was using, who was the person who pushed him to get clean? Was it Drew or Pete or was it you?"

"They wanted it too."

"But were they willing to let Miles hate them for it?"

"We were all in agreement. When he was fucking shit up with Meg too. We all agreed we couldn't watch him destroy himself. It was nothing. Selfish even."

"Do you really believe that?"

Tom shrugs.

But he's not selfish. Selfish guys don't make sure you come three times for every one time they do. Selfish guys don't order pizza they don't like to make you happy.

And selfish guys don't risk their livelihoods to help a friend in need.

I try to think up some way to convince him but I'm interrupted by Pete's arrival. I cross my fingers that he'll be perfect evidence of how much Tom does for the band, for his friends.

No luck.

Pete's got a black eye and bruised knuckles.