Tracy Wolff - Crash Into Me

There was no way Ryder was going to calm down—not when they’d gone over this ground too many fucking times already.

“Okay, all right. That’s enough.” Quinn wrestled him off of Wyatt. “Let’s take this back to the bus, okay? We don’t need an audience.”

He said the last with a meaningful glance around them and Ryder realized he was right. The roadies, and more than a few groupies, were watching the free show he was putting on. Rumors of drug addiction were the last thing Shaken Dirty wanted right now. Their songs were kicking ass, their latest album had just gone double platinum and they were gearing up to headline the biggest tour of their careers. The last thing they needed was for their label, and tour backers, to get wind of Wyatt’s fall off the wagon. He’d already been in rehab three times in the last five years. And the last time, when things had gone bad, they’d gone really bad.

Ryder loosened his grip on Wyatt’s collar, stepped back. He was still beyond pissed, but at least he’d calmed down enough to think rationally.

“Let’s get on the bus,” he said, making sure his voice carried the ring of authority. Each of the guys in Shaken Dirty did their own thing, but he also knew they listened to him. It was all part and parcel of being lead singer—and the guy who, with Jared, had first put the band together. “We’ve got to get going anyway.”

He started toward the side door, his mind whirling as he tried to figure out how he wanted to play this thing. Wyatt was going to deny, deny, deny, but he couldn’t let him. He’d tried going that route more than once—hell, Wyatt had some fucking monstrous demons and no one blamed him for needing a crutch to deal with them. But he wasn’t just drinking, wasn’t just smoking weed anymore. Heroin was heavy shit, and if they didn’t do something—and quickly—he’d finish the job he’d started eleven months before.

Quinn got to the door first, and he glanced back at them, a crazy ass grin on his face. “You guys ready for the gauntlet?”

“Damn straight,” Wyatt called while Micah just whooped a couple of times.

“Let’s go,” Jared said, sounding as tired and impatient as Ryder felt. Then again, he was the only member of the band with a fiancée—one he was determined to be faithful to.

Quinn pushed the door open and they piled outside. Despite the rope barriers and the presence of five of the biggest security guards Ryder had ever seen, it only took them about thirty seconds to be swamped. Teenage girls, grown women—even some guys—were screaming at the top of their lungs. Flashing them, pulling at them, grabbing on to whatever piece of clothing they could reach. It was crazy, but it was a small price to pay for getting to make the music he loved.

Besides, normally it was hard to mind being mauled by women who wanted nothing more than to go down on him. Hell, in the past he’d let one or two do just that. But tonight he wasn’t interested in the slightest—and he wouldn’t be even if they weren’t planning on heading out in the next few minutes. His thoughts were too full of Jamison and Wyatt for him to notice the women all but throwing themselves in his path as anything more than obstacles.

Micah, Wyatt, and Quinn weren’t having that problem. Micah had grabbed onto two blond girls, was kissing one while he caressed the other’s breasts. Wyatt was making out with a cute redhead and Quinn was signing a T-shirt while it was still being worn by a brunette with sultry eyes and an even sultrier pout.

Jared pushed past them, deflecting numerous hands and other things as he gained ground. In the last few months, he’d become an expert at working his way through a frenzied crowd without getting caught, so tonight, Ryder followed in his footsteps. He moved swiftly, twisting and turning, signing as many autograph books and body parts as he could while still keeping his forward momentum.

He’d almost made it to the first tour bus, was in fact congratulating himself for successfully running the gauntlet, when a couple of girls got their hands on him. They were small and sweet looking—and couldn’t have been more than eighteen—but they hung on like limpets, pulling at his clothes for all they were worth.

Behind him, he could hear Quinn laughing at his predicament, but the keyboardist did nothing to help him out. A few feet ahead, Jared had made it to the tour bus and thrown the door open. Though it was dark, he could see Jamison’s silhouette in the doorway.

He could tell she was watching the debacle, though her face was in shadows and he couldn’t tell if it upset or amused her. Either way, it gave him the extra impetus to get away from the clutching, groping hands. With a twist, a duck and a shimmy that would have done Mick Jagger proud, he slid out of his T-shirt, leaving it in his fans’ excited hands. The ensuing fight over the prize distracted them long enough for him to make a try for the bus.

He hit the door running, determined to get out of sight before things got really out of hand. He expected Jamison to get out of his way—she’d been around the band enough to know how crazy things could become—but she must have expected him to stop because she didn’t budge.

He checked himself at the last second, managed to avoid barreling into her full strength, but he still hit her pretty hard. They went down in a tangle of limbs.

For a second, Ryder did nothing but lay there and absorb the feel of Jamison’s lush, peach-scented body against his own. It threw him back to those long, sexy minutes he’d spent with her on the couch the night before, only this was better because he was fully alert.

Caught up in the feel of her, in the gorgeous sight and sound and smell of her, he shifted without thinking. Pressed himself against the apex of her thighs. And nearly groaned at the inviting heat of her.

Jamison gasped, a soft, broken sound that arrowed straight to his dick. He did groan then, moving so that she was above him, straddling him. He looked up at her, nearly came at the sight of her pursed lips, wide eyes, and oh-so-wild hair. He reached for her, would have run his hands through those fuck-me curls if Jared hadn’t chosen that moment to lean down and grab his sister’s hand.

He pulled her up even as he scowled at Ryder, his own eyes filled with a warning Ryder would have had to be blind to miss. He wasn’t sure what it said about him that he didn’t give a shit. At that moment, if Jamison had given him any encouragement, he would have grabbed her and taken off into the night. Would have told his best friend to fuck off completely.

But encouragement wasn’t what he saw on her face at the moment. Climbing to his feet, he kept a wary eye on Jared and Jamison, both of whom looked like they wanted to take a swing at him. He wasn’t sure his jaw could take it—bitter experience had taught him that they both knew how to throw a punch. He and Jared had tangled on more than one occasion growing up and Jamison…well, she’d taken exception to his and Jared’s teasing one night and ended up clocking both of them.

Still, those long-ago memories didn’t mean he wasn’t going to have his say. He might be wary, but he was nobody’s pussy, after all. “Jamison, I’m glad you’re here—”

He never got the chance to finish his thought as seconds later, Wyatt, Quinn, and Micah tumbled through the open door. They all looked a little worse for wear—Quinn was also missing his shirt while Micah’s hung off of him in long, jagged strips and Wyatt was in nothing but a pair of boxers. Not surprisingly, each of them wore wide, satisfied grins. But then, exhibitionism had never been a problem for Shaken Dirty’s members…or their groupies.

He glanced at Jamison, wondering if she would be upset. But she was smiling as she drawled, “You boys look like you had a good time.”

“You know it, Jelly Bean!” Wyatt gave her a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek before dropping face first onto the sofa. Seconds later, he started to softly snore.

Ryder caught Jared’s eye, saw his own worry mirrored there. Which only made him feel worse. Jared was a pretty laid-back, take-things-as-they-came kind of guy. Pretty much the opposite of Ryder and Jamison, though in very different ways. And if he was stressed out about the Wyatt situation, then it had to be as bad as Ryder was imagining. Maybe even worse.

He glanced between his bandmates’ faces, saw the strain they all tried to hide. And knew that his suspicions were right. This wasn’t the first time Wyatt had used. It was just the first time Ryder had caught him.

“Hey.” Steve, their bus driver, popped his head in from the front. “Everybody ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Jared said. “Let’s get out of here.”

It was a testament to just how worried Ryder was about Wyatt that they were already on the freeway heading north before it hit him.

Jamison was still on board.

“What do you mean your sister is going on tour with us?” Ryder asked for what had to be the fifth time. He, Jared, and the rest of the guys—sans Wyatt—were in the back bedroom discussing her sudden appearance on the bus. They were making an effort to keep their voices low, but the bus was too small for real privacy. Especially when she was standing a few feet away from the closed door, doing her best to eavesdrop without actually putting a glass—or her ear—up against that same door.

As it was, she’d heard enough to make her want to sink through the floor. Jared had assured her that he would clear it with the guys before anything was decided for sure, but obviously that assurance hadn’t been worth much. Maybe it was a good thing he was on the other side of that door. If he hadn’t been, she’d be tempted to kick his ass.